Chapter Nineteen
ANDREW DIDN’T OFTEN long to drink to excess, but Christ did he want to drown himself in a bucket of gin now. Instead, he was standing in the middle of his office, tugging at the ends of his tailcoat, trying not to think about the mess that was the operation Home had forced him into.
The last few days had been their own special brand of hell, with the prince’s arrival. He and Gillie had done what they could to try to keep the prince safe, but with no access to the future monarch because that bastard Sir Reginald Palmer-Smythe refused to budge, it was mostly futile. At least they’d managed to make it through the first of the most high-profile royal appearances without an assassination attempt. After the parade, he and Gillie had come back to the shop, opened a bottle of whiskey, and toasted one another in weary silence.
At least the insanity of the last few days had kept Lavinia from his mind. A little. The memory of her crying in the carriage, all of her anger and frustration rushing out of her as she shouted at him, haunted him every time silence stretched around him. Each of the words she’d hurled at him was like a slap, and they stung all the more because they were true.
Only Lavinia had the ability to cut through everything and force him to confront the ugliness within him.
She was right. He hadn’t needed to go off to sea. He could’ve stayed in Eyemouth and taken over the business as his father had hoped he would. But he’d gone off, filled with the cocky determination of a child who needed to prove himself and with no mind for the girl he left behind. He’d always assumed she’d be at home, waiting for him, loving and loyal as she’d always been. When he’d found that wasn’t the case, he’d blamed her for shattering the illusions that had kept him fighting, first for position and then for survival. In an instant, he’d become jealous. Twisted. Hateful. A version of himself he’d hardly recognized some days until one disturbing morning he realized that it had become normal. His default.
He’d had no right to blame her, he could see that now, yet it had taken him pushing her until she broke for him to understand that. And now . . . now his jealousy might have ruined any chance of holding on to her.
It’s better this way. Yet no matter how often he told himself that, it didn’t help close the yawning hole that had formed in his heart.
“Are you ready?” Gillie asked from the doorway where she stood, turning over an envelope in her hands.
He turned and spread his hands.
His liaison cocked her head to the side, giving him an assessing look. “You look tired,” she announced.
He shot her a glare. “I am tired. The last few days have been bloody awful.”
Gillie stepped into the room, and he could see that she was still wearing the vibrant lime-green-and-mustard windowpane check dress she’d had on earlier.
“You aren’t going to change?” he asked.
“I will. There’s just one last thing I need to do,” she said.
“What’s that?”
Gillie held the envelope up. Its flap was open, and he could see that it was stuffed full of banknotes. “I was able to secure the money you asked for.”
Something twisted in him, and he turned back to the mirror and fussed with his necktie. Anything not to have to meet Gillie’s eyes.
“It’s for Mrs. Parkem.” It was not a question, nor did he miss that Gillie had gone back to calling Lavinia by her married name. It was, he supposed, a sign of loyalty to him. Not that he deserved it.
“It is.”
“Would you like me to deliver it?” Gillie asked.
He frowned. “Tonight? Before the ball?”
“I thought it would be best to have the matter settled.”
Just in case. She didn’t need to say the words, but he could hear the implication of them in her tone. Tonight he and Gillie would do everything they could to stop Wark, and that meant the danger was higher than ever before.
“Go then,” he said. “I’m going to make a stop before heading to the ball anyway.”
“Where are you going?” Gillie asked.
“To the Duke of Livingston’s home. You’ll remember our friend Palmer-Smythe said the prince would be dining there before the ball.”
“You want to try to gain an audience with him and persuade him that his life is in danger.”
“It’s the one time Palmer-Smythe isn’t going to be glued to his side.” He sighed. “I’m not expecting a warm reception—or any reception at all—but if I don’t try and something happens . . .”
All of this would be for naught. He would’ve let Lavinia walk away for nothing. He didn’t think he could survive knowing that.
In the glass, he could see Gillie hesitate on the threshold. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry,” Gillie said.
He knew without having to ask what she was apologizing for. “You were right.”
