A Lady of His Own by Stephanie Laurens
Charles had been a successful spy in France for years because he was, superficially, French; the French had always seen him as one of their own. What if their man was, in essence, a Charles-in-reverse?
The notion was chilling, but as she watched Charles steer their plans in such a way that they didn’t preclude the enemy’s being Fothergill, she realized just how real the possibility was.
They were still in the throes of tossing around possible plans when the clatter of an approaching rider silenced them. They all listened, then Charles rose and went to the window overlooking the forecourt.
“A fisherman, presumably with a message from Dennis. This doesn’t look good.”
He headed for the door. Jack rose and followed him; the others remained in the library.
Charles went down the front steps as the fisherman slid to the ground. The man was plainly relieved to see him.
“M’lord.” The man ducked his head, nodded to Jack behind him, then faced him. “Dennis Gibbs sent me. His cousin Sid…” The man swallowed, then went on, “They found him on the cliffs by Tywardreath. Throat slit. A bad business—the lad weren’t no more’n eighteen. There were things—a knife, cloak, and other stuff—scattered about. Dennis said as you’d want to take a look.”
Grim-faced, Charles nodded. He clapped the man on the shoulder. “Go around to the kitchen. I’ll send for you once I’m ready.”
The man ducked his head and went, following the groom who’d appeared to take his horse.
Jack stepped down beside Charles; they both watched the man walk away, head and shoulders bowed. “A bad business, right enough.” Jack glanced at Charles. “You’re going?”
Charles turned back into the house. “Yes, but you’re staying.”
Jack followed him back to the library. He told the others the news. Penny paled, but said nothing. Nicholas blanched; some of his recovered strength seemed to drain from him.
“You shouldn’t go alone—there might be more we can do when we see the site.” Gervase stood, joining Jack and Charles. “I know the area well enough, and the locals will accept me.”
Jack hesitated, then nodded curtly. “Agreed. You two go—I’ll hold the fort here.”
Charles looked across the room, met Penny’s eyes. “We’ll be back before dusk or send word—if there’s any scent to follow, that’ll be our priority.”
Penny nodded, watched him turn and stride out, Gervase at his heels. Jack watched them, too, then sighed, and came back to his chair. He smiled, resigned yet charming. “Just think of me as your watchdog.”
They were still in the library, Nicholas at the desk dealing with estate matters, Jack sprawled in an armchair with a book, Penny frowning at the household accounts she’d fetched, Jack having declared he’d be much happier if both she and Nicholas remained in the same room, when the knocker sounded on the front door.
All three of them looked up. A second later, Norris’s stately footsteps trod over the tiles; they heard the door open.
A rumble of male voices reached them—one Norris’s, the other lighter. Straining her ears, Penny couldn’t place the speaker. They hadn’t heard any horse on the drive; whoever it was had walked to the door.
She turned as the door opened and Norris stepped in. Closing the door, he looked at her, then Nicholas. “Mr. Fothergill has called, my lord. He wishes to inquire whether it would be convenient to look around the house. I understand he’s spoken with Lady Penelope on the subject. I would, of course, be happy to conduct him through the rooms we usually show.”
Penny looked at Jack. “He’s a student of architecture—he asked Charles and me what houses to view in the area. He called at the Abbey a few days ago, and Charles’s butler showed him around.”
Everyone looked at Jack.
Gaze distant, he frowned, then swiveled to look at Norris. “Send him in. Let’s see how he shapes up.”
Norris withdrew; Jack met Penny’s, then Nicholas’s eyes. “It’s suggestive he’s turned up just when Charles has been called away, but on the other hand, that could just be coincidence. Regardless, we should turn the opportunity to our advantage and see how much we can discover—if we can exclude him from our list, we could move more definitely against Gerond.”
Penny nodded; she rose as the door opened, and Norris ushered Julian Fothergill in. He came to greet her, enthusiasm and eagerness in his face.
He shook hands with her, then Nicholas, thanking them with disarming candor for seeing him. “I would be quite happy to be shown around by your butler if you’re busy.”
“I’ll take you around the house later,” Penny said, “but first, won’t you sit and tell us how your stay in Cornwall has gone?” Smoothly, she asked Norris for tea to be brought, then introduced Fothergill to Jack, giving no reason for the latter’s presence.
Jack supplied one as the two shook hands. “I, too, opted for the allure of country life rather than endure London during the Season.”
Fothergill grinned. “Just so. As my primary interest lies in things feathered and winged, London has little to offer by way of attraction.”
They resumed their seats, Jack moving to sit beside Penny on the chaise while Nicholas took the armchair he’d vacated. At Penny’s wave, Fothergill sat in the armchair opposite her.
“I take it,” Jack drawled, “that you’re lucky enough not to have to dance attendance at some office in town?”
