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Authors: Jane Feather
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Lester that surely the simplest thing would be to ask Emma if she’d kept her brother’s last communication—the one sent on by Hugh Melton. But his suggestion had been vetoed absolutely. Lady Emma for her own safety must not know that she had in her possession something so dangerous, so vital to the course of the war with Bonaparte. If she knew its importance, she might pay it dangerous attention, and if she memorized it, for instance, that knowledge would make her a target for others seeking it.
And their methods of extracting information were both thorough and unpleasant, Mr. Lester had explained with steepled fingers and an almost apologetic manner. He did not address the issue that whether she’d remembered the document or not, she could still be subject to these unpleasant methods of interrogation. The enemy, if she fell into their hands, were unlikely to take her word for it if she protested ignorance. But it was clear to Alasdair that Emma’s welfare was not of real interest to Charles Lester and his masters. The fewer people who knew of the importanceof the document, the better. That was all they really cared about.
But did she have it? Alasdair asked himself as he carried the candle into the dressing room next door to continue his search there. She might have thrown it away. But he thought that an outside chance. Emma would not have thrown away anything that came from Ned, particularly after his death. He knew she kept all his letters. She was a hoarder, a highly secretive hoarder. She had always kept everything … every letter he and Ned had written her from school and Oxford … anything that had any personal relevance for her; hence her warren of secret hiding places.
His search of the dressing room drew another blank. Even the bookshelves were empty. Between the pages of books had been another of her favorite hiding places. But all her own volumes had been packed up and delivered to Mount Street. Alasdair supposed somewhat gloomily that he was going to have to go through them all. Through her books and through her writing case and all the drawers in her secretaire.
It was a hideous prospect. And in the present strained state of their relationship, well nigh impossible. He would have to find some excuse that would give him easy access to the house on Mount Street and the freedom to move around it at will. His position as trustee gave him access to Emma herself, but no right to roam her house.
But somehow it would have to be done. King and country demanded it. Or rather Ned demanded it. If Ned had died for this information, then his friend must do everything in his power to ensure that that death had not been in vain.
Chapter Four
“Oh, do look at that enchanting gown, Emma. It will suit you to perfection.” Maria leaned over and tapped the coachman’s shoulder. “Pull up, John. Lady Emma and I will get down here.”
John-coachman reined in his horses on Bond Street. He was accustomed to such frequent instructions from Mrs. Witherspoon, whose sharp eyes took in every shop window that they passed.
“Oh, Maria, must we?” Emma protested. “We have spent the entire day going from warehouse to warehouse, milliners to milliners, bootmakers to bootmakers. I don’t think I could endure to look at another ell of material.”
“This one, my dear, you will be glad to examine,” Maria said with firm confidence as she took the footman’s hand to descend from the barouche. “That particular shade of jonquil is so exactly suited to you, andyou may wear it with the saffron kid slippers. So pretty it will look.” She bustled eagerly into the shop.
“Walk the horses, John,” Emma instructed with a little sigh, descending to the street. “We may be some minutes.”
“So I would presume, Lady Emma.” The coachman glanced rather pointedly at the mountain of bandboxes already filling the rear seat of the barouche.
Emma had forgotten how indefatigable Maria was when it came to shopping. Her own
And their methods of extracting information were both thorough and unpleasant, Mr. Lester had explained with steepled fingers and an almost apologetic manner. He did not address the issue that whether she’d remembered the document or not, she could still be subject to these unpleasant methods of interrogation. The enemy, if she fell into their hands, were unlikely to take her word for it if she protested ignorance. But it was clear to Alasdair that Emma’s welfare was not of real interest to Charles Lester and his masters. The fewer people who knew of the importanceof the document, the better. That was all they really cared about.
But did she have it? Alasdair asked himself as he carried the candle into the dressing room next door to continue his search there. She might have thrown it away. But he thought that an outside chance. Emma would not have thrown away anything that came from Ned, particularly after his death. He knew she kept all his letters. She was a hoarder, a highly secretive hoarder. She had always kept everything … every letter he and Ned had written her from school and Oxford … anything that had any personal relevance for her; hence her warren of secret hiding places.
His search of the dressing room drew another blank. Even the bookshelves were empty. Between the pages of books had been another of her favorite hiding places. But all her own volumes had been packed up and delivered to Mount Street. Alasdair supposed somewhat gloomily that he was going to have to go through them all. Through her books and through her writing case and all the drawers in her secretaire.
It was a hideous prospect. And in the present strained state of their relationship, well nigh impossible. He would have to find some excuse that would give him easy access to the house on Mount Street and the freedom to move around it at will. His position as trustee gave him access to Emma herself, but no right to roam her house.
But somehow it would have to be done. King and country demanded it. Or rather Ned demanded it. If Ned had died for this information, then his friend must do everything in his power to ensure that that death had not been in vain.
Chapter Four
“Oh, do look at that enchanting gown, Emma. It will suit you to perfection.” Maria leaned over and tapped the coachman’s shoulder. “Pull up, John. Lady Emma and I will get down here.”
John-coachman reined in his horses on Bond Street. He was accustomed to such frequent instructions from Mrs. Witherspoon, whose sharp eyes took in every shop window that they passed.
“Oh, Maria, must we?” Emma protested. “We have spent the entire day going from warehouse to warehouse, milliners to milliners, bootmakers to bootmakers. I don’t think I could endure to look at another ell of material.”
“This one, my dear, you will be glad to examine,” Maria said with firm confidence as she took the footman’s hand to descend from the barouche. “That particular shade of jonquil is so exactly suited to you, andyou may wear it with the saffron kid slippers. So pretty it will look.” She bustled eagerly into the shop.
“Walk the horses, John,” Emma instructed with a little sigh, descending to the street. “We may be some minutes.”
“So I would presume, Lady Emma.” The coachman glanced rather pointedly at the mountain of bandboxes already filling the rear seat of the barouche.
Emma had forgotten how indefatigable Maria was when it came to shopping. Her own
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