Page 27 of The Lady and the Secret Lord (The Duke’s Men #3)

R obin returned from Paris on a mild October day with a hint of November chill in the air. He headed straight for Marchmont House. Mr. Trafford, the butler, told him that Lady Phoebe had gone with the children, the dog, and Nanny Fellows to the park. Trafford added that Robin would likely find them at the milk stand.

He set off at once on the path he had taken that first afternoon of the search, his steps light and swift. Everything had changed, including Robin, himself. A small tight place wedged inside him, from which a muffled voice had long cried that Robin did not deserve good fortune, had cracked open, and the creature with the voice had fled. Bolton had given that creature a voice and a face. In confronting Bolton, Robin had defeated an enemy he had not realized he had. His Jones name had been a shield from blows, the one thing that kept him on his feet in a hard fight. He found he could give it up for a stronger defense against doubt and fear. Love.

In Paris, where Bolton was the count, he had taken refuge in a suite of rooms at the top of a grand edifice in the Fauberg St. Germain, tended by a haggard and sour-looking Mary Marchmont. The count’s servants seemed a careless lot and admitted Robin without any other persuasion than a small coin. The French policeman assigned to follow Robin lingered in the street below throughout Robin’s visit.

The grand high-ceilinged rooms of the count’s place were neither particularly clean, nor particularly elegant. The colors in the dusty old hangings and threadbare carpets had faded, but the count’s musky cologne was as powerful as ever. Bolton was bedridden, apparently still in recovery from the bullet wound he received. Robin did not expect a welcome from either Miss Marchmont or the count, but he was offered a chair, and treated to Bolton’s account of his own cleverness in outwitting the London police. Robin made mental notes of the details for Mayne’s benefit. If there were flaws in department protocol or operations, Mayne would want to know.

Giving the gleeful somewhat feverish tale of his escape soon tired Bolton while Miss Marchmont fussed to see to his comfort, adjusting pillows that supported him and bringing him cordials. He waved her away, his stare fixed on Robin.

Robin then laid out the case against Bolton that the Yard’s still secret detective force had assembled. In the end, careful police work had compiled an extraordinary array of witnesses and documents detailing the work of the league and its connection to Bolton. Aggie’s identification of one of the red-tie wearers had been the first step. Sedley, the proprietor of the Chequers; the surgeon from Berwick Street, and even Leary himself, identified other persons in the league. In all seven men had been arrested and invited to talk in order to better their own situations. A customer of Shattuck’s remembered the rag man’s furtive habit of putting away papers, which led to the discovery of a trove of documents, and finally, the unexpected coming forth of Mrs. Lucy Walker, aggrieved that the job promised her by the Benevolent Assistance League had not materialized, added more information.

Bolton laughed off the case, but Miss Marchmont slumped at his side, looking bleakly on, one hand absently plucking at the count’s maroon silk coverlet. Robin sensed his opponent tiring. The edge in their battle had shifted to him. Bolton leaned forward away from the pillows, and gestured, as if with a wave of his hand he could dismiss Robin and the whole of Scotland Yard. It was the most common mistake of an amateur in the ring, the dropping of one’s guard. “No one’s by-blow brings me down,” Bolton said.

“Then know.” Robin stood to take his leave. “That I bring you down. I, St. Albans .”

The count started. His face contorted with rage, and he fell back against his pillows, like a man reeling in the ring. Robin had only to deliver a final blow, the sort of punch that flashed up from a man’s knees and the twist of his chest toward his opponent and finally flowed through his shoulder to his fist.

“The courts and the Lords’ Privileges Committee will soon make me Somerton as well. The title and land that you stole from my father reverts to me. I have spoken with Prefect Guizot. As a banker, he understands precisely how to cut off access to funds in English banks that are no longer yours. Good day, Count, Miss Marchmont.”

A string of nasty, but ultimately harmless invective, most of it in French, followed Robin out of the count’s chamber, echoing down the stairs. None of the servants batted an eye. Robin had learned enough French in a week to recognize the stink in the words, but he knew that none of it would stick to him. He left Paris within the hour.

Robin turned a corner and the park came into sight down the wide steps under the Duke of York atop his granite column. Through the bare branches of the trees, he could see several persons gathered at Mrs. Bell’s milk stand at the edge of the gravel path. He came down the steps and crossed into the park.

Andrew was the first to see him and came hurtling his way. “Jones,” he cried. “I am buying Aggie milk.” He skipped back to his friend before Robin could answer.

The girl wore a gray gown that looked decidedly like a cast off from one of the Marchmont serving girls, but already, she appeared rounder and healthier. The dog lay at her feet. She returned her mug to the milk seller, and spoke to the dog, who rose at once, obedient to her command. A little shift in the arrangement of the group, and Phoebe was before him, vivid in a short, russet-colored cape over, bell-shaped wool plaid skirts, tan gloves on her hands, and a chocolate bonnet on her head. A perfect fashionable lady. There was only one topic of conversation he wanted to broach with her, but he didn’t know how to begin. His bruised face still bore the effects of hitting the paving stones.

Aggie made the dog sit, and Andrew asked Phoebe, “May we take the path to Duck Island with the dog?”

“Yes, but do not leave Nanny Fellows’ sight,” Phoebe warned.

The three companions started off, with the dog coming to heel at Aggie’s side. Phoebe turned to Robin.

