Marianne stalked over to him and stood in front of him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her cap pulled down to her brow. “Yes, you did, you bastard. The soldier who carried the letter to the British was shot and eventually died from his wounds. It was my brother, Frederick. He was a patriot and a better man than you’ll ever be.”
Baron Winfield swallowed visibly. “I suppose death in inevitable in war.”
Marianne’s eyes flared with rage, and in a flash, she stepped forward, put a hand on Baron Winfield’s shoulder and jerked up her knee directly between his legs.
A loudoompfescaped his throat just before the baron crumpled to the dirt floor, wheezing in pain and clutching at his crotch.
“Frederick taught me that,” Marianne announced, grinning at Beau.
The three men winced, watching Winfield writhe.
“Well done, Smith,” Lord Harbury said with a smile.
A few minutes later, the aide returned with one of the French officers in tow.
“It’s just as Baron Winfield said, my lord,” the aid announced, handing Lord Harbury a folded piece of vellum. “This was in his front coat pocket.”
Lord Harbury unfolded the paper and scanned the page. He nodded to Beau before handing the letter to him. Marianne read it too, over Beau’s shoulder.
For once, Baron Winfield was apparently telling the truth. The letter indicated precisely what he’d said it did.
“Why didn’t you write this yourself?” Beau asked Winfield, who was still lying on the ground. “Why make your maid do it for you?”
“I’m a highly respected member of Society,” Baron Winfield whimpered, still clutching himself. “Besides, Cunningham and I didn’t want our names associated with it. Who would suspectAlbina, of all people?”
“So itwasLord Cunningham who fed you the information from the special council?” Marianne asked.
“Oh, dear, I thought you knew that already,” Baron Winfield sniveled.
Harbury shook his head. “You make me sick, Winfield.”
Beau stepped between the Frenchman and the baron to help Winfield to his feet. “You’re fortunate, Baron Winfield. Your story appears to be true.”
“Of course it’s true,” Winfield moaned, still bent slightly due to the pain in his crotch. “I only wanted money. I never actually meant for anyone to gethurt.”
“Least of all yourself, correct?” Beau asked, still glaring at Winfield.
The French officer, who’d been standing there silently, took the opportunity to spit at Beau, who stepped out of the way just in time for the sputum to hit Winfield on the upper lip.
“Excellent aim,” Beau said to the Frenchman, who glowered at him.
Another one of the spies entered the tent. “Lord Harbury, we have the area secured. All of the French are tied up and are being taken to the carriages as prisoners.”
“Good work,” Lord Harbury said. He motioned to Christophe and Winfield. “Take both of these men to the carriages as well. They are also prisoners of war.”
The aides shuffled the two prisoners out of the tent and Lord Harbury turned back to face Beau and Marianne. “Can we offer you a ride back to Calais, Lord Bellingham?”
“No,” Beau replied. “We brought a mount. We’ll follow you. But please ensure Captain Ellsworth is taken with you—and there are at least two other British soldiers who were being kept here, as well.”
Lord Harbury nodded. “I’ll have my men search every tent before we go. I’ll meet you at the crossing,” he finished before sweeping back the curtain and leaving the tent.
Beau expelled a deep breath. He and Marianne were alone.
“That couldn’t have gone better if it had been planned,” he said.
“I agree,” Marianne replied.
“Let’s go back to the hotel. I’ll meet Lord Harbury in the morning to discuss the plans to return to England.” Beau reached a hand for her.
