Elizabeth Powell (6 page)

“No—no, that won’t be necessary. I just need some air. Excuse me.”’ Before he could stop her, she gathered her skirts and was gone, slipping quickly from the alcove and out into the ballroom.

After a moment of stunned disbelief Everly gave chase, but saw no sign of her. She had disappeared into the crowd. A faint trace of jasmine lingered in the air, but it faded quickly and gave him no clue to her direction. Everly stood next to the marble column, frowning, oblivious to the curious stares of the other guests.

Something had clearly frightened the young woman out of her wits. He rubbed his chin, perplexed. Was it his name? It had to be; she had not seemed to notice his ungainly limp. No, the lady had not shown him any disfavor until he’d introduced himself. Strange. Another puzzle for him to put together. Perhaps he would encounter the elusive Mrs. Seagrave again this evening, and have the chance to do just that.

A
manda stumbled into the empty drawing room and clutched the back of a chair for support. The world seemed to spin around her. Blood thrummed in her ears. Her breath came in sharp, painful gasps. Tears overflowed her eyes and streamed down her cheeks in long wet trails. She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to banish the hateful name that reverberated through her head.

Everly. Captain Sir Jonathan Everly.

One of the tribunal that had found her father guilty of treason.

Amanda choked back a sob. She could recite the entire membership of that captains’ tribunal like a litany: Everly, Davenport, Hamilton, Fitzgerald, Collins. She had seen their names on the poster publicizing Captain Alexander Tremayne’s supposed crimes; their wrongful judgment had meant her father’s death.

And she had just met one of his executioners. Oh, God! She dragged herself before the low fire in the hearth. Her entire body was so cold. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. She had imagined confronting each member of the tribunal one day, armed with the truth and full of righteous rage—not shaking and crying and more than half hysterical. Amanda bit her lip and fought back fresh tears. As much as she yearned to avenge her father, she was proving to be less than useless.

Her hands shook as she fumbled for her kerchief. She pressed the perfumed linen square to her face, fighting to restore her shattered poise. Guilt spiked her misery.
Before she realized who he was, Amanda had thought the fugitive captain one of the most attractive men she had ever met. She bit her lip. Well, he was still handsome, but beneath that comeliness lay a heart black as pitch. Never mind his broad shoulders or his vivid blue eyes. Never mind his golden hair or his stirring presence. Amanda shuddered, repulsed by her own feelings. Rational—she must be rational about this.

Urgent footsteps sounded in the hall; before Amanda could recover herself, Harry burst into the drawing room.

“Amanda! I say, are you all right? What happened? I saw you run from the ballroom.” In his haste to reach her, Harry collided with an overstuffed chair, which tumbled to the floor. Scarlet-faced, he set it upright once more. “Amanda? You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”

Amanda squeezed her eyes shut and turned away. The tender concern on Harry’s face was enough to induce another round of tears. Her conscience gave a painful twist. Perhaps she had been wrong to withhold her mission from him. He had been her friend for so many years, and right now she desperately needed to confide in someone.

“Harry,” she said in a small voice, “I need to tell you something. Please close the door.”

Harry, somber, did as she asked.

Amanda stared at the dull, cracked surface of the oil painting above the fireplace, her thoughts as jumbled as the still-life fruit portrayed on the canvas. She toyed with the crocheted edge of her handkerchief and wondered where to begin.

“I knew something was troubling you,” Harry said quietly. “More than you were willing to tell me in the park.”

She avoided his forthright gaze. “You know why I wanted to come here tonight.”

He cocked his head to one side. “To speak with the First Lord, or so you told me.”

Amanda pressed her lips together. “That’s not entirely true.”

Harry clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

“I see you may have guessed that already.” Amanda
tried to smile, but couldn’t. Better to just come out with it. “I came here to try to find evidence that Admiral Locke framed my father for treason.”

“What?” Harry rocked back on his heels. “Confound it, Amanda, you
have
gone mad. This is as queer as Dick’s hatband.”

“No! This is not a flight of fancy,” she insisted. “My father was innocent—you know that as much as I do. He was a loyal officer who would never, ever betray his country.”

“So what makes you think that Locke was responsible?” A tic began in Harry’s jaw.

