Chapter Twenty-Five
Smith’s hands cut painfully into Hetty’s arms. She opened her mouth to speak but snapped it shut when Guy’s warning gaze locked with hers. An overdressed Frenchman stalked before her, his arms behind his back. “Dressed as a stable boy? What game are you playing, mademoiselle?”
Hetty raised her chin, praying it didn’t wobble and struggled to shake herself loose from Smith’s grip. “I followed my betrothed here. I believe he planned to betray me with another woman.”
“Your betrothed?” The Frenchman’s heavy brow cleared. “You are the baron’s fiancée?”
“I am. Even if he does not wish to admit it.” She cast Guy an indignant glance.
Guy stepped forward. “The lady is correct, Forney. I am rendered almost silent with rage, Miss Cavendish. To follow me! Mon dieu! And dressed like that. Go home immediately!”
Whatever was occurring here, Hetty’s presence would not help Guy. Strathairn was the man to assist him. She was quite happy to leave if only Smith’s ham-like hands would release her. She gazed down at her filthy stockinged feet, numb with damp and cold. Where were her shoes? That ruffian had pulled her right out of them. From the first she hadn’t wanted to take part in this escapade. And now, if she and Guy escaped with their lives, she doubted he would ever speak to her again.
But first, they must find some way out of this dire situation.
“Please fetch my shoes, my good man,” she said, determined they didn’t see how afraid she was. “As Lord Fortescue merely attends to a matter of business, and not a lady, I’ll be on my way.”
The men laughed.
“Will you, mademoiselle?” Forney asked, his gaze unsettling her.
“Miss Cavendish is a little foolish, gentlemen,” Guy said. “You know how women are. They lack sense.” He laughed. “She won’t be of any bother to us.”
Hetty stamped her foot then grimaced. “Well, really, Lord Fortescue! What a bore you’ve become, to be sure.” She twisted around causing Smith to drop his hands. “My shoes, if you please.”
“Oui, get the lady’s shoes, Smith,” Forney said. “We don’t want to leave anything to chance.”
Smith nodded and left the room.
“It might be prudent to detain Miss Cavendish until our work is done,” Delany said. “Don’t you agree, Baron?”
“I must insist on a private word with my fiancée. This is a delicate matter; her father is a wealthy man with powerful friends. I should prefer not to annoy him. I’m sure you understand.”
Delany took a step closer to Guy. “While I understand your reason behind this betrothal, Baron, in the circumstances, I cannot keep your secret. You must understand.”
Guy turned to stare at him. “Pardon?”
“Your marriage. Your French bride, the baroness.”
“You have a… wife?” Hetty’s knees went from under her. The burly fellow reappeared with her smelly shoes in his beefy hands. He grabbed her by the elbow and pushed her onto a chair. Was this Vincent’s wife they spoke of? But he was not Baron Fortescue. Surely Guy hadn’t married and failed to tell her? What was he doing here with these bad men? Was he working for Strathairn, or was the earl after him? No! Genevieve would have told her, and she could never believe such a thing of Guy. She just wished she understood. Sagging with exhaustion, she blinked away the tears threatening to blind her. She attempted to put the shoes on, but the stuffing in the toes had gone, and they fell off again.
“Damn you, Delany.” Guy glared at him. “I planned to make a haven for myself in England, where I can operate without fear of discovery.”
“I’m sorry, Baron,” Delany drawled. “You should take better care of your women. Eugène, Baroness Fortescue, would be outraged.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “You should fear a knife in your back if you ever return to France.”
Guy shrugged. “Encore Je suis embarrassé.”
When Guy refused to look at her, Hetty leapt up from the chair. “I embarrass you? I demand you take me home.” She swallowed a sob. “I wish never to set eyes on you again.”
“If you intend to retain your cover, Baron, I suggest we deal with Miss Cavendish,” Forney said coolly. “We are conveniently placed close to the river. Let the fishes remove the thorn in your side.”
Horrified, Hetty gasped.
“That would be madness, Forney.” Guy stepped closer to her. “You’ll have Bow Street down upon us in a minute. Her father is a friend of the Prince of Wales. The search would be directed at me.”
“Close to the Regent, eh?” Forney studied Hetty and nodded.
