Page 11 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

“Lieutenant Hopkins, would you do me the kindness of informing Mrs. Drummond that Mrs. Scott and I are here to see her?”

“Yes, sir,” Hopkins said and disappeared down the narrow corridor. Though he was gone no more than a minute or two, by the time he returned, Colonel Millrose had joined them at the bottom of the stairs, and so it was as a party of four that they entered Mrs. Drummond’s sitting room.

“I do beg your pardon for the intrusion, Mrs. Drummond,” Scott said with a bow.

For a moment, she only stared at him. A pretty widow, about thirty years of age, she was possessed of remarkably fair hair and remarkably pale blue eyes, the combination lending her a perpetually icy appearance. Coming to herself with a start, she dipped into a low curtsy, the skirts of her black crape gown rustling noisily in the otherwise quiet room.

Her quarters, considerably more generous than the men’s, were nonetheless modest: a single room, in which a pair of upholstered chairs and a tea table were divided from her bed by a painted silk screen. Five people filled the room to overflowing.

“Well, Mrs. Drummond,” he began, “how would you like a sojourn in Brighton?”

“Sir?” She looked among her guests, her expression just shy of total bewilderment.

“I believe it might be best if Mrs. Scott explains the particulars to you, one lady to another, while Millrose, Hopkins, and I adjourn to another room.”

“An excellent notion,” agreed his wife, stepping to Mrs. Drummond’s side and linking their arms.

Once again, he let Hopkins lead the party, this time to a plainly furnished workroom with whitewashed walls. Once he had opened the door to the general and the colonel, Lieutenant Hopkins bowed and reached to shut it after them, with the obvious intention of leaving his superior officers to their affairs.

“One moment, please. Do sit down. Both of you.” Scott did not wait to see whether either man followed his affable order, as he turned to study a map on one wall, strategically marked with pins.

Colonel Millrose spoke first. “I take it you aren’t sending Mrs. Drummond on holiday.”

“I certainly do hope she finds the seaside pleasant,” Scott said, moving to the next map. “But there is a particular task I would like her to undertake while she is there.”

“And that is?”

“You needn’t sound so concerned, Millrose.”

“You placed her under my protection when Drummond was killed. Or had you forgotten?”

Scott turned to discover both men still on their feet, the young lieutenant standing by the door, glancing between him and Millrose, very little less bewildered than Mrs. Drummond had been. “I have not forgotten,” Scott replied, with a deceptively mild smile. “But Mrs. Drummond cannot wish to stay here forever.”

“She’s safe here.”

For just a moment, he considered whether it was possible that Colonel Millrose had developed an attachment to Frances Drummond. But he suspected it was more in the nature of a paternal affection for the much younger woman; besides, though he doubted Millrose realized it, Scott knew all there was to know about the, er, flirtation the man had been carrying on for years with the Jamaican-born missionary who considered this sin-riddled street her battleground.

“It is not my intention to put her in danger, Billy,” he reassured the colonel. “But the situation requires a woman’s touch.” Briefly he explained his concerns about Lord Chesleigh and the man’s impending return. “He will call on his wife in Brighton, I am sure of it. Having Mrs. Drummond installed as her friend and companion will not only provide the poor marchioness—the duchess, she will be by then—with proper feminine support through the ordeal, but also give us the opportunity to observe Chesleigh at close range, yet undetected. He will not suspect a lady spy.”

“Spy,” Millrose echoed, the taste of the word evidently unpleasant in his mouth.

“I cannot very well offer her a commission as an intelligence officer, can I?”

“And is there any cause to believe that Chesleigh may pose a danger to his wife—or her companion?”

“Oh, I think not. But if you are worried, Mrs. Drummond need not travel alone. We can send a field agent to accompany her. Why,”—he smiled toward the lieutenant—“how about this young man? You look as if you could do with some sea air, Hopkins.”

Hopkins choked and was still stumbling for a reply when the door opened again to admit Helen and Mrs. Drummond.

“I’m honored by the faith you’ve put in me, sir,” Mrs. Drummond said, dipping into another curtsy. “I can be ready to leave for Brighton the day after tomorrow.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Scott said, stepping forward to take her hand, and favoring his wife with a wink. “Mrs. Scott can be very persuasive. Now, Colonel Millrose and I have been discussing the matter, and we’ve decided that it would be best if Lieutenant Hopkins goes with you. For your protection. You may say he is your cousin, your manservant—anything you like.”

Color suffused Mrs. Drummond’s face—the first he’d seen there since he’d arrived. She glanced surreptitiously toward Lieutenant Hopkins. “That won’t be necessary, sir.”

Hopkins had recovered from his coughing fit to stand ramrod straight, but his cheeks were still flushed and turned pinker yet as Scott pretended to give the matter more thought. Whether the pair were well suited to one another remained to be seen. And Scott had learned some details about Captain Drummond that might mean Mrs. Drummond would be reluctant ever to remarry. But both she and Hopkins would benefit from some time away from this musty cellar. “Perhaps,” he suggested to Mrs. Drummond, “you would rather not go at all.…”

Her spine stiffened too. “Of course not, sir. I will defer to your judgment in the matter.”