“Thank you, milord,” the driver said with a tip of his hat.
After the driver deposited the coins into his pocket, he urged the hackney forward and disappeared down the darkened street.
Baldwin stepped into the cobblestone courtyard and took a moment to admire Hawthorne House. It was a rectangular building with two protruding wings. The doors and windows had gold embellishments around the frames, and a large portico hung over the door.
The guard spoke up from behind him. “I apologize for the misunderstanding, milord,” he said in a hesitant voice. “I hadn’t heard that you had returned home.”
“No harm done,” Baldwin replied.
He heard the gate being closed and locked behind him as he started across the cobblestone courtyard. Stopping in front of the double ebony doors, he sighed. This home offered so many memories of his father; memories that he longed to forget.
Baldwin placed his key in the lock and turned it, then pushed the door open. He paused on the threshold and took in the familiar scent. The entry hall was square in shape with marble-tiled floors and columns that preceded a dominating staircase that led up to the second level. The pleasant sound of the pianoforte could be heard drifting out from the drawing room.
The raised heel of his Hessian boots made clicking noises on the floor as he approached the drawing room. He came to a stop just outside it and peered in. He could see his sister, Jane, playing the pianoforte, her eyes closed as her hands drifted over the ivory keys with ease. Her brown hair was pulled into a high chignon and she was wearing a white gown with a blue sash around her waist. His mother listened to the music with her back to him, and he could see her once vibrant brown hair was now starting to fade.
Baldwin took a moment to gather the nerve to announce himself. He knew they would be angry for his departure, and subsequent abandonment, but he hoped they would forgive him in time.
He stepped into the room and cleared his throat. The music came to an abrupt halt, and he heard his mother gasp as she turned to face him.
His mother and sister both stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.
He felt the need to break the silence. “I hope I am not intruding,” Baldwin attempted.
His mother rose from her seat. “You are finally home.” Her voice was soft, almost reverent.
“I am.”
She slowly approached him and hesitantly placed her hand on his right cheek, as if she were trying to convince herself that he was real. “I have prayed for your safe return for so long.”
Unsure of what to say, Baldwin remained quiet. He saw his sister rise from her seat and walk closer to him.
“I thought you were dead,” Jane accused in a critical tone.
Baldwin smiled, hoping to disarm his sister. “As you can see, I am very much alive.”
His mother’s eyes searched his face. “Where have you been?”
“I’m afraid I am unable to say,” Baldwin replied.
Jane placed a hand on her hip and asked defiantly, “You have been gone for three years and you can’t tell us where you have been?”
Baldwin turned his attention towards his sister. He had left when she was eighteen and preparing for her first Season. Now he barely recognized the young woman standing before him. Her pointed chin was jutted out and her eyes held an intensity, challenging him.
“Where Baldwin has been is not important, only that he has returned,” his mother declared.
His brother’s voice came from behind him. “Well said, Mother.”
Baldwin turned towards the door and saw his younger brother, Oliver, standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a green jacket with a white waistcoat and dark trousers, a look that accentuated his dark hair.
“Welcome home, Brother,” Oliver said.
“Thank you,” Baldwin replied.
Oliver stepped further into the room. “It is about time that you returned,” he stated, but there was no animosity in his voice.
“It is good to be home.”
Oliver perused the length of him and commented, “You look awful.”
Baldwin glanced down at his wrinkled clothes. “I could use a bath,” he admitted, “and a fresh change of clothes.”
His mother nodded. “That you could,” she agreed. “You have a slight odor coming off your person.”
“A slight odor,” Jane huffed. “Baldwin smells like he rolled around in horse manure and deposited some in his pockets for later.”
His mother frowned at Jane’s comment. “It is rather a pungent smell, but nothing a long soak wouldn’t cure.” She walked over to the door and stopped. “Jane and I will see to the bath, won’t we, dear?” she asked, giving Jane a pointed look.
Jane cast him an annoyed look before saying, “Yes, Mother.”
Baldwin watched as Jane kept her head high and followed his mother out of the room. His gaze remained on the open door. “It would appear Jane is not pleased that I returned home,” he observed.
“She will come around,” Oliver insisted.
“I hope so.”
“You must understand that it has been nearly three years since they have heard from you,” Oliver said. “Most of the ton speculated that you were dead.”
“Did you not receive my messages?”
Oliver nodded. “I received them, but they were quite vague.”
“They had to be,” he argued. “If they had gotten into the wrong hands, I would have been exposed.”
“I am well aware of that fact.” Oliver walked over to the door and closed it. “Did you already report to Corbyn?”
“I did,” Baldwin confirmed. “I was pleased to see that the location of our headquarters remained unchanged.”
“Was Corbyn pleased to see you?”
Baldwin walked over to a maroon velvet settee and sat down. “He appeared to be.”
“Was your mission successful?”
“It was,” Baldwin confirmed. “I did discover that a French spy intends to rendezvous with a group of radicals on English soil.”
“For what purpose?”
“That is what I intend to find out,” Baldwin stated.
Oliver came
