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“You do not wish me to call for the constable?”
“No.” He gave her a small push down the narrow lane. “I will be fine. I will see you tomorrow.”
Talia obediently headed up the pathway, waiting until she turned the sweeping corner that hid her from Jack’s view before she darted into the nearby copse of trees and started to creep back toward the church.
There was something distinctly suspicious about the strangers. And while she admired Jack for his willingness to offer sanctuary to all who came to his church, she could not bear the thought that his kindness would leave him vulnerable to harm.
Or death.
Holding up her skirts to avoid becoming tangled in the thick undergrowth, Talia weaved her way through the trees, ignoring the odd sense of premonition that clutched at her heart. Who would not be unnerved at creeping through the gathering gloom?
Still, for the first time since she’d left London, she was conscious of the scurry of unseen animals among the bushes and the distant cry of an owl that filled the silence. And even more disturbing was the awareness of just how alone she was.
If something happened, who would hear her screams?
She gave a shake of her head. She would not allow Jack to be injured because she was frightened of shadows.
At last reaching the edge of the trees, Talia squared her shoulders and darted across the open yard to the back of the church. She pressed her back against the bricks, her heart lodged in her throat.
From inside the building she could hear the sound of voices, and before she lost her courage, she forced herself to inch toward the open window, sending up a silent prayer that no one would happen by.
How the devil would she explain the Countess of Ashcombe creeping through the dark and eavesdropping upon the local vicar?
She stopped at the edge of the window and tilted her head to peer into the room, easily recognizing the sacristy. How…odd. Why would the vicar take two strange men into a storage room for the church’s most sacred possessions?
The most reasonable explanation would be that the men had forced Jack to the room in the hopes of discovering something of value. The church might be small, but there were several items made of silver as well as a few rare artifacts that a collector would pay a goodly sum to acquire. Which meant she should be dashing toward the nearest cottage to seek assistance.
But as her gaze shifted toward the three men who filled the room, she hesitated.
Jack did not look as if he were being held against his will. In fact, he appeared to be in charge of his companions as one of the men reached beneath his coat to toss a leather satchel at the vicar.
Jack eagerly tugged open the satchel and pulled out a stack of papers.
“These are the most recent maps?” he demanded, unfolding one of the papers and studying it with deep concentration.
The larger of the two men gave a grunt of agreement. “They were copied directly by a clerk at the Home Office.”
Talia stilled. Dear lord. She might know very little of politics, but she was well aware that the Home Office was headquarters to the various leaders who plotted war against Napoleon.
Jack was nodding, his attention still on the map. “And this clerk is certain no one suspects that he duplicated them?”
“Aye.” The stranger made a sound of annoyance. “Cost me a bloody fortune.”
An icy sense of disbelief spread through Talia as she watched Jack shrug, vaguely recognizing this was not the kindly vicar she thought she knew.
The glimpse of ruthless authority she had so readily dismissed earlier was in full evidence as he carefully spread the papers across the narrow table in the center of the room. And his French accent was far more pronounced.
It was as if he had been playing in a masquerade, and now the true man beneath the disguise was exposed.
“Do not fear, you will be well rewarded once I can be certain these are genuine,” Jack muttered.
The smaller stranger leaned over the table with a frown on his ruddy face.
“That ain’t France, is it?”
“Very astute, Monsieur Henderson,” Jack drawled, his tone mocking. “It happens to be Portugal.”
“And why would the Frenchies be wanting a map of Portugal?”
A smile of satisfaction curved Jack’s lips. “Because this tells us precisely where and when Sir Arthur Wellesley intends to land his army. And the battle strategy that he hopes to employ.” He stroked a slender finger over the map. “Most informative.”
Traitor…
The word whispered through her mind as Talia pressed a hand to her mouth. It was all so unbelievable. More like a plot from one of the thrilling novels she kept hidden in the privacy of her bedchamber than reality.
Who could ever suspect that the charming vicar in a remote village in Devonshire was attempting to destroy the British Empire?
The larger of the men folded his arms over his chest as he glared at the various maps spread across the table.
“Looks to me like a bumbling mess, but if you are satisfied, then so be it.”
“I am.” Jack offered a dip of his head. “And the emperor thanks you for your service.”
The man snorted. “I ain’t wantin’ the thanks of bloody Napoleon. I want me money, nothing else.”
“Of course, I…”
Jack came to an abrupt halt, then without warning his head turned toward the window, almost as if he sensed Talia’s presence. It was too late for Talia to duck away, and their shocked gazes locked before something that might have been regret flashed through his dark eyes.
“Mon Dieu,” he breathed, shoving away from the table and heading toward the side door.
Talia gave a small shriek as she gathered her skirts and darted toward the nearby path. There was no thought to where she was headed, only a terrified need to escape.
Of course, it was a futile effort.
Even if she were not hampered by her layers of skirts and petticoats, she was no match for an athletic gentleman in his prime.
She was still in the churchyard when she felt strong arms circling her waist and hauling her squirming body against a hard chest. Then Jack leaned down his head to whisper directly in her ear.
“I truly wish you had heeded my advice, ma petite.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE GENTLEMEN’S CLUB on St. James’s Street was filled with solid English furnishings and well-worn carpets that extended from the dining room to the discreet gaming rooms. On the white plaster walls were a series of oil paintings dedicated to the aristocracy’s love for hunting, and overhead a heavy chandelier glistened in the early sunlight. The entire building smelled of mahogany, leather and tobacco smoke.
A familiar combination that usually soothed Gabriel.
This morning, however, he was on edge as he sat at a table near the front window of the morning room reading the Times. He was annoyingly aware of the servants in black knee-breeches as they scurried to and fro and the numerous gentlemen who were enjoying hushed conversations behind him.
