After Ludlow exited the study and closed the door, Slade spotted the desk Bolingbroke’s valets and his maid, Omelia Swindlehurst, had mentioned at the local pub months ago when he’d bought them enough ale to drown a herd of wild horses.
Slade stepped between the desk and its upholstered chair. His hands went for the handle of the desk drawer. He pulled and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t budge. He withdrew the ring of master keys, courtesy of Harbert and Company, from his saddle bagand started to try key after key. He’d been in contact with them during the past three months regarding bribes Bolingbroke had taken, encouraging them to leak the information to the gossip columns. On the fifth attempt, the lock clicked open.
His lips curled upwards as he slid open the drawer and sifted through its contents. Slade was pleased when in no time he found a document titled “Glenfinnan Mission.” He slipped it into his saddle bag and buckled its flap. Slade closed the drawer, pocketed the keys, then sat down on a nearby leather Chesterfield chair. And patiently waited.
Fifteen minutes later the door swung open. The man who walked in didn’t look like the pristinely attired aristocrat and army general he’d negotiated an arms contract with months prior. Slade noted with satisfaction this man looked haggard and tired.
General Bolingbroke eyed Slade with a hint of surprise. “MacLean, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Slade stood up and they exchanged a cursory handshake. “Are the American longrifle muskets still performing to your liking, Sir Henry?” Slade asked.
Bolingbroke appeared distracted, as he answered. “Yes, yes, I still receive compliments on their excellent craftmanship.”
Slade took a seat once more. The general walked over to his desk and perched on its edge, exhaling in a long-drawn-out sigh as if exhausted. “No doubt you’ve seen last week’sDaily Courant?”
The level of rancor and contempt strumming through Slade’s veins in Bolingbroke’s presence was surprisingly lower in intensity than he’d expected. His priorities had shifted since he’d taken Phoebe to wife. Perhaps, she had loved the hate right out of him. In truth, all he yearned for at that very moment was to go back home to his wife and start their new life together.
Slade suppressed a triumphant smile. “I have.”
Agitation swarmed the general’s harsh features. “Lies! All lies. The soldiers I sentenced to transport were all criminals. TheDaily Courantfalsely represented those men as innocents. Someone is trying to destroy me, MacLean. And when I find the bastard, I will rip out the man’s gullet.”
Every bone in Slade’s body should have clamored to reveal who the person was. He should have reveled in the satisfaction and basked in the glory of bringing this mountain of corruption, in front of him, to his knees. He should have hissed venomously in Bolingbroke’s ear “This is for Sylvia, your daughter, born out of wedlock when you slept with the Scottish governess in the Highlands twenty-four years ago. The one who killed herself because of what you and I did.”
Slade also suspected that Bolingbroke had either scared or attempted to hurt Phoebe the night she’d fled from Camberley. But he had no way of knowing for certain, and confronting Bolingbroke about it would reveal too much. He would much rather Bolingbroke stew in his ignorance.
Slade reclined in his chair and eyed the general, a casual smile lifting the side of his lips. “It’s my sincere hope you find the one responsible,” he said as he brushed a fleck of lint off hissleeve. “In the meantime, are you in the market for additional muskets?”
The general clicked his tongue. Muskets appeared to be the farthest thing from his mind.
The rest of the meeting with Bolingbroke was innocuous.
Slade returned to his room at the local inn, a copy of the latestDaily Courantfolded and tucked away in his pocket. Its front-page headline detailed Hawley’s transportation to the penal colonies after a three-month imprisonment and trial for stealing army weapons. Slade set to work making a copy of the documents he’d taken from Bolingbroke’s study. He took the originals to Magistrate Higgins two days later. The introduction to Higgins had been made by Lucia’s father, prompted by a note from Lucia, who’d thought Slade was taking revenge against Phoebe’s former employer. Which was only half the truth. Then, several days later, Slade rode into the Royal Scots Greys’ garrison at Burntwood. He strode into General Seymour’s office and slammed the copy of the documents onto his former direct report’s desk saying, “Here is your non-existent evidence against Bolingbroke.”
CHAPTER 68
Spring had arrived. But while white snowdrop buds pushed open outside Garraidh, Phoebe’s heart was still frozen in winter’s ice.Waiting is a skill all spies must master,Falcon had said.But worry was a heavy palpable thing, weighing her down. Threatening to drown her. It was difficult to breathe without Slade. She silently begged the heavens to keep him safe and send him back to her, like she’d done a million times before. She hadn’t slept a peaceful night since he left. Wasn’t he finished with Bolingbroke? Blue Jay had sent her a copy of theDaily Courantpublicly condemning Bolingbroke for falsely transporting innocent soldiers as political favors. So why hadn’t he returned?
She replayed their last conversation in her head, like she’d done countless times before.We must continue this conversation. We must discuss our marriage.They needed to work out a solution where their lives weren’t in danger all the time. Where they could cause less worry to each other while working for the Movement. This is what she’d thought at the time. But what if Slade regretted marrying her? What if he wanted a traditional wife, one who did what her husbandwanted. One who didn’t fight like a man or create unrest in a marriage. What if he wanted a wife like Sylvia would have been?
She would selfishly do anything to keep him as her husband. If he asked her to give up the Movement, she would. Her fight had started because of her hatred of herself and of Faye Ross because of what he did to her, but it had since become a calling. It wasn’t just to report weapons design and tactical advantageous information while exposing corruption in the British Army. It was thwarting illegal raids and helping the victims wherever she could. Could she simply abandon it now that Faye Ross was dead?
Yet, the very idea of losing Slade punched a hole in her heart so cavernous, so painful, she staggered towards the window, her breathing strained. She could live without the Movement, but she couldn’t live without Slade. She slumped, her forehead resting against the cold, smooth glass. She had to tell him. If only she could tell him. Regardless of how painful it was, she would give up the Movement for Slade. Five months ago, the very idea would have bowled her over. The very idea of having a husband would have made her laugh, or cry.
Phoebe swiped at something wet on her cheeks. She’d been crying all unaware.
A knock came at her door. “Come,” she said, absently.
Bright and bouncy Lucia and quietly confident Breena walked in, one after the other. Lucia carried a food tray, and Breena carried a small jar of salve. It was the same salve Breena had used on her leg to fade the scarring.
Lucia’s eyes fell on Phoebe with concern. “Aila just informed us you missed breaking your fast, again. And you are refusing food in your chamber. You have to eat. You’re wasting away.”
Phoebe lacked the energy to properly greet her dear friends. It seemed too great a task. She turned away from Lucia and Breena and returned to blindly staring out the window. “I’mnot hungry.” Her stomach was heavy, like rocks had taken up permanent residence in her belly since Slade left.
She heard rather than saw Lucia placing the tray on the nightstand. Phoebe startled when a gentle hand touched her shoulder. She turned.
“Let me have a look at your leg?” Breena said, her voice low, her expression soft with friendship and commiseration. Phoebe swallowed against the thickening at the back of her throat. She didn’t want kindness. Kindness would make her fall apart, more than she already was.
Steeling herself from further tears, she favored her left leg more from habit of the past few months rather than pain and walked over to the bed. Phoebe sat on the edge and exposed her left leg for Breena’s inspection.
