Page 60

He watched the pen’s movement, suspicious of her intent.

“If you refuse to help me, Mr. Goldsworthy, do not suppose that I will not mount a rescue mission on my own, and do know that the following letter will appear in the Times if I do not return with Lynley, whole and sound, within three days.”

Emily dropped the pen and pulled the letter she’d begun from her reticule. She read the opening she had composed, and then she improvised. She knew what would come next.

“Sir:

“It has come to the attention of this writer that foreign agents of the most dangerous sort operate in the midst of London, moving among His Majesty’s ordinary subjects with impunity, promoting the aims of Britain’s enemies through espionage and murder.

“In recent months such agents have procured vital Foreign Office documents for the benefit of our enemies and have reached into the most secure of London prisons to murder one of their own to prevent his disclosures. What became of Thomas Culley in the Fleet?

“Furthermore, the public should know that the government employs English spies to combat this enemy, and that these spies are granted broad license to burgle and spy and coerce. The ordinary person may wonder how such spies could operate without gaining notice. He or she should look again at certain chemists’ shops and clubs, which act as fronts for the nests of spies among us.”

“Stop.” Goldsworthy held up one of his great hands. “You must not send that letter under any circumstances.”

“Then you’ll accompany me to find Lynley?” Emily held her breath. Goldsworthy appeared as immovable as a craggy boulder jutting out of a hillside.

“It’s all well and good for you to insist, but we’ve no idea where he’s gone.”

Emily let her lips curve upward in a triumphant smile. “I know exactly where he’s gone.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Even when the husband hunter feels most secure of the gentleman to whom she has pledged herself, she must expect quarrels to be a part of her intercourse with him, for we are flawed creatures, likely to wound one another out of our own past hurts and disappointments. Outwardly there may be no sign of the inward scars we bear, but if our love for one another is to prosper, we must confess our errors and resolve to love in a new way.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Mr. Goldsworthy, in spite of his bulk, moved nimbly and decisively. In half an hour he and Emily were seated in a curricle behind a pair of sturdy horses with Wilde in the groom’s position at the rear. Emily had had time to pen a brief note to her father. The melting snow threw up slush and mud as they rolled out of London. A cold, sharp wind blew the sky empty of cloud.

Until they stopped for a change of horses, Emily refused to confide the location of the empty parsonage and her reason for believing it to be Lynley’s destination as well as that of Walhouse. As they waited in the coffee room of a small posting inn for the new team to be put to their carriage, a stir at the inn door caught Emily’s attention. She froze at the sound of a familiar voice. At Goldsworthy’s side, she leaned back to let the big man’s bulk conceal her.

“Barksted,” she whispered.

Goldsworthy looked over at the newcomers standing in the entry with the landlord. “And Lady Ravenhurst,” he said.

Emily ventured a glance around Goldsworthy’s massive girth. Lady Ravenhurst clung to Barksted’s arm, looking haggard and disheveled, and yet still lovely, while Barksted made demands of the innkeeper. He asked for a maid for the lady, and commanded a private room. The hostess came and led Lady Ravenhurst upstairs. And Barksted disappeared with the landlord.

“Give me ten minutes,” Emily told Goldsworthy. She had not realized until she saw Lady Ravenhurst’s beauty how even she, who had come to know Lynley as much as he permitted anyone to know him, could doubt him.

Upstairs, a maid bringing a basin and a pitcher of hot water showed Emily to the door. Emily knocked and a tremulous voice admitted her.

Lady Ravenhurst sat looking helplessly at a hand mirror, her golden hair falling down one side of her face, a silver brush in her hand.

“You,” she said.

“Where’s Lynley?” Emily asked.

“Oh.” Lady Ravenhurst turned the silver brush over in her hands, not meeting Emily’s eye. “Barksted will not want me to tell.”

“You must, however,” Emily insisted, trying to keep the outrage from her voice.

The lady appeared to engage in an inner struggle. “Oh, very well,” she said. “He’s at that parsonage on the road to Longfield.”

Emily was tempted to turn on her heel and leave at once, but she asked, “He’s not gone to Dover?”

“Dover? Where traitors go?” she said bitterly. “No.”

“And you? Where is Barksted taking you?” Emily could see a purple bruise on Lady Ravenhurst’s cheek.