“Indeed. I have enough to allow me to wander at will, and the family, thank heaven, are plentiful.”
“So you’re not from around here?” Jack asked. Fothergill’s accent was unremarkable, unplaceable.
“Northamptonshire, near Kettering.”
“Good hunting country,” Jack returned.
“Indeed—we had some very good sport earlier this year.”
Penny exchanged a glance with Nicholas; Jack and Fothergill embarked on a lengthy and detailed discussion of hunting, one which, to her ears, painted Fothergill as one who knew. Used to reading Charles, she picked up the little signs—the easing of tensed muscles—that stated Jack thought so, too.
Norris appeared with the tea tray; while she poured and dispensed the cups, then handed around the platter of cakes, the conversation turned to places visited in England, especially those known for bird life. Nicholas joined in, mentioning the Broads; Fothergill had wandered there. He seemed in his element, recounting tales and exploits during various trips.
At one point, they all paused to sip. Penny noticed Fothergill eyeing the books along the shelves behind the chaise. His eyes flicked to her face; he noticed her noticing. Smiling, he set down his cup. “I was just admiring your books.” He glanced at Nicholas. “It’s quite a collection. Are there any books on birds, do you know?”
Nicholas looked at Penny.
“I imagine there are, but I’m not sure where…” She glanced over her shoulder at the nearest shelves.
“Actually”—Fothergill set down his cup and pointed to a shelf behind the chaise—“I think that’s a Reynard’s Guide.”
Rising, he crossed to the shelves and bent to look. “No.” He sent them a smile. “Like it, but not.” Straightening, he walked along the shelves, scanning the volumes. Penny faced forward as he passed behind the chaise.
Beside her, Jack leaned forward and placed his cup on the low table before them. Straightening, he started to turn to keep Fothergill in view—
Violence exploded from behind the chaise.
A heavy cosh cracked against Jack’s skull. He collapsed, insensible.
Half-rising, Penny opened her mouth to scream—
A hand locked about her chin, forced it high, yanked her against the back of the chaise.
“Silence!”
The word hissed past her ear. Eyes wide, staring upward, she felt the blade of a knife caress her throat.
“One sound from you, Selborne, and she dies.”
Penny squinted, saw Nicholas on his feet, pale as death, hands opening and closing helplessly as he fought
“Stay exactly where you are, do exactly what I tell you, and I might let her live.” He spoke in a low voice, one that held not the faintest thread of panic; he was master of the situation, and he knew it.
Nicholas didn’t move.
“The pillboxes—where are they? Not the rubbish that was on display in here, but the real ones.”
“You mean the ones my father appropriated from the French?”
Contempt laced Nicholas’s tone.
She felt a tremor pass through the hard fingers locked about her chin, but all Fothergill said was, “You understand me perfectly.”
His tone had turned to ice. He lifted Penny’s chin higher until she whimpered; the knife pricked. “Where are they?”
Nicholas met Penny’s eyes, then looked at Fothergill. “In the priest hole that opens from the master bedchamber.”
“Priest hole? Describe it.”
Nicholas did. For a long moment, Fothergill said nothing, then he quietly stated, “This is what I want you to do.”
He told them, making it abundantly plain that he would feel not the slightest compunction over taking Penny’s life should either of them disobey in the smallest way. He made no bones of his intention to kill Nicholas; it was Penny’s life only with which he was prepared to bargain.
When Nicholas challenged him, asking why they should trust him, Fothergill’s answer was simple; they could accept his offer, show him the pillboxes, and Penny might live, or they could resist, and they both would die.
“The only choice you have to make,” he informed Nicholas, “is whether Lady Penelope’s life is worth a few pillboxes. Your life is already irredeemably forfeit.”
“Why should we believe you?” Penny managed to mumble; he’d eased his hold on her chin enough for her to talk. “You killed Gimby, and Mary, and now another young fisherman. I’ve seen you—you won’t let me live.”
She prayed Nicholas could read the message in her eyes; the longer everything took, the more time they could make Fothergill spend down there…it was the only way they could influence anything.
Briefly, Nicholas met her eyes, then looked at Fothergill, clearly waiting for his response.
Fothergill hissed a curse beneath his breath, a French one. “After today, my identity here will no longer be in question—why should I care if you’ve seen me or not?”
He paused. A moment passed, then he softly, menacingly drawled, “I’m not interested in wasting further time convincing you—I want to be finished and away before Lostwithiel and his friend return. So…”
Again he lifted Penny’s chin, drawing her throat taut. Again the blade of his knife caressed. “What’s it to be? Here and now? Or does she live?”
Nicholas’s face was white, his lips a tight line. He nodded once. “We’ll do as you ask.”
“Excellent!” Fothergill wasn’t above sneering.