“That doesn’t make me any less sorry. I know you love her and—”
“Stop.” He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the pain to subside. It would get easier with time. He had to remember that. There would once again be days where he didn’t think of Lavinia every moment, wondering what might’ve been if life hadn’t twisted and turned the way it had.
But then again, he couldn’t remember a time where he’d been entirely free of her. Even through his anger, a weak part of him still wanted her. He’d dreamed of her, and when he caught a whiff of gardenia, memory had flooded back to him. But it was all the more painful because she’d been right. He’d built his entire life without once taking into account what she truly wanted. She’d told him that it was him—that he was enough—and he’d thrown that all away.
“I only thought that if something happens tonight and you never see her again—”
“I won’t have any regrets,” he said automatically.
So why did his stomach churn as though he were being tossed by fifteen-foot-high waves?
He would always have regrets when it came to Lavinia, but he’d waited too long. She was gone because he’d driven her away.
“Just give her the money,” he said, picking up his hat, coat, and long silk scarf. “That will be enough.”
It would have to be, because it was the only thing she would let him do for her.
“It’s done,” said Siobhan, a glass of claret in her hand.
Anika, who had joined them in celebration of what Lavinia had begun to think of as “the prince’s blasted ball,” smiled. “How many gowns did you complete for tonight?”
“Twenty-three,” said Lavinia before taking a sip of wine. “And that doesn’t include the ladies who wanted full wardrobes for the rest of the events.”
“I don’t think I can feel my fingers anymore,” said Siobhan, poking at her forefinger. “They’re completely numb.”
Lavinia laughed. “Your hinting is duly noted. Take Bronagh and go home. You’ve both more than earned a day off tomorrow.”
Siobhan set her glass down and dragged herself up out of her chair. “Promise me you’ll enjoy the ball and not decide to instead stay at home and total sums in the account books.”
Lavinia murmured something that sounded like agreement and waved her head seamstress out the door, but when Siobhan was out of the room Anika fixed her with a look. “She’s right, you know. You’re hardly acting like a woman who will soon have a royal audience.”
She sighed. “You know the company I’ll be keeping this evening.”
Anika smiled. “At least your evening will be more enjoyable than mine. Hari’s been having nightmares, so I’ve had little rest. I don’t expect tonight to be any better.”
Lavinia clucked her tongue. “Poor thing.”
“I think he’s missing his father,” said Anika.
“When does Mr. Pawar return?” asked Lavinia.
“In two weeks, and stop changing the subject,” scolded Anika.
“I’m showing concern for my friend,” Lavinia protested, although Anika was right. She didn’t want to speak of why she was staying up trying to chase away the nighttime hours with accounts, because that would mean addressing what she had lost.
“What happened?” Anika asked.
How did she explain the pain of realizing that Andrew still didn’t trust her after all they’d been through? What could make someone else understand the way she’d felt pulled in two, wanting him to love her but knowing that if she didn’t walk away now she might never recover her heart?
Finally, she simply settled for the truth. “I fell in love with him again.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Anika, covering Lavinia’s hand with hers.
“He doesn’t love me,” whispered Lavinia, “and I’m beginning to wonder if he ever did.”
“I cannot believe that that man doesn’t love you. Not from the way he looked at you.”
“In lust,” she said.
“In love,” Anika insisted. “Although he may not realize it yet.”
“It’s too late. He’s leaving Edinburgh and not coming back. He made it clear that there’s no room in his life for me,” said Lavinia.
Anika squeezed her hand. “You can do one of two things: let him go or fight for him.”
“I don’t know if I have any fight left,” said Lavinia.
A knock split the silence, and she startled, convinced it was Andrew, until the person knocked again. The sound was coming from the front door, not the back, as had been his habit.
“A late customer?” asked Anika with an arched brow.
Lavinia shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll go tell them we’re closed.”
“I’ll come with you. I should’ve returned home long ago,” said Anika, hauling herself to her feet.
They trooped down the stairs together and into the front room. A woman was at the door, judging by the size of the shadow in the glass. When the woman turned her head, the shadow of long feathers bobbed.
