Page 25 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

“Important papers, Hopkins,” Maxim stressed. “You must make haste.”

Something dangerously close to a grin lit the younger man’s features. “Not a problem, sir.”

Maxim snatched up two letters from the otherwise empty desktop. The first was addressed to Sellers, his solicitor. “This,” he lied, handing it to Hopkins, “is an urgent matter. You must hand it to this man and no other, and wait for a reply. You are likely to be asked to carry something to me in return.” Sellers no doubt had a mountain of his grandfather’s papers for Maxim to sort through, the dullest stuff imaginable. “This,” he said, laying the second letter on the man’s open palm, the encrypted note addressed to Scott at his Audley Street home, “you may leave with whoever opens the door. No reply.”

Hopkins looked at the direction on both letters, nodded, and tucked them into his breast pocket. “Understood, sir.” He bowed, and when he lifted his head, Maxim could read nothing in the man’s expression. He’d been trained well.

“On your way,” Maxim ordered, and with a nod, Hopkins was gone. Maxim listened until the front door closed, then returned to the desk to retrieve his cipher wheel. The smooth slide of the drawer was impeded this time by the corner of a letter, topmost in a thick packet of letters bound with a length of blue embroidery silk tied in a bow. He picked up the disc and tucked it in his pocket, all the while studying the writing on the letter uppermost: a man’s hand, almost certainly. Caro’s not-so-mythical lover?

With a grumble, he picked up the bundle and took it across the long room with him to the chair in which he’d sat the day before. He never felt guilt at prying into others’ secrets. After all, he was a spy. And yet two or three silent moments ticked by before he could persuade himself to run his thumb over a corner of the stack of letters, fanning them like a deck of cards. Every one addressed to Caro. Not all written by the same gentleman’s hand.

He did not know what to feel. Jealousy? Regret? Relief?

Grasping one end of the blue silk thread between thumb and forefinger, he tugged the knot loose and picked up and opened the topmost letter, the paper of which was wrinkled, as if the sheet had been crumpled, then smoothed. An indication of frustration at its contents? Or distress? Darting his eyes down the page, he saw that it was signed by her father, and the sensation in his chest that might have been relief was burned away in a furnace blast of fury. The bastard wanted money, he realized as he read more carefully, and no insignificant sum at that. It wasn’t a begging, pleading, importuning letter, either. It was a demand. Or rather, a threat.

He turned to the next letter, and the next. Every one of them from some member of Caro’s worthless family. Every one a request. Mostly for funds, large amounts and small, but occasionally for some other form of assistance, to wield a marchioness’s influence, to wager her reputation on their behalf.

How many times over the past six years had he reassured himself that he’d left her better off than he’d found her, with a generous allowance and a title and a position in society no one would dare try to flout or exploit?

When in fact he’d wounded her and abandoned her to a circling pack of bloodthirsty scavengers.

With the deliberate motions he’d mastered more than half a lifetime ago, he refolded the letters, restacked them as they had been originally, retied the bundle, and returned it to its place in the drawer. It no longer required conscious thought to restore things in such a way that no one would ever suspect they had been disturbed.

By the time he left the drawing room, only his thoughts were still ruffled, disorderly, out of sorts.

In the rear bedchamber, he toed off his ruined boots. The thump, thump against the floor brought Leclerc from the dressing room.

“Oh, sir. There you are!” He spoke in rapid French and his eyes were wide with surprise, even before he saw the condition of Maxim’s boots. “I have had your things packed these two hours at least. I understood you wanted to—my God, what has happened here?”

“The duchess was taken ill. We do not travel today. Bring me hot water and fresh clothes.”

“But of course, sir. I won’t be a moment.”

True to his word, Leclerc hurried about his duties, murmuring expressions of pity and surprise all the while, apologizing that he had heard nothing of the mistress’s unfortunate situation, as her ignorant servants spoke only English.

“What of your important business in London, sir? If you wish it, I will gladly go on your behalf and—”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve already sent a letter with Mrs. Drummond’s manservant. The lad knows the city well.”

“Ah. How fortunate, sir.” Relief gusted from him in the form of a self-deprecating laugh. “Who knows where I might have ended up?”

In a quarter of an hour, Maxim was washed and dressed and on his way back to Caro’s chamber when he passed a little table, equidistant between the two doors. He had not noticed it there before, but now the silver coffeepot beckoned to him. Brushing a fingertip over the metal, he found it cool to the touch. A pity. Perhaps Mrs. Horn could be prevailed upon to send up a fresh pot, though it was now past midmorning.

But when he opened Caro’s door, any thought of refreshment fled from his mind. The housekeeper was not within. Mrs. Drummond sat on the edge of the bed, no longer sponging his wife’s brow, but simply holding her hand. The linens, Caro’s nightgown, a vase of flowers—all were fresh and crisp, but the stench of sickness still hung on the air. Even the aromatic concoction of herbs and spices bubbling away in a little posset pot could not drive it away.

“I’ve sent your man on his way,” he said with the closest to a nod of thanks that he could muster. “Is she improved?”

Mrs. Drummond started and turned to face him but did not rise. “We managed to rouse her enough to safely administer the purgative. Of course, it has made her weaker.” Beneath a down-filled coverlet, Caro shivered. “She’s insensible again.”

“Leave us.”

He gave the order without heat, but nevertheless Mrs. Drummond stiffened in defiance. Her eyes were the cool, pale blue of ice chips, but the fear he had glimpsed in them earlier this morning, and yesterday afternoon, had melted into loathing. “Haven’t you done enough already, Your Grace?”

He could almost admire her sangfroid, though he knew it was part of a performance. Acting was a necessary skill in this line of work, and Scott would not have sent an untutored innocent into the beast’s lair.

When he took two measured steps toward the bed, however, she slid uncertainly from her perch on the edge of the mattress. Perhaps the glimmerings of fear in her expression had been real. Another step, and she rounded the foot of the bed and moved toward the door.

“Tell Mrs. Horn I will sit with the duchess for a time and that we are not to be disturbed,” he said, keeping his voice terrifyingly soft. “My wife needs her rest.”