Turning, Nicholas walked to the door. Reaching it, he halted and looked back, waiting.
At Fothergill’s direction, Penny rose slowly from the chaise, then, chin still held painfully high, the knife riding against her throat, she walked before Fothergill to the door.
Her neck ached.
Halting her a yard from Nicholas, Fothergill spoke softly by her ear. “Please don’t think of acting the heroine, Lady Penelope. Remember that I’m removing the knife from your throat only to place it closer to your heart.”
He did so, so swiftly Penny barely had time to blink; she lowered her chin and simultaneously felt the prick of the blade through her gown, had an instant to regret she’d never taken to wearing corsets.
Fothergill clamped his left hand over her left arm, holding her to him, also hiding the knife he held pressed to her ribs between them.
He studied her face, then looked at Nicholas, and nodded.
Nicholas opened the door, scanned the front hall, then glanced back. “No one there.”
Fothergill nodded curtly. “Lead the way.”
Nicholas did, walking slowly but steadily across the front hall and up the main stairs. Locked together, Penny and Fothergill followed.
In slow procession they approached the master bedchamber. Once inside, Fothergill told Nicholas to lock the door. Nicholas did.
Penny gasped as Fothergill seized the moment to release her arm and lock his arm about her shoulders, once again placing the knife at her throat.
Nicholas swung around at the sound, but froze when he saw Fothergill’s new position.
Fothergill backed, dragging her with him to the side of the room opposite the fireplace. With the knife, he indicated the mantelpiece. “Open the priest hole.”
Nicholas studied him, then slowly walked to the heavily carved mantelpiece. He took as long as he dared, but eventually twisted the right apple. Farther along the wall, the concealed panel popped open.
Fothergill stared at it. “I’m impressed.” He motioned to Nicholas. “Prop the panel wide with that footstool.”
Still moving slowly, Nicholas obeyed.
“Now walk around the bed, and sit on the side, facing the windows.”
Feet dragging, Nicholas did.
“Keep your gaze fixed on the sky. Don’t move your head.”
Once assured Nicholas was going to obey, Fothergill urged her forward. He steered her to the corner of the bed, closer to the priest hole. When they reached it, he turned her so her back was to the bedpost; the tip of his knife beneath her chin held her there while, with a violent tug, he ripped loose the cord tying the bed-curtain back.
He lifted the cord, gripped it in his teeth, then grabbed first one of Penny’s hands, then the other, securing both in one of his on the other side of the bedpost, stretching her arms back so she couldn’t move. Only then did he take his knife from her throat, deftly placing it between his teeth as he removed the cord and quickly used it to lash her wrists together, effectively tying her to the post.
She mentally swore, searched desperately for something to slow things down, to delay or distract.
Fothergill tied the last knot, took his knife from his mouth, and moved around her; silent as a ghost, he glided toward Nicholas.
Who was still staring, unknowing, at the windows.
Penny kicked out as far as she could—and managed to tangle her feet and skirts in Fothergill’s boots. Fothergill staggered, tried to free himself, tripped, fell. His knife went skittering across the floor.
“Nicholas—run! Go!”
Penny fought to keep Fothergill trapped, but he rolled away, wrenching free of her skirts.
Nicholas sprang to his feet, took in the scene, saw the knife lying free. His features contorted. Instead of obeying Penny, he flung himself on Fothergill.
“No!” Penny screamed, but too late.
Rolling on the floor, Nicholas grappled with Fothergill. Even had he been hale and whole, it would have been an uneven match. But Nicholas was injured and Fothergill knew where. Penny saw the punch aimed directly for Nicholas’s injured right shoulder, saw it land, heard Nicholas’s shocked, pained gasp. Fothergill’s next blow plowed into Nicholas’s jaw and it was over. Nicholas slumped unconscious; Fothergill clambered to his feet.
Swearing softly, continuously, in French.
From beneath lowered brows, his gaze locked on Penny.
She screwed her eyes shut and screamed—
He struck her savagely with the back of his hand.
Her head cracked against the bedpost, pain sliced through her brain. She sagged against the post, momentarily nauseated, dizzy, her wits reeling.
Fothergill swore viciously in her ear; she understood enough to know what he was promising. Then he moved away.
She dragged in a breath, forced her lids up enough to see. Through her lashes she watched as he swiped up his knife. Hefting it, he turned to her, then his gaze went past her—to the priest hole.
The glittering boxes distracted him. She didn’
Should she scream again? She had no idea whether there had been or would be anyone in the front of the house to hear. Her head was ringing; just thinking was painful. If she screamed again, now he had the knife once more in his hand…
Before she could decide if it was worth the risk, she heard a faint scraping sound. She thought it was Fothergill in the priest hole, but then it came again—she looked at the main door.