Page 3 of A Stormy Season

“But he could have nothing to do with me, surely,” Luke had said.

“Perhaps not, but . . . we have reason to believe that he may have had something to do with your wife’s accident. Indeed, it may not have been an accident at all.”

“Why do you say this?” Luke wasn’t sure if his anger at Henry was justified, but surely he could trust his old friend. “Tell me what you know.”

“Forgive me for being the one to tell you this,” Henry said, “but the carriage that was involved in the accident belonged to Lenoir’s associate, a Mr. Bassett. It could be a coincidence.”

Luke’s stomach churned and he was afraid he might be sick.

Henry kindly remained silent for a few moments, allowing Luke to steel himself.

When Luke was able to speak calmly, he said, “I am willing to do as you ask, but I don’t know what this Lenoir looks like. How will I recognize him?”

“I have a couple of sketches provided by our spies who have spent some time in his company.” Henry produced two rolled-up parchment sketches, one a frontal view and the other a side view. Both showed a man with dark hair, a mustache, and a long, angular face.

So this was the man his wife had betrayed him for. Not only was he not handsome, but he looked to be twenty years older.

“Have you seen him before?” Henry asked.

“No.”

“He is tall, about your height, and he is known to carry a pistol concealed inside his cloak. If you see him, even if you don’t know if he is following you, send me word.”

Luke nodded, heat rising up into his neck and forehead, contrasting with a coldness in his gut. What was this new feeling? Was it bitterness? The Holy Scriptures warned against allowing a root of bitterness to grow, but Luke found the bitterness preferable to the pain, embarrassment, and crushing sadness.

Perhaps it was time to stop mourning and start fighting.

“If there is anything I can do to help stop these revolutionaries, Henry, enlist me. I’m ready and willing to help.”

“You will be known to this man. It would be neither safe nor effective for you to be involved with our investigation. I’m sorry.”

Luke blew out a forceful breath.

“We’ll get him, sooner or later,” Henry had said, clapping him on the back. “In the meantime, take care of yourself and little Jeffrey.”

Now, as Luke stared out the window as the first grayness of dawn approached, he realized he was getting better, feeling less desperate than he had for the first month after Anne’s death. To be honest, he hardly remembered anything about those days, so dark were they.

He had to be strong for Jeffrey. As Luke himself was an orphan, he often reminded himself that he didn’t want Jeffrey to be completely without family at the tender age of two. He had to live and overcome this painful trial, for Jeffrey’s sake.

Chapter Two

Jane enjoyed springtime in London, though perhaps not as much as spring in the country. But her job as bookkeeper and half-owner of a clothing shop kept her in London. Besides, the overcrowded metropolis did possess some lovely parks, and Jane often walked around Hyde Park in the morning before anyone else was awake, her favorite time of day to be in nature.

Fog hung heavy in the air. Even fewer people were out than usual. An older man was taking his morning exercise. A young man was breaking in a new horse. Otherwise, Jane was alone as she enjoyed the moody appearance of the fog against the cloudy sky, the drops of moisture covering every tree and bush and blade of grass.

A child’s playful laugh broke through her thoughts. Moments later a little boy jumped from behind a bush a few feet in front of her. He must have been about two or three years old. His bright blue eyes met Jane’s and his smile sent a strange sensation straight to her heart.

The child’s blond curls were nothing short of beautiful, but his mischievous grin, square chin, and wide forehead were distinctly boyish. He suddenly ran to her, took her hand, and ordered, “Come!”

Jane willingly went with him. “Where is your nurse?” Surely he was not alone.

“There you are,” a masculine voice said. Luke Watley stood before her, his gaze bouncing from the boy to Jane.

The child squealed, then laughed, obviously delighted with their game.

“Forgive me,” Mr. Watley said. “I’m afraid my son has never been shy of strangers. Come, Jeffrey.” He reached for the child’s hand.

“No!” Jeffrey was still grinning, but he shrank away from his father and pressed into Jane, wrapping an arm around her leg through the layers of her cloak and dress.