“Gillie?” Lavinia rushed to the door and unlocked it. “Gillie, what’s wrong?”
The diminutive redhead bustled in, her breath condensing in the cold that the open door was letting in. “Nothing’s wrong. I have something for you.”
Gillie’s eyes darted over to Anika.
“Gillie, this is Mrs. Pawar, my dearest friend,” she said. “Anika, Miss Gibson.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Gillie. Then she reached into her reticule and pulled out a large envelope. “This is for you.”
From the crinkle of the paper, Lavinia knew exactly what was inside. The money Andrew had promised her. She should’ve known that he would make good on his promise even if she hadn’t completed the mission. He knew how much her brother mattered to her, and he understood the severity of Caleb’s debts. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to take it. It would be too final. The end of the operation and the conclusion of Andrew’s time in Edinburgh.
“I don’t want it,” she said.
“Take it,” said Gillie, thrusting the envelope forward. When Lavinia didn’t move, Gillie laid the envelope down on the counter. “I can’t stay and argue. I need to change for the ball.”
“You’re going?” Lavinia asked.
Gillie’s eyes slid over to Anika.
“You can trust her,” said Lavinia.
Gillie let out a long breath. “We’re positive that if Wark means to strike it will be tonight. We still don’t know when but at least we know where, and we’ll do whatever we can to stop it.”
Anika frowned. “Strike?”
“The Prince of Wales,” said Gillie.
“I’ll explain later,” said Lavinia before turning back to Gillie.
“I need to dress as well.” When Gillie raised her brows, she said, “I’m going. I don’t care what he says.”
“I’m not going to stop you.”
“Good. Now, do you have anything appropriate to wear?”
Gillie shifted from foot to foot. “I have a gown from a few seasons ago.” Lavinia fixed her with a look. “Many seasons ago.”
“You’ll stand out more in an out-of-date gown than you would in vermilion, and this is one of the few times it’ll be safer for you to blend in. Let me dress you,” said Lavinia.
Gillie flinched. “I won’t be forced into some pastel or white monstrosity that makes me look like an overstuffed bonbon or a country milkmaid.”
“Gillie Gibson, I should hope you’d have more faith in me than that,” said Lavinia.
The young lady muttered something that sounded almost contrite.
“You can try something of mine, and I promise you that you won’t look a thing like a milkmaid,” said Lavinia.
Gillie’s expression grew doubtful. “Are you certain we’ve the same measurements?”
Something in the back of Lavinia’s mind snapped into place. “Measurements! They’re measurements, Gillie!”
“What?” Gillie and Anika asked at the same time, but Lavinia was already racing through the shop and up the stairs to her study. On the desk, under a pile of bills from her muslin supplier, were copies of the code she’d stolen from Wark’s study. Only it wasn’t a code. Each set of numbers was a man’s measurements—she’d bet her life on it.
She grabbed a pencil and began to scribble.
“Forty-one,” she called over her shoulder to the women clattering up the stairs behind her. “Based on these other measurements, that’s likely a waist. I’m willing to guess that forty-three is a chest, and thirty-four is the length of this gentleman’s back.”
“What about seventeen?” Gillie asked.
“It could be shoulder to shoulder or maybe his sleeve length, although that would mean he had the misfortune of rather short arms relative to his body. The same with the twenty measurement.”
She quickly applied the logic to the other rows of numbers.
“Those,” Lavinia said with a grin, “are the measurements for four jackets. I bet if I’d been able to open the drawer, I would’ve found corresponding measurements for trousers too. And boots.”
All the murkiness was beginning to clear, and she could see the puzzle. “There were four footmen at the Wark household the evening I was there, and none of them was particularly good at service. And one was particularly tall. As though he would have a thirty-six-inch inseam.”
“Are you saying—?”
“Yes,” she cut Gillie off. “And in Wark’s bankbook I found a receipt for a tailor, but the price was far too low to be anything Wark would wear. I think it was—”
“An order for a servant’s livery,” the liaison finished. “But who is the fifth?”