He should have remained at the townhouse, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
He had a perfectly lovely breakfast room that offered a view of his rose garden, rather than the narrow London street currently spread beneath him, and a cook eager to prepare whatever he desired. And of course, there was the decided benefit of being alone. The gawking gossips were currently studying him with an avid curiosity that made his teeth clench.
Unfortunately, he had devoted the past month to avoiding society. Unless he wished others to suspect he was cowardly hiding from his supposed friends and acquaintances, he had no choice but to force himself to return to his previous routine.
Which included an hour at his club, followed by a trip to his tailor and then on to Tattersall’s to have a look at the horses to be auctioned.
Even if it meant he was to attract precisely the sort of sordid attention he detested.
He tossed aside the unread paper and smoothed his hand down the simply tied cravat that he had matched with a pale blue jacket and ivory waistcoat, his brooding gaze trained on the tip of his glossy boot.
Was it any wonder he was in a foul mood?
And he knew entirely where to lay the blame.
His aggravating wife.
His jaw tightened. Dammit. He had sent her to Devonshire to ensure she understood that she would never again be allowed to manipulate him. He would be the master of their relationship, and she would learn to be an obedient wife or she would suffer the consequences.
But after waiting day after day for a message from his suitably chastised bride, pleading to be allowed to return to London, he found his temper fraying at her stubborn lack of communication.
What the devil was the matter with the chit?
Surely she must be anxious to return to her precious society so she could flaunt her newfound position as the Countess of Ashcombe? For an ambitious female, being trapped in the country should be a fate worse than death.
And yet, his housekeeper had written several letters revealing that Talia had swiftly become a favorite among both his staff and tenants. Indeed, Mrs. Donaldson had gushed with monotonous enthusiasm for the newest Countess of Ashcombe, assuring him that Talia had settled nicely at the estate and revealed no desire whatsoever to return to London.
Or to her husband.
So the question was—what game was his bride playing now?
The more cynical side of him insisted that Talia was merely biding her time in an effort to lure him into complacency, and yet, he could not entirely believe such a simple explanation. His tenants might not be well educated, but they were keen judges of character. They would have sensed if Talia were merely pretending to care.
And yet, she could not possibly be utterly innocent. Could she?
Tapping a slender finger on the side table situated next to his chair, Gabriel grimly admitted that the only means to discover the truth was to travel to Carrick Park. Beneath his watchful gaze Talia would either reveal that she was truly her father’s daughter or she would prove she was as much a victim as Gabriel was to Silas Dobson’s ambitions.
Yes. His vague notion hardened to determination. He obviously had no choice but to leave London for Devonshire. In fact, there was no reason he could not begin the journey today.
Without warning a savage flare of anticipation clutched his stomach. An anticipation that had nothing to do with discovering the truth and everything to do with returning his beautiful bride to his bed.
Christ, he ached for her.
It was ludicrous. He could have his pick of beautiful, willing women. All of them eager to offer him endless hours of pleasure.
But night after night he had slept alone, plagued by the memories of his dark-haired gypsy.
A prickle on the back of his neck shook Gabriel out of his delectable thoughts of Talia spread across his bed, his hands tangled in her dark hair as he thrust deep into her satin heat.
He turned his head, preparing to flay the unwelcome intruder with a few well-chosen words, only to have them die on his lip.
Damn.
His gaze skimmed over the tall gentleman with a large, muscular body who was currently attired in a cinnamon jacket and tan waistcoat, black breeches and glossy boots. The nobleman’s light brown hair was cut shorter than the current fashion and his features were more forceful than handsome. And while his golden-brown eyes often simmered with amusement, they could also send any preening fop who hoped to garner his acquaintance fleeing in fear.
Hugo, Lord Rothwell.
And one of Gabriel’s few friends.
“Is there a particular reason you are hovering behind me like a vulture, Hugo?” he demanded wryly, knowing it would be a futile effort to try to convince his friend that he preferred to be alone.
Hugo narrowed his golden gaze, absently toying with the signet ring on his little finger.
“I am attempting to decide if I have the nerve so early in the day to beard the lion in his den. Or shall I wait until I am in my cups and therefore impervious to your foul mood?”
Gabriel pointedly turned his attention toward the dunces clustered about the room casting covert glances in his direction.
“My mood would not be foul if I were not surrounded by idiots,” he growled.
“Hmm.” With the ease of a natural sportsman, Hugo lowered his large body into the leather chair opposite Gabriel. “That would not be my first guess as to why you have been snapping and snarling at every unwitting soul who has crossed your path over the past month.”
“At least I have not yet taken to lodging bullets in those who annoy me,” he smoothly pointed out, “although that might change at any moment.”
Hugo smiled at the threat. “You do realize that you cannot keep society at bay forever? Eventually you will have to face their curiosity.”
“Society’s curiosity, or yours?”
“Both,” Hugo admitted. “But considering we have been friends since I bloodied your nose our first day at Eton I surely deserve to be the first to be taken into your confidence?”
Gabriel snorted. “First of all, I was the one to bloody your nose after you attempted to pinch my favorite cricket bat. And I have never known you to take an interest in gossip.”
“That is because the rumors have never before hinted that the proud and notoriously aloof Earl of Ashcombe has secretly wed the daughter of Silas Dobson.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened at the mention of his offensive father-in-law.
“Obviously not so secretively.”
“Is it true?”
There was a moment of silence before Gabriel gave a grudging nod of his head. “Yes.”
“Bloody hell,” Hugo muttered.
“My sentiments exactly.”
Hugo scowled at Gabriel’s dry retort. “I suppose I need not ask how this particular disaster occurred,” he rasped. “Only Harry could force you into such an untenable situation.”
Gabriel shrugged. Hugo had never bothered to hide his disgust for Harry and his reckless extravagances.
