Midwinter villages, who hid behind a respectable facade whilst organising her treasonable activities. When Justin had first put forward this hypothesis, back in June, Richard had found it as difficult to believe as any gentleman would. Yet the meagre evidence they had suggested that the theory, unlikely as it seemed, had to be true. A female spy had been working on the south coast the previous year and had been traced from Dorset to London to Suffolk, where she had merged effortlessly into local society. The only clue that they had was that many of the Midwinter ladies belonged to a reading group run by Lady Sally Saltire and Richard and his elder brother had long been suspicious that the group was a convenient means of passing information. Yet if this were the case, it meant that the Midwinter spy could only be one of four or five people, all of whom seemed most unlikely suspects.
There was Lady Sally Saltire herself, of course. This was a difficult call, for Lady Sally had been an old flame of Justin Kestrel’s before her marriage and Richard knew that Justin, secretly but passionately, still carried a torch for her. Then there was Lily Benedict, who publicly gave the impression of being a devoted wife to her bedridden husband. Richard knew that this, at least, was a pretence. Lady Benedict had given him to understand discreetly but quite clearly that she would be receptive to his attentions. He had neglected to take her up on the offer. Lady Benedict’s sultry charms seemed stale next to the breath of fresh air that was Deborah Stratton.
Richard grimaced. If neither Lady Sally nor Lady Benedict was the culprit, that only left Helena Lang, the vicar’s vulgar daughter, or Olivia Marney, the cool and gracious chatelaine of Midwinter Marney Hall…
Or Deborah Stratton, of course.
There were other ladies who came and went from the reading group, but these five were the core. And one of them had to be the spy.
Richard sighed. Olivia Marney was enigmatic, for she wore her coolness as a barrier against the world. He could have sworn, however, that she was not a traitor. And as her husband, Ross, was a friend of his, it made matters even more difficult.
And then there was Deborah.
Richard knew that he was as averse to Deb Stratton being the Midwinter spy as Justin was unwilling to suspect Sally Saltire. There was a deep and irrational instinct that told him the Deb was not the woman they sought. Richard was accustomed to acting on logical sense rather than pure feeling and he found this state of affairs as amusing as it was bewildering for, despite Deborah’s wariness, he knew he was drawn to her by something that went deeper than reason, something that was deep in the blood.
Richard picked up the copy of the Suffolk Chronicle that carried Deborah’s advertisement. He was almost certain that it had nothing to do with the Midwinter spy, but even had he not had an interest in Deborah herself, it was something that he could not let pass.
He laughed to think of her wallowing in the mud of the duck decoy. No matter that she had refused his invitation. He would find a way to see her again, and soon.
Chapter Five
‘O ne reply?’ Deb said incredulously, as she stood in the Bell and Steelyard Inn the following week. ‘Only one? Are you sure?’ She upended the mailbag and shook it hard. One letter dropped out on to the floor of the coaching inn and lay there amongst the wood shavings and scraps of paper. Deb frowned in disbelief.
‘Are all the men in Suffolk slow tops,’ she said crossly, ‘that they are all so backward in coming forward?’
The innkeeper looked blank. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am?’ he said.
‘It was a rhetorical question,’ Deb said, sighing. ‘Perhaps I should have advertised for a dishonourable man and then, no doubt, I would have been inundated with offers…’
As though in response to this thought, she heard a familiar, mocking voice from behind her.
‘Good morning, Mrs Stratton. Is there some kind of difficulty?’
Deb scooped the letter up and stuffed it in her reticule. Lord Richard Kestrel was standing in the door of the mail office, a smile on his wicked, dark face. Today he looked immaculate in buff pantaloons and a green coat that Deb was obliged to admit suited him very well. Last week, in his riding dress, he had looked a man of action. Today, that power was held under tighter control. Paradoxically, it made him look even more dangerous. And, idiotically, all Deb seemed to be able to think about was the blissful pleasure that she had felt when she had been held in his arms. As she stared at him she saw his eyes widen and his mouth curl into a smile as he read her thoughts. He looked as though he was about to kiss her again, there in the Bell and Steelyard Inn. Blushing madly, Deb dragged her gaze from his.
‘Good morning, Lord Richard,’ she said, trying to speak through an odd constriction in her breathing. ‘No, there is no problem at all.’ Seeing his quizzical expression, she improvised wildly. ‘I am merely trying to collect some mail on behalf of Ross, but it appears that the expected letters have not arrived…’
Lord Richard raised his brows. ‘Surely there is no need for you to play the postman, ma’am? Does Lord Marney not have a private mail box at home?’
Deb felt the familiar rush of exasperation. ‘Do you have an interest in the way in which the mail service operates, my lord? Perhaps you could recommend some improvements. I hear that they are always open to new ideas.’
Richard smiled and stood aside to allow her to go out on to Quay Street. Woodbridge was busy that morning.
‘I have no interest in the mail service,’ he said easily, ‘but as always, I do have a great interest in you, Mrs Stratton. It is a pleasure to see you again so soon.’
‘Usually we contrive to avoid each other for far longer periods of time than this,’ Deb said. ‘I cannot understand how we have managed to bump into each other again.’
‘As to that, I engineered it,’ Richard said easily. ‘I warned you I would. I saw you entering the Bell, so I followed you.’
‘To what purpose?’
Lord Richard looked amused. ‘My dear Mrs Stratton, to have the pleasure of your company, of course! May I escort you somewhere?’
‘No, thank you,’ Deb said, determined to be strong.
Richard looked enquiring. ‘Are you then intending to stay rooted to the spot here in Quay Street? I do believe that you are in the way of the other passers-by.’
‘How absurd you are,’ Deb said. ‘I was not refusing to move, merely refusing your offer of escort, my lord.’
‘Ah.’ Richard took her arm and steered her expertly out of the path of a large lady with an even larger marketing basket. ‘That is a pity, for I have a gift I wished to give to you.’
Deb was taken aback. She did not want to accept gifts from Lord Richard Kestrel. It seemed too intimate a gesture and she was sharply aware that if she were to give him any latitude he would take advantage with shocking speed. He had demonstrated that on more than one occasion. Yet despite her determination to withstand his advances, it felt rather as though they had already made the first moves in a game of chance and the game was becoming complex and unpredictable. She had no certainty that she could win.
Richard was proffering a brown paper parcel that was tied neatly with string. ‘I remembered our conversation about poetry,’ he said, ‘and that you were studying the work of Andrew Marvell in Lady Sally’s reading group. Please take it.’
Deborah reluctantly put out a hand. The parcel was the right shape and size to be a book. She enjoyed receiving books more than anything, and she felt a sudden rush of pleasure followed by a rather alarming urge to rip the paper off. She held the present stiffly out to him.
‘I do not believe that I can accept this, my lord.’
‘Please try, ma’am,’ Richard said persuasively. ‘I chose it especially for you.’ He waited, watching her. ‘Are you not going to open it?’
Deb was in two minds and she knew that he could tell, for he was smiling at her. She tried to resist, but willpower had never been her strong suit. With a little sigh of abandonment she tore off the paper.
As she had thought, it was a book of poetry, with a marbled cover and a beautiful leather binding trimmed with gilt.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ She could not help her involuntary exclamation.
