A Lady's Vanishing Choices Read online

  Charles surveyed his employer and grinned. “Ah, that’s the burr under you saddle, is it?”

  Royce’s features cleared. “You are the best of good fellows.” He laughed and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling of the estate office. “It’s Perry, of course. I don’t know what I’m going to do with that boy.”

  Charles raised his eyebrows. “Boy. He isn’t a boy. He is a man—a man of four and twenty years of age.” He hesitated, removed his glasses, and leveled a direct stare at Royce. “You’ve protected him from every wind that blows for years. Let him be. That’s my advice.”

  “Easier said than done. He is tripping close to making a blunder with a girl with no style and no dowry.” Royce gritted his teeth against the truth, even as he uttered the words.

  “Would that be the worst possible outcome? Perchance he loves this girl,” Charles offered in a nonchalant tone.

  “It would be tragic.” Royce paced before his desk, grinding his teeth. Determined on having his own way, Perry would persist. And even more determined to squelch such a happening, Royce vowed to intervene.

  “Perhaps it shan’t come to that.” Charles picked up a stack of papers.

  “I’ll wait and see how dangerous the situation becomes.” Royce ran a hand around the back of his neck. “I suppose you have a million things for me to address.”

  “Of course.” Charles moved swiftly to a chair behind the other desk, where his cape had been spread on the back. “Let me remove my hunting vest from the other chair.” Pink stole across his cheeks. “I’m afraid I went hunting earlier. My garments became a trifle damp.”

  “You know you’re welcome to hunt here.” Royce laughed and raised his hand palm up. “Please observe. No whip. By the by, did you bag anything?”

  “A brace of pigeons,” Charles admitted with a grin.

  “Conscientious as always, I see.” Royce indicated the yellow banners in the pocket of the hunting vest. “I notice you carried markers for the gamekeepers. Even the hapless ones could find the downed birds with those.”

  “Indeed.” Charles grinned. “You might suggest to Cook that one of the removes at dinner tonight should be pigeon pie. That would be most welcome. I hate waste.”

  Charles turned and picked up some papers. “Now that your leg is healed, are you considering joining the fight again?”

  “This trifling thing?” Royce paced the floor, rubbing his thigh where his war wound troubled him from time to time. He could serve his country to a fuller extent if he managed to locate the missing lady-in-waiting and the pilfered documents. “If the war lingers, I must take up arms for king and country.” He shook his fist. “Damn that Corsican. Why couldn’t he have been content on Elba? We were most generous when he was defeated the first time.”

  “Power mad. Some men crave power,” Charles mused. “Now, about these invitations.” Charles reminded Royce with a wave of the papers in the air.

  “Sara will be here this afternoon to give you a hand. The workmen will be finished with the main rooms in three or four days. That should give us time.”

  The time had arrived for him to put his nose to the ground and see if he could uncover a lead or two. Information must be stopped before even a sentence reached foreign hands.

  Chapter 6

  The Frenchman stared at his image in the cracked mirror and feathered his fingers through his dark, curly hair. His features remained expressionless, but he gazed deeply into his reflection, all the way to the depth of his soul and found chilled deadliness staring back at him. A wry grimace of amusement twisted one corner of his mouth upward while he inspected each feature.

  He quite admired his hazel eyes ringed with thick, black lashes before allowing his gaze to drift down his naked body. Studying his athletic form from his face to his manhood, he threw his head back and preened.

  After only a single look, these proper English ladies would swoon with longing. He curled his lip in disdain. Not one distinguished member of the Ton bothered to search beneath the surface for the real man—a man strong enough to kill when the fierce, demanding urge overtook him. Fools, one and all.

  Squaring his jaw, he tightened his lips. Mary Rose. A problem . . . she made a fatal mistake, always whining for fancy silk gowns and a larger place. He’d given her a fine ring and necklace, but, no, she couldn’t be content with that. Now the little bitch demanded more. Well—he’d give her more. More than she expects.