“Because Locke was my father’s commanding officer; my father’s orders had to come through him. Locke would have been the one to send my father to the coast of France with those men and supplies, and orders for such a secretive mission would have originated from the Admiralty.”

“Amanda …” Harry hesitated, as if grasping for the proper words. “Amanda, what you’re suggesting is outrageous. Are you sure you are not imagining this? Locke publicly denied any knowledge of those orders. The Admiralty had no record of them. I know your father’s death came as a shock—”

“His execution, you mean,” Amanda countered. She clenched her hands into fists. “He was hanged like a common criminal.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, visibly uncomfortable. “I admit that the circumstances surrounding your father’s arrest were a little queer. But that doesn’t mean that Admiral Locke was to blame.”

Amanda set her jaw at a pugnacious angle. “My father would never have agreed to that mission without specific orders. Since the Admiralty had no record of his mission, I suspect those orders were counterfeit.”

Harry shook his head. “Counterfeit? Amanda, be reasonable. Why would Locke go to such great lengths to destroy your father’s career? What would he have to gain?”

Amanda could read the doubt in Harry’s expression,
hear it in his voice. She gritted her teeth and plunged ahead. “My father suspected that Locke was involved in something illegal, perhaps even traitorous but he had no proof.”

She glanced toward the door; her next words came out in a bare whisper. “You remember what an insomniac Papa was. In good weather, he would spend part of the evening watch on deck, and one night he noticed Locke rowing from his ship into port. After a few such occurrences, my father realized that each of Locke’s nocturnal excursions was followed within a few days by misfortune—supply routes plundered, ships ambushed. He began to document each of Locke’s few visits to shore, and the calamities that ensued. Papa became suspicious—these series of events were too convenient for circumstance—so one night he followed Locke into port.

“Locke went to a dockside inn, and there he met with a cloaked figure. Papa could never see them clearly enough to recognize the second man, nor could he hear their conversation, but it was enough to warrant further investigation. He started asking questions—of the innkeeper, and of the crew of Locke’s gig at the dock. Apparently, everyone thought Locke was indulging in a clandestine affair. If only that were the case.

“The next day, Commodore Locke summoned Papa to his cabin and ordered him to cease his impertinent questions, that Locke’s activities were of an official nature, and none of his business. Papa had no choice but to obey, but Locke’s vehement reaction made him all the more mistrustful. So he sent inquiries to the Admiralty. Three weeks later, Locke ordered my father on that terrible mission. You know what happened after that. The army’s disastrous defeat, the arrest, the trial—all of it meant to transfer suspicion and guilt away from Locke, and to get my father out of the way.”

Harry’s brows drew together in a severe line. “This is only conjecture, Amanda,” he admonished. “You have no proof.”

Amanda felt like an erring midshipman taken to task.
Stubborn, she stood firm. “I have letters my father sent to me.”

Harry shook his head. “Those won’t stand up in court. Look here, I’ll admit that the circumstances seem suspicious, but—”

Amanda rounded on her friend. “Suspicious? The man’s a traitor, Harry. Who knows how far this treasonous influence extends? Why else would he have invited members of my father’s tribunal to this party?”

“He … what?” Harry’s jaw dropped.

“When you saw me dash from the ballroom, I had just encountered Captain Sir Jonathan Everly. I didn’t know who he was until he introduced himself. I—I just had to get away from him.”

“Captain Everly? What is he doing in London?”

“That’s what I would like to know.” Amanda suppressed another shudder, and willed her thoughts away from Captain Everly’s stunning smile and back to the task at hand. “Although I suspect the two of them are in league. It fits together like a bizarre puzzle. My father suspects Locke of illicit activity. To get him out of the way, Locke implicates my father for his own treasonous actions. Then he bribes Everly—and others, perhaps—to insure that the trial is quick and decisive. Have you never wondered why my father was convicted and executed with such speed?”

“Well, yes, but as I said we need proof, some concrete evidence of wrongdoing.”

Amanda smiled triumphantly. “I intend to remedy that tonight.”

Harry’s eyes widened. He wagged a finger at her. “Oh, no. No, you don’t. You’re not actually considering—”

She lifted her chin. “I am, Harry. I’m going to search Locke’s study for incriminating evidence. He must keep some sort of documents in the house, and I intend to find them.”