“But this girl has come here alone, dressed as the lowest of servants. Her father would have no notion of her direction,” Delany argued.
“If you take such action, you can count me out of any further plans,” Guy said.
“I believe you are fond of the girl,” Delany said, with an unsympathetic grin.
Guy cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a crime, Delany?”
“It is if it weakens you, as I see it has.”
Guy’s hands curled into fists. He took a step toward the man he’d called Delaney. “I should like a chance to show you how weak I am.”
Delany stared. He snatched up a candle from the table and thrust it close to Guy’s face. “Where is your scar, Baron?”
“What scar?” Forney and the other men crowded around.
“The baron had a scar on his cheek. It went from below the eye almost to the chin,” Delany said. “This man is an imposter.”
“Sacré bleu!” Forney cried. “Could this be true?”
“Delany lies. I never had such a scar,” Guy said. “I believe he is the charlatan here.”
“The baron I met had a scar.” Delany appealed to the men in the room. “He suffered the wound fighting alongside Napoleon. I swear it!”
Forney stood, his gaze fixed on Guy.
“Kill the carroty-patted harridan. Kill them both I say,” the tall thin Englishman said, his clipped voice chillingly unemotional, his eyes like pale blue ice.
“My hair isn’t red,” Hetty whispered. What had she done? Oh, what had she done!
“Ridiculous! Who else might he be if not the baron we have urgent need of?” Forney said. “He has already uncovered a serious fault in our plan.”
“I am the man Napoleon called La Renard!” Guy strode around the room looking every inch a dangerous spy. “Why do you doubt it?”
The tall Englishman nodded. “The Fox! The baron must be he. How would he know this otherwise?”
Delany scowled. “I tell you he had a scar.”
“I need time to think,” Forney said. “To be sure.”
Delany pointed at Hetty. “Let him prove his loyalty. The woman must die tonight.”
“I need to prove nothing,” Guy said coldly. “But I can withdraw my support to your plans. See how well you do without me.”
“Shall we put it to the vote?” Delany asked.
“Oui.” Forney handed the big man a pistol. “Watch them both, Smith.”
The men retired to the end of the room and spoke in low voices.
Guy’s arm stole around her. She straightened her back, desperate not to give in to the urge to collapse against him. “When I tell you, run for the door,” he whispered in her ear.
“Get away from her.” Smith shoved the pistol into Guy’s side.
Hetty tried to quell her shaking. She did not want to leave him, French wife or no. But knew she must. Her presence here only complicated it for Guy.
The men began to argue in loud voices, their ranks split by indecision. Forney asked for time to prove Delany’s theory. “If truth be told, the baron is more important than you, Delany,” the other, shorter Englishman said in a threatening tone.
Delany cursed and leapt at him.
“Stop this at once,” Forney cried as the men struggled to keep the two apart. “We must keep cool heads.”
Smith became distracted by the fight at the end of the room, and his pistol wavered.
“Run, Hetty,” Guy hissed. He leaped forward and administered a lightning kick to the gun in Smith’s hand. It clattered away over the floor.
Hetty stumbled to the door, leaving her shoes behind. She hauled it open. It banged behind her as she ran blindly into the dark, straight into the solid body of another ruffian.
A pistol shot echoed behind her. “Guy!” she cried with a sob. Strong hands picked her up and shoved her aside as several men rushed past her, kicking down the door.
“Get right away from here Miss Cavendish!” There was a lethal note in Strathairn’s quiet voice.
Hetty ran, stubbing her toe, her hand against the rough wall as she felt her way toward the glow of carriage lanterns at the top of the lane.
The hackney was empty, the horse eating from a nose bag.
“Pete?” she rasped, staring around her.
Pete emerged from behind the vehicle, adjusting his breeches. “I’m mighty glad to see you, miss.” He paused and eyed her askance. “Although I don’t much want those feet of yours on me floor, that I don’t.”
She looked down. Something revolting had attached itself to her stocking. “I’m frightened. I think my fiancé has been shot.” She yanked the wretched stockings off.
“Best you climb inside, miss.” Pete exhibited admirable calm as he took her arm and gently coaxed her toward the step. “You look done in, you do.”
She climbed into the carriage and sagged against the squabs, her gaze fixed on the halo of light radiating from the open warehouse door.
