more her way and lowering her voice. “I’m expecting again-isn’t that
Penny looked into Millie’s bright brown eyes, aglow with wonder and delight; she smiled warmly in return. “How lovely. David must be thrilled.” She glanced at Millie’s husband, whose proud presence at her side was now explained; he was chatting to Julia. “Do pass on my best wishes to him, too.”
“Oh, I will! I’m so happy…”
Fondly, Penny listened as Millie burbled on. This would be her third confinement; her first child had been stillborn, but the second, a sturdy two-year-old girl, was thriving. Although untouched by any maternal streak, Penny was truly pleased for Millie and found no difficulty in sharing her joy.
Eventually, she and Charles parted from the group, she promising to call at Essington Manor in the near future. The words were dying on her lips as her gaze reached Mr. Yarrow. His eyes met hers and he nodded, very correctly, in farewell. Somewhat less enthused, she nodded politely back.
“The others aren’t here.” Charles steered her toward the King’s Arms.
“Well, I don’t think Yarrow’s our murderer, either.”
“Just because he was making cod’s eyes at you doesn’t mean he doesn’t dabble in murder on the side.”
“He was
“Cod’s-fishy.”
She humphed. “There wasn’t anything fishy about him.”
“Nothing fishy about inviting you to show him the local sights, then asking your opinion on sending his son to the grammar school?” He snorted back. “Spare me.”
That last didn’t sound like the Charles she knew at all. She turned to stare at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. Lips set, he gripped her elbow and escorted her into the inn’s stable yard.
Their mounts were fetched; he lifted her to her saddle, then swung up to his and led the way out. Once they’d cleared the narrow, cobbled streets, he slowed until she came up beside him, then let his big gray stretch his legs; side by side, they cantered up the road to the Abbey.
At that pace, it wasn’t easy to converse; she didn’t try, but let her mind range over the afternoon, over all she’d heard, seen, learned.
They reached the Abbey; the grooms came running as they clattered into the stable yard, to take their horses and impart the news that a courier had arrived from London at midday.
“Good.” Charles closed his hand about hers and set off for the house. He didn’t exactly tow her behind him, but she had to lengthen her stride to keep up. She looked at his hand, wrapped about hers, felt the strength in his grip. She was not so much amused as intrigued.
Filchett met them in the front hall, confirming the courier’s arrival. “I placed the packet on your desk, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Charles turned for his study, her hand still in his.
Limpidly innocent, Filchett’s eyes met hers as he cleared his throat. “Shall I bring tea, my lord?”
Charles halted, glanced at her.
She met his gaze, then nodded to Filchett. “Please. In the study.”
Filchett bowed. “Indeed, my lady.”
Charles looked like he was suppressing another snort; turning, he continued to the study.
He released her hand only as they reached his desk.
Subsiding into the chair before it, she watched as he picked up the sealed packet, glanced at the direction, then, dropping into the deep chair behind the desk, reached for the letter knife.
Breaking the seal, he smoothed the three sheets, then started reading.
“Is it from your ex-commander?”
“Yes, Dalziel. This is in answer to the first queries I sent him.”
She thought back. “About Nicholas?”
“And Amberly.” Charles sat back, scanning the sheets. “Amberly was very high at the F.O., a full secretary responsible for European affairs. He retired late in ’08.” He set aside the first sheet.
“Nicholas joined the F.O. at the beginning of ’06, and rose rapidly through the ranks, courtesy, it seems, of not just his father’s name but also his own talents.” Charles’s brows rose. “It seems those Dalziel consulted consider Nicholas one of their most promising men. He’s presently an undersecretary reporting to the principal secretary. Interestingly, he’s always worked in European affairs-perhaps not surprising given his father’s background.” He glanced back at the first sheet. “Amberly’s record is impressive-there would have been much to gain by building on that.”
“Contacts, friendships, that sort of thing?”
Charles nodded. He’d moved on to the third sheet. Although he hadn’t asked for it and time had been limited, Dalziel had investigated Nicholas personally and turned up nothing of note. He’d also added a postscript.
“What?” Penny asked.
He glanced at her, reminded himself that Amberly and Nicholas were her connections. “Dalziel is going to, very quietly, investigate Amberly. Both Nicholas and Amberly are and were respectively in positions to learn secrets that would have interested the French, but while Nicholas might have continued the trade, it wasn’t his creation.”
Refolding the sheets, he tapped them on the desk, wondering just how deep Dalziel’s desire to bring justice to all spies who had trafficked in secrets to the detriment of English soliders ran. He’d heard whispers, faint but nonetheless there, that gentlemen Dalziel had proved guilty of treason had a habit of dying. Usually by their own hand, admittedly, but dying just the same.
It was a point to ponder, but not aloud.
He stirred, laid aside the packet, and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. “I’m going to report what we learned today.” Including that he didn’t think Nicholas was guilty of Gimby’s murder, but that he certainly knew the details of whatever scheme had been afoot. “Aside from anything else, the information will give Dalziel some idea which questions will most quickly reveal what those five strangers are doing down here.”
Penny nodded and sat back. Filchett came in with the tea tray. She thanked him, and he left; she poured for Charles and herself, then sat sipping, watching while he wrote.
Eventually setting aside the empty cups, she rose and walked to the windows behind the desk, and stood looking out. The view was to the northwest; in the distance, she could see the ruins of Restormel Castle from which the Abbey took its name, and could just make out the silver ribbon of the Fowey sliding past between its lush banks.
It was complicated dealing with Charles and a murderer simultaneously, but she’d always been one to reach for what she wanted, to grasp opportunities as they occurred, to bend situations to her cause. As she had long ago, but long ago was in the past, and the here and now beckoned; she’d always taken advantage of what fate deigned to offer.
For some mystical reason, fate was offering him. Again.
She had to make up her mind what to do, make sure she wasn’t making a huge mistake-again. And it would be wise to do her thinking now, safe and sane, out of his arms, rather than pretend the inevitable wouldn’t happen and instead find herself struggling to think when he’d already whipped her wits away.
He was offering physical passion the like of which her stubborn will, her unwavering allegiance to her dreams, had condemned her to live without. When he’d first appeared, she’d been convinced the course of wisdom was to avoid any degree of indulgence with him. To guard her heart at all costs. He, after all, posed the greatest danger to it, and always had.
Now…in five days, he’d changed her mind, undermined her resistance. Made her think again. Yet it wasn’t just him and his persuasions influencing her. She’d told him the truth-it was her decisions that ruled her life, no one else’s. Independence was something fate had granted her from an early age; she’d guarded it zealously and still did.
No one was in any position to dictate to her. That made it much easier to reassess and, when the circumstances warranted, change her mind.
The present circumstances, she firmly believed, suggested a change of direction.
Harriet’s gibe over her being suitable marriage fodder for some widower-and Yarrow’s clear concurrence-had not so much struck a nerve as reminded her of where she stood, of how others saw her. She was far beyond marriageable age, an acknowledged ape-leader, a confirmed-beyond-doubt spinster; as such, she was no longer