  Picking up his swordstick, he strolled over to the bed where he bound his pretty to the posts. He’d already had her several different ways for her pleasure and his own. The expectant glint in her eyes brought a grim smile to his lips. Narrowing his lids, he sat on the side of the bed where she laid spread before him, helpless and submissive. He savored each time he tied her to the bed with his hunting markers and had his way with her. Enjoying every moment of her slave to his master, he stared into her china-blue eyes.

  “You’ll love this, my sweet.” Drawing his sword out of the elaborate walking stick, he raked the sharp tip down the side of her breast, eliciting a thin trickle of blood.

  She moaned softly and pleaded, “Please . . .”

  Tipping his head to the side, he admonished in a tender voice, “Mary Rose, you have displeased me.” He traced her curves to her waist with his weapon. “I afforded time and effort to train you. Time I should have used to collect Wellington’s memorandum documenting his movements.”

  The tip of the blade slightly punctured the skin of her belly. She screamed and he laughed as a small amount of blood welled to the surface.

  “That’s it, my sweet. Give me a little more voice,” he coaxed. “It’s only a very small cut.”

  “Loose me now,” she demanded in a quavering voice as the apprehension in her eyes gave way to fear.

  Her expression delighted him and he chortled. “My pet, you love to play our games. You told me so over and over again. I know my usual custom is to cut you free, but I haven’t attained my full satisfaction yet.”

  Smiling into her eyes, he lovingly stroked her blonde locks over her shoulders and whispered, “Mary Rose. Wellington’s plans are important.” He scraped his blade across one pale cheek and then the other with only raw skin to show for his teasing efforts.

  “No more, please,” she pleaded again. “I don’t wanna play anymore.”

  “But yes, my sweet. You enjoy anything that pleases me, and it pleases me to be distracted from my burning desire to eliminate the half English dogs who betray my beloved homeland. Sending information back to England from France is despicable. I’m proud to be a Bonapartist. I am a true patriot. Vive La France.”

  She shook her head. Enjoying her frantic expression, he grinned. If she kept this up, he would need her again.

  “You’ve ruined everything.” He kissed her trembling lips. “I had special plans for you.” Allowing his jaw to tighten, he whispered, “Stupid little English girl. A pity. You could have worked at the Foreign Office gathering information for me.” He continued to stare deep into her eyes. “Cleaning, or perhaps working on your back. Your true calling.” Laughing with a deep ring of pleasure, he mocked, “You could have joined me in my quest. But now . . .” He shrugged.

  Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Forgive me. Let me help you now,” she begged.

  “Too late.” He watched terror fill her eyes. “That’s right, my sweet. No one, especially a woman, a woman such as you, orders me to do anything. You thought because you pleased me in bed, you could issue demands?”

  Trying to control his ragged breathing, he drew the swordstick lightly over her bindings. A small rip sounded, but her bonds held. “A jest, my sweet. Raised your hopes, I dare say. You thought I had finished with you, didn’t you?” He could hardly contain his elation as he raised his sword only to plunge the blade into her breast over and over again, several satisf
ying times.

  The excitement running through his veins increased while he watched her struggle to draw a breath. Finally, she laid completely still, her life drained away, and he gradually rose from the bed, his breathing heavy. Soon I will be able to rid myself of every encumbrance that plagues my life and be reunited with my precious Joliet.

  Stepping into his clothes, he didn’t bother to wash the spattered blood from his body. He loved the power that swamped him after the necessary kill. She had asked for her own death, the little slut, making greedy demands.

  He grimaced, wrapped the lifeless girl in a blanket, and quickly exited the back door of the pokey, rented cottage. Soon all shall be over, and I can shake the dust of this pretentious country from my feet and return to the civilized nation of my birth. Keep it together, mon ami. Tu devez.

  Later that night, the Frenchman’s eyes flew open and he immediately rubbed the small wound on his wrist. The little bitch marked me, but she paid—paid with her useless life. He smiled with a stretch of twisted lips.