“After you’d gone, I planned to go in search of the runners, miss,” Pete explained. “But I needn’t have. There was a dozen of ’em right here.”
“Thank you, Pete. You’re a good man,” Hetty said with a gulp. “The Prince of Wales should give you a medal.”
Pete grinned. “Zounds!”
Like a ghost, a stranger emerged from the darkness. “Take the lady home, jarvie.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“But I need to wait.” Hetty pleaded. “Guy—”
“Someone will send word.” The darkness swallowed him up again.
“Walk on.” Pete slapped the reins and moved the horse on as she searched the dark for a glimpse of Guy. Shadows danced in the candlelight spilling over the road from the open warehouse door, the shapes impossible to discern.
“You’d best tell me where you live, miss,” Pete called.
Hetty shuddered and sucked in air. “King Street, Mayfair, thank you, Pete.” As they entered Fleet Street, the clocks chimed one. Would her father wait up for her? Her chest grew so tight she found it difficult to breathe.
“Glad to see you ’ome safe, miss,” Pete said after he’d pulled up his horse in King Street.
Hetty piled coins into his hand. “I wish I had more money to give you, Pete. I am so grateful to you for your help tonight.”
“Can’t says I know what all that was about,” Pete said, removing his cap and rubbing his head. “But all’s well that ends that way.”
But was it? Was Guy safe and well?
Candlelight shone out from the downstairs windows as she entered the gate. The door was unlocked, so she slipped inside, hoping to scurry upstairs unseen.
Her father stalked into the hall. His mouth dropped open, and his ears reddened. “Horatia!” he bellowed. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you dressed this way?”
A hysterical giggle rose to block her throat. “Might we talk in the parlor, Papa?” She wished she could shed the smelly clothes but knew he would not be inclined to wait for her to do so.
He clamped his lips into a thin line. “The servants have retired, and you shall not walk on the parlor carpet. Come to my bedchamber.”
Her father tossed her a towel to wipe her feet before she entered. She stood on the mat before the fire, conscious of the stink rising from her breeches and her filthy feet, her hands tightly clasped in front of her. She longed to sit, but hadn’t been invited to, and she didn’t want to add spoiling her aunt’s chair covered in a maroon printed fabric to her lengthy list of wrongdoings. “Even though there’s much I don’t know, I’m afraid what I can tell you will take some time.”
Her father removed his handkerchief from his pocket and laid it on a chair. “For heaven’s sake, sit, child. Then please explain yourself. I can think of no earthly reason for your behavior.”
He had not called her “child” for many a year. Would he ever trust her again?
She took a deep breath. “It all began when I took The General for a ride—”
“You rode The General?” he roared.
She perched on the edge of the chair. “Papa,” she rasped, as her throat ached for water, “if you interrupt me after every sentence, we shall be here until morning.”
He gave her a look that would have made many a soldier quiver from head to toe, which produced its desired effect on her. “As I was saying, while riding The General, I came across Guy unconscious on the road—”
Her father made a choking sound and waved at her to continue.
By the time she’d covered most of what occurred during this evening’s debacle, her father’s face had gone through several color changes varying from white to puce.
There was a long pause while he struggled to control his temper, and when he spoke, his voice didn’t sound like his own. “I must say I doubted my sister’s ability from the first. She is far too wrapped up in her own pursuits to be the right chaperone for a spirited girl like you. But I did trust Fortescue to take good care of you in my absence. I can see I asked too much of him. It seems it was too much for any man. But I never expected you to be so rash in your judgment, or to lie to me.”
“I’m sorry, Papa,” she said in a small voice.
“And I must say, I am disappointed in the baron for encouraging such behavior.”
“But he didn’t. Guy is a brave man. He endangered his life working for the government.” Might he have a wife? Tears filled her eyes. “I hope he’s not hurt. I’m not sure what happened. I heard a shot.”
Her father jerked forward on his chair. “There were shots fired? Dear God. I quake at the idea of you in such danger.”
She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her grimy hand. “We’ll learn more tomorrow.”
His nostrils quivered. “Go to bed, Horatia. I shall tell you what I’ve decided in the morning, when I’ve had time to think on it.”
