Chapter One
Ten years later
T he frigid water cut against her skin, sharp and biting as a blade. Gasping for breath, Valencia shook off the pain and forced her limbs to move. Stroke, kick, stroke, kick. The rhythm slowly melted the icy shock and as she fought through the swirling currents, the tension ebbed from her muscles.
Mind over body. It was a lesson learned long ago from an Indian faquir who had taught a special class at her school. Despite its odd name, yoga had proved a powerful force for disciplining both sinew and spirit.
Discipline. Closing her eyes to the sting of the salt, Valencia quickened her pace. As if her former training mattered anymore. But old habits died hard. Every dawn, no matter how rough the seas, she swam across Derrible Bay—a quarter mile out to the jut of rock and a quarter mile back. The physical challenge made her feel whole again?—
Don’t sink into self-pity, she chided herself, slipping through the waves like a sleek seal. The past was the past. Bitter brooding did naught but put her in a black frame of mind for the rest of the day. Better to simply revel in the surge of strength rippling through her naked arms and legs. The daily exercise kept her body as lean and lithe as in the old days.
After all, it was simply good to be alive.
Her fingers touched the storm-worn stone of the outcropping and she lingered for a moment, watching the first rays of sunlight wash over the horizon. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning. The pink glow was deepening to a dark mauve. A storm was brewing somewhere out in the Atlantic—a bad one by the look of it. A prudent ship captain would heed the signs and seek safe harbor for the next few days. The gales at this time of year could be brutal, especially here among the treacherous shoals of the Channels Islands.
Valencia turned and started back to shore. Foul weather was always good for business at her dockside tavern. She had best get into work early and see that Jemmy Welch brought up an extra keg or two of ale. If left to his own devices, the bar man would likely be napping in the back room after enjoying a wee nip of brandy for breakfast.
However, beggars could not be choosy. The town of Maseline was small and an able-bodied man could make more money fishing or farming than working the odd hours for her. Besides, other than a weakness for spirits, Jemmy was an excellent employee. He was trustworthy and always jovial, which balanced her own tendency for introspective brooding. And he didn’t mind taking orders from a female.
Most men were loath to admit that a woman might be their equal, either intellectually or physically. It had been rough going for the first few years of business, but the locals no longer questioned her entrepreneurial savvy or her ability to pitch a drunkard out on his ear if he tried to make trouble. Though she was not all that she used to be, she still could hold her own.
For the