“You are brave,” he said, “letting them go off again.”

“But I have nothing to fear any longer, have I? The case is really at an end,” she said. “Is that why you’ve come, to report on the case?”

“No.” She was seeing him as the detective. How was he to begin? Did a gentleman simply declare his feelings? He had not thought to provide himself with a ring. He could, however, easily go down on one knee. The grass was damp. He would likely rise with a distinct stain on his trousers.

“I have never thanked you properly,” she said. “I suppose this is my opportunity. You can see how completely you have restored my life. When Andrew disappeared, and I went on without him, my life did not seem real. Nothing made sense. There was no point in anything but the search, and yet it wasn’t like a proper search at all. One knows how to search for a mislaid pair of gloves or scissors. But Andrew was simply gone, lifted out of my life. I could go back to the place I’d last seen him, and there was nothing. Or at least Tanner found nothing. Until you began and you let me search with you.”

She was offering him gratitude. It was possible that she had only that to offer, that he had mistaken that look in the moment on the stones when he thought their partnership complete. “I did not come today to have you thank me. Detectives serve without fear or favor.”

“Oh, what then?”

“I went to Paris.” He offered his arm, and they began to stroll after the children. “I saw Bolton and your cousin.”

“They received you?”

“I will give you the condensed version of that meeting. Bolton boasted of his cunning superiority to the police. And I gave him reason to believe he could never return to London.”

“Thank you for that. Surely that is above the call of duty. Is my cousin well?”

Duty had nothing to do with it he wanted to say. He couldn’t seem to direct the conversation. She was looking at him with concern for her family, not the look he hoped for.

“Her life,” he said, “cannot be what she dreamed of. I doubt that waiting on Bolton is any more exciting than waiting on your great-aunt. Shut up together with little society cannot be a pleasant situation for either.”

“Did you see Henry or my great-aunt?”

“Neither, are they there?”

“Henry wrote that he has some hope of persuading Mary to come home with them. Great-Aunt claims that an establishment can be made for Mary away from London and that, she may in time, recover her character. I hope Mary will be persuaded. I know the count appeared charming, but his vanity was so cold-blooded, the sort to destroy all affection.”

They strolled on. The afternoon shadows began. The children ran in circles around the old nanny, pursuing the dog. Robin searched for an opening to his topic, but she spoke first.

“The duchess told me that you are sure of a place in the new detective force,” she said.

“I do want to remain a detective.”

“Is there any reason you would give it up?” She looked surprised.

He stopped and turned her to face him. The children, their nurse, and the dog were beyond hearing. The few people in the park would not notice them. “There is something I must ask you.” He paused. “Are you going to hire a companion and have a season and find a husband?”

“That’s what you came to ask me?” There was a bit of exasperation in her tone. “Is it customary for detectives to concern themselves with how their clients intend to live their lives after a case is closed?”

“I just need to know. Will you always live at Marchmont House with Andrew?” Nothing was going the way he thought it would.

“You mean until he comes of age, and as his spinster older sister, I bow out of his way?”

“No, that’s not it. What I mean is… can a lady marry a detective?”

“Oh,” she said, giving him an arrested glance. “I suppose it depends upon the lady and the detective. What sort of lady are you thinking of?”

“An independent lady, a lady who knows her mind, a fearless lady.”

“And do you know such a lady?”

“I do. Will you marry me, Phoebe?”

“You’re forgetting something,” she said. Her eyes were full of laughter, and something more, he thought. Her face turned up to his, her mouth tempting him to further forgetfulness.

“I think if I kiss you, I’ll remember.”

She smiled at that, and he cupped her face in his palm and drew her mouth to his and let himself kiss her as he wanted to. It was a lingering kiss, a kiss in which confidence and certainty built with a slow and steady strength, the strength to endure all things.

He drew back and grinned at her. “I remember. I love you, Phoebe.”

“I love you, Jones,” she said, “I will—”

“Wait.” He put a finger to her lips.

“There’s more?” she asked.

“I may not be Jones any longer.” It was his turn to laugh at the dismayed expression in her eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

He took a deep breath. “Wenlocke found my birth family. Apparently, I am a fellow named St. Albans, and a lord called Baron Somerton.”

She lifted a hand to his injured face. Her expression sobered a little, and there was a bit of fierceness in it. “You will always be Jones to me. And I will love you, detective, for as long as I live, no matter what the world says of you or us.”

The dog’s barking interrupted them. The children ran toward them. And the noise and confusion of their interruption seemed right to him. He was gaining, not just a wife, but a family.

“Phoebe,” Andrew cried, coming to a breathless halt. “Aggie said yes .”

“Said yes to what?” Phoebe asked.

“To going on a treasure hunt.” Andrew held out his hand with the old Roman coin. “Papa promised he would take me when I was older. Now, I’m older, and we could all go together. You and me and Aggie and Jones.”

“Go where? Do you know where there’s a treasure?”

“Papa marked it on my coin. You go fifty paces north and thirty paces west where the old Roman house is in the apple orchard. Can we do a dig?”

“Why not?” said Phoebe to her brother, but her bright gaze was for Robin. She took his arm again.

The afternoon shadows had reached them. The air was distinctly cold, but Robin knew he would never be truly cold again.

“Home.” he said, and his love nodded.

The End