  Glancing down at the woman beside him, he glared at her sleeping figure with contempt. The old hag was past her prime at nearly five and twenty, and it was well she had plenty of the ready to distract from her plain, unattractive self. He shuddered at the necessity of sleeping with her. Still, she had enough blunt to keep him in style—his due, after all.

  He laughed under his breath. If she only knew of the little dasher he had in his keeping in a snug little house on Mohan Street. She’d cut up his peace—until he cut her up. His fingers twitched. Control. Mustn’t lose it, like he had with that other little slut. He didn’t regret the death of that blonde tart, with her always whining, but he did miss moments with her. He sighed. Life isn’t fair.

  Take that fat fawn with his shaggy eyebrows. It isn’t proper or fair that the old wind-sucker is my superior. Why should such a gross Englishman have contacts in France and here in England as well, while I am tied by the heels in this blighted country? He sat up and moved to the side of the bed, rubbing his hand down his face. If only I can get my hands on that list of traitors, I’ll be set for life, a loyal follower of Napoleon. He’ll reward me. I’ll be promoted over that bushy-browed windbag. Sir, indeed. Harrumph.

  He couldn’t stand to lie abed a moment longer. He stood and began to pace. Now, if only he could pull things together, all would be well. He had agents under his command, but that wasn’t enough. Wanting more, he clenched his fist in frustration.

  He must prevent that paltry fellow from ruining everything. The inept bungler was under his command, after all. How had he let himself become tangled in the web of such an ineffectual man was beyond him. Still, he had useful contacts, and he could go anywhere without raising a single suspicion. That is certainly unfair too.

  Chapter 7

  Royce rode up to the front of Birdelwood Manor. Gazing about, he noted the mellow brick façade blended with the background of well-cropped lawns and flower borders skirting the two-story house. Intending to tie his horse to the hitching rail, instead he relinquished the reins to a stable lad who appeared before he dismounted.

  He met the measuring, blue gaze of the lad and judged him to be around twelve years of age. The boy’s head was covered with a cap, allowing blonde locks to peek out around the edges. He nodded and took the horse’s reins.

  “You be the new law?”

  Royce nearly shook his head in denial, but he remembered he’d been appointed Lord Lieutenant upon his uncle’s death. “Indeed.”

  “Had a notion you was. Name’s Jem.”

  “Jem, you said? Do you require something of me?”

  With his features twisted in an anxious frown, Jem gulped and nodded his head.

  “A matter needing my immediate attention?” Royce glanced at the entrance of Birdelwood Manor in two minds, doing his duty or continuing on his way.

  The lad followed his gaze and finally shook his head. He shuffled his feet, but stood in place for a minute before he blurted out, “Naw. It can wait till you be done.”

  Royce climbed the steps to the heavy front door. Being aware of everything out of the ordinary had kept him alive during the war, and his senses were on the alert. What desperate straits could entangle a stable lad? Mentally, he shrugged, probably nothing serious. Still, a strong urge to follow the boy and discover what difficult situation concerned him nearly caused Royce to turn, but he continued up the stairs.

  Stroter Hall had seemed the ideal location in which to reside, nestled six or seven miles off the main road leading to Newbury and points west from London. Now, his sanctuary of retreat appeared to be planted in a swamp of turmoil. Squaring his shoulders, he plied the knocker.

  The thought of traitors and spies in his neighborhood chilled him to the bone, but he couldn’t quite believe these people, wealthy by all accounts, could be guilty of treason or even be linked to such treachery. Besides, the Littletons were Eleanor’s parents, and a connection to such creatures clearly could never be accepted.

  One side of the double panel swung slowly open, giving the appearance of being too heavy to move swiftly. A stiff, slender butler, complete with thinning white hair, stood in the doorway and swept Royce with an assessing gaze.

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, Royce withdrew a calling card and handed it to the servant. “Lord Rivton to see Lady Eleanor Littleton.”

  The butler bowed. “Milord, follow me, please.”