The young lieutenant seized her shoulders and shook her. “Amanda, stop this madness. Do you have any idea what would happen if you were caught? You’d be arrested, deported … God knows what!”

“It’s worth the risk.” Amanda batted his hands away. “He’s taken everything from my family—our house, our lands, our honor. I have nothing left to lose!”

“What about your grandmother?” Harry loomed over her. “What would happen to her if you were thrown in prison?”

Amanda paced away from the fire and back again as indecision reared its ugly head. Her grandmother was her weak spot, and Harry knew it. She glared at him. “I know what you’re trying to do, Harry. I won’t be caught.”

“How can you be so certain?” Harry demanded, hands on his hips.

She wouldn’t let Harry talk her out of this; she must resume the offensive. “I know I won’t be caught,” she said softly. “Not if you help me.”

Her salvo had immediate effect. Harry stared at her, robbed of speech, his mouth gaping open and closed like a fish caught out of water. After a few moments he stepped back and pinched the bridge of his nose as if to ease a headache. “This is sheer lunacy. Devil take it, Amanda, I’m not going to help you commit a crime.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Amanda said. “All I need you to do is leave the house about ten minutes from now, and have the carriage waiting around the corner. I’ll join you when I’m finished.”

“I can’t believe I’m listening to this,” he exploded, his face suffused with angry color. “This is your craziest scheme yet. It could mean my career!”

“Lower your voice, before someone hears us!” she hissed. “I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me. This is the last favor I will ever ask of you.”

He grasped the hilt of his dress sword with whitened knuckles. “You always say that, but it’s never the end. Good old Harry, he’s sure to come through,” he mocked. “No more, Amanda. If you don’t find anything tonight, as God is my witness I’m going to pack you off to Dorset myself.”

“This is my last chance to redeem my father,” she
pleaded. “I have to prove his innocence. I can’t let Locke get away with this.”

“You’ve always been a willful creature.” Harry leveled his grim gaze at her. “Nothing I say will make the least bit of difference, will it?”

She drew herself up. “No.”

He grimaced. “I thought not. Very well, I’ll wait for you in the carriage.” He started for the door, then turned and glared over his shoulder. “I won’t wait forever, mind you. If you take too long, you can walk home.”

Amanda’s relief made her light-headed. “Thank you, Harry,” she breathed. “You’re a godsend.”

Harry scowled. “No—I’m a complete idiot.” He opened the door and flung himself into the hall.

Weariness washed over Amanda; arguing with Harry had left her drained. She wanted to sit down, to rest, to collect herself, but she had no time. She needed to get into Locke’s study while she had the chance. Her yearlong quest was almost over, her goal just down the hall.

But if she was discovered …

As much as she didn’t want to think about it, Harry was right; the penalties for burglary and theft were steep. A tremor of fear began at the base of her spine and radiated in gooseflesh over her body. She must not dwell on what might happen. She needed to do this to clear her father’s name. She had no choice.

Amanda went to the doorway and peered into the corridor. Music mixed with the drone of conversation drifted down from the balcony. Then the sharper, more immediate sound of a laugh caught Amanda’s attention. She looked up to see a couple descend the stairs with languorous ease; the woman’s edged voice floated ahead of them. Amanda ducked behind the door and waited until they passed. When she emerged several heartbeats later, the first-floor hallway was deserted. The coast was clear.

She crept down the passage in a whisper of silk, her ears straining to hear anything beyond the low ambient hum of the crowd upstairs. Approaching the first of the closed doors, she reached out her shaking hand and grasped the knob. It turned easily. Amanda peered
around the edge of the door. Disappointment formed a leaden lump within her as she surveyed the rows upon rows of leather-bound volumes on the shelves. The library. Botheration. She must keep looking.

Amanda ghosted to each room in succession until she came to the last closed door. No light shone from beneath the doorsill. The hinges gave a low wail as she pushed it open, setting her teeth on edge. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, her pulse beating a frantic tattoo in her breast. Oh, how she wished she hadn’t had any champagne—nerves had twisted her stomach into a large, unhappy knot. She hoped she wouldn’t cast up her accounts all over the floor. She was not cut out to be a spy. Amanda forced herself to take several deep, calming breaths before she looked around the room.