Lavinia shook her head. That she didn’t understand.
“Do you have a copy of one of Wednesday’s evening newspapers lying around?” Gillie asked.
Lavinia pulled free an issue of the Edinburgh Evening Times. Swiftly, Gillie scanned the front page before slapping it down on the desk, her finger jabbing at a line and reading out, “ ‘The prince traveled from Waverley Station to Holyrood Palace in a coach drawn by four bays and attended by four footmen and a driver.’ ”
“Douglas. Everyone kept going on about what an expert driver he is. They’re going to pose as footmen and driver and kidnap the prince,” said Lavinia, eyes wide.
“But why is it Mrs. Wark who wrote out the measurements?” Anika asked.
Lavinia and Gillie turned on her as one.
“What?” Lavinia asked.
Anika pointed at the paper on the counter marked up with numbers. “This is Mrs. Wark’s handwriting.”
Lavinia frowned. “No, it isn’t. It’s Wark’s. It’s the same as the notes that come back with the invoices I send to the house.”
“Which are paid by Mrs. Wark,” said Anika. “I know because she visited the shop once looking for bolts of green velvet for a set of drapes. We don’t normally stock velvet in that color so we had to order it specially, and she wrote out the specifications herself.”
“But . . .” Lavinia pulled out one of her old account books from under the counter, leafing through the loose receipts in the back until she found one for the Wark account. She pointed to the handwriting—the same as the measurements—at the signature. “This was paid by Harold Wark. It’s signed by him.”
“Are you telling me you never did business in your husband’s name and put his signature down because it was easier?” Anika asked. “If Mrs. Wark isn’t the real mind behind the entire family business I’ll be shocked.”
Another puzzle piece clicked into place. “The study. It was all done up in emerald, moss, hunter green. Green. All Mrs. Wark wears is green.”
“It was her study and not Wark’s. Her account books. Her plot,” said Gillie.
“She would’ve had access to her son’s warehouse, and if she was really the silent business owner, she could’ve had the weapons moved there anytime she chose,” said Lavinia.
“Except Wark doesn’t own the warehouse in Leith anymore.”
She and Gillie looked at each other. “Douglas does.”
“Lavinia, I think I know how Douglas has diversified,” said Gillie. “He’s making weapons.”
“And what better way to earn more money from arms than if there’s a war?”
“An attack on the Prince of Wales, even if it’s not successful, would spark an immediate military reaction,” said Gillie.
It had all been in front of her, but there was still one question she needed answered.
“What does Mrs. Wark want out of all of this?” Lavinia asked.
“I don’t know, but I’d bet ten guineas she and Douglas are using each other to further their own causes,” said Gillie.
“We have to tell Andrew,” said Lavinia, rounding the counter and making it halfway to the door before the words were out of her mouth.
“He was going to the Duke of Livingston’s house before the ball.”
Gillie’s words froze her midstep. “What?”
“He wanted to try to appeal to the prince to convince him not to attend tonight,” said the young woman.
In one swift moment, all of her hurt was replaced by sheer terror. Andrew was walking into danger and utterly unaware. She had no doubt that he was an excellent fighter, but outnumbered, even the most capable of soldiers surely didn’t stand a chance.
“We have to warn him,” said Lavinia.
“It’s too dangerous,” said Anika.
“It might also be too late,” said Gillie, chewing her lip.
“No.” She refused to accept that as a possibility. If Andrew had shown her one thing, it was that it was never too late.
Lavinia pulled her cloak off the back of her study door where she’d last left it and tossed it over her shoulders, pinning it into place with her large silver brooch. “I’m going to the duke’s home. Anika, would you please lock up the shop? Are you coming with me or not, Gillie?”
“Dammit,” Gillie swore before calling out, “I left the cab waiting outside.”
“Thank you, Gillie,” said Lavinia, unashamed at her relief that she wouldn’t be charging into danger alone. “And just think how brutally you can tease Andrew when a couple of women wearing bustle pads save his life.”
“Oh, I intend to for the rest of his days.”