  After taking Royce’s hat and gloves, the servant ushered him into the parlor. “I’ll see if milady is at home.”

  With a quick glance around, Royce found the scene before him most welcoming, everything up to scratch. The three damask-covered sofas encircled an ornate, low table placed for conversation and exactly matched to what he expected of Lady Littleton’s establishment. A shaft of sunlight caught the edge of a gilded frame placed against the expanse of warm, gold wall coverings. He stepped nearer, intent on studying Eleanor’s portrait. The artist was particularly fine.

  The butler had left the door ajar when he hurried away, and Royce caught himself listening to female voices drifting from one of the several doors leading off the hallway. Instead of moving away politely, he edged closer to listen intently. His mission to discover all he could about the Littletons dictated his actions.

  A very harsh tone reached him, and he thought he recognized Lady Littleton’s voice. “Betha, never touch my correspondence again.”

  “But Aunt Gertrude, Uncle Arthur sent me—”

  The aunt interrupted, “I’ll deal with Littleton.”

  Ah. Lady Littleton, indeed. Now what is she haranguing her niece about? Perhaps I may catch a hint of her activities, possibly even something to clear her name.

  “My private papers have nothing to do with the estate, and I shall tell him so. There is nothing here for him. In the meanwhile, you keep your inquisitive eyes off of my personal letters. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Aunt.” Betha’s voice didn’t quiver, but still sounded distressed. That’s bound to be Eleanor’s awkward cousin and companion. He shrugged. She sounds rather downtrodden. Definitely not for Perry.

  “Before Littleton makes his dash to town, I have a few errands for you. I have some serviceable items to donate to the parish church. You may take my package by the vicarage this afternoon. One must do what one can for the less fortunate.” She continued in a scalding tone, “And include that dreadful gown you are wearing in the bundle.”

  “But Aunt . . .”

  “Don’t interrupt.” Lady Littleton sniffed. “I have a perfectly good garment wasting away for want of wearing. Make it down for yourself. I shan’t allow the neighbors to think we can’t afford to dress you.”

  A tingle, a hint of something, stirred in Royce’s mind. Perhaps the Littletons weren’t as prosperous as they appeared. A threat of debt was certainly a lure, e
ven to the point of treason, for a proud name. Not that he believed Eleanor’s parents were in any way connected with such treachery, but something suspicious had alerted the Foreign Office. Still, if not Lady Littleton, perhaps the niece had succumbed to selling secrets, seeking to better her position. To date, he’d heard nothing to her credit, so it remained a possibility in his mind.

  Lady Littleton’s voice shrilled. “I shan’t argue with you about it. It’s to my credit to have you properly gowned. You may go, but finish your chores before you leave.”

  Royce moved to the doorway and observed the panel across the hall open. When Betha emerged, Royce had the sensation of being struck right between the eyes. Egad. It was the lady who nearly ran him off the road. He sucked in a deep breath at the lovely picture she presented, even in an old, faded gown with her dark hair caught up in a knot on top of her head. No bonnet obscured his view of her high cheekbones, her lovely complexion, her soft mouth, or her eyes, filled with dismay. Her sharp intake of breath reached his ears while a sizzling awareness leaped from her captivating eyes to collide with his.

  A tide of crimson slowly mounted her cheeks when his gaze locked with hers, and her mouth opened to reveal pearly teeth. He forced back a swallow. Her appeal to his senses hadn’t abated, and he uttered an oath under his breath.

  He had tried to dismiss the memory of her, but she continued to intrude on his thoughts with unwelcome frequency. Of all places for her to appear, this was possibly the worst—in Eleanor’s home and under suspicion of treason. He swallowed down a bitter taste in his mouth. Linking such a browbeaten creature with treachery made him sick to his stomach, and her beauty mattered not at all. Come to that, anyone connected to Eleanor and treason in the same breath was unthinkable. Still, desperate people seek solutions, even drastic ones. He must discover the truth of the matter.