“I’m sorry, Papa,” Hetty said again. There was nothing more she could say. She rose and picked up the handkerchief, offering it to him. He shook his head with distaste. Blinded by tears, she hurried to her bedchamber. She had never been so alone. It seemed her life in London had come crashing down around her ears. Digswell, with its church fetes and afternoon teas, lurked dismally in her future.
*
Guy watched with relief as John and his cronies rounded up the conspirators. Delaney spat at Guy and cursed him as the men were dragged outside. Guy kept his pistol aimed on the hunched figure of Smith, who groaned and clutched his wounded shoulder as he joined the rest of the conspirators in the wagon on their way to the cells in Bow Street.
John appeared at Guy’s side. “Forney’s gone missing–out through a back door. My men are searching for him, but it appears he had a boat waiting. I’ll get the Thames River police onto it.”
Guy grabbed John’s arm. “Did Hetty get away safely?”
“Yes, you need not worry on that score.”
“Damn it! How did she come to be here?” Guy would never forget the shock of seeing Hetty dangling from the thug’s brawny arms.
“She and the duchess were shadowing you,” John said.
“My sister, too! Mon dieu! Where is she now?”
“We had a difficult time convincing Her Grace to go home. In the end, one of my men took her to Portland Square in a hackney.” A reluctant grin stretched John’s mouth. “She was dressed like a solicitor’s clerk from Lincoln’s Inn.”
“Couldn’t you have stopped Hetty from getting mixed up in this? They almost threw her in the river,” Guy said angrily. “You lot cut it as fine as the hairs on a gnat’s bollock.”
“I’m very sorry, my friend.” John shook his head. “Some of these men have influence. We needed enough proof against them to put them away permanently, and things got out of control very fast. Don’t blame Miss Cavendish or your sister too much. They acted without delay, to alert us to your exit by the back lane.”
“Did they indeed?”
John nodded. “And Miss Cavendish kept on your tail. She’d make a damn good spy.”
Guy scowled as he climbed into the carriage beside Strathairn. “So, you and your cronies lost sight of me, John?”
“There’d be the devil to pay if we did, Guy. We had no intention of it. Several of our men followed you. You could not have escaped us.”
Guy huffed out a tired laugh. “No sense in telling Hetty that.”
“Might be wise not to reveal all of it. I fear it might encourage her, should you wish to continue to work for us?”
“No chance of that.” Guy grimaced. “Hetty will be in a terrible fix though when she arrives home in that state. Her aunt will be livid.”
“You’ll have to put things right.”
Guy frowned. “Can you drop me off in King Street?”
“I’ll be pleased to. We’ll discuss this evening’s events later.”
When they arrived outside her aunt’s townhouse, it was in darkness apart from one lighted window upstairs. “She may have been able to sneak in unobserved. I won’t be thanked for knocking on the door. I’ll go first thing in the morning. I’m for a bath, a Cognac, and a few hours’ rest.”
John stretched out his legs and sighed. “An excellent idea.”
Knowing Hetty was safe, Guy enjoyed being back in the luxurious surroundings of John’s home. He lay back in the bath in his chamber and let the warm water soothe his tight muscles. Might this business be at an end? They must capture the French count, but even if they failed, he was now alone, his web of spies in prison awaiting trial. While Hobson fussed around him, Guy’s thoughts returned to Hetty. He admired her spirit and her quick thinking, but her rashness worried him. Once married, it seemed his life would continue its unpredictable course. He was more than ready for a quiet life. She had only leapt to his defense. And though he loved her, he worried that he might not be able to give her the life she craved. He didn’t want to crush her spirit. She had been unhappy in Digswell. Water mixed with blood as he stepped from the bath into the towel his valet held for him.
Hobson peered at him. “Why, my lord, you have a fresh wound in your side.”
“It’s just a scratch, Hobson. But you may dress it for me.”
When he and Smith had grappled for the pistol, it fired. The bullet struck Smith in the shoulder. Guy had attempted to staunch the flow of blood gushing from Smith’s wound with his handkerchief. Unfortunately, the big bounder had pulled a knife and slashed clean through Guy’s waistcoat and shirt, the blade finding his ribs.
Hobson shook his head. “Might need a couple of stitches, my lord.”
“I doubt it, Hobson. It’s not deep. Please wrap a bandage around it. Then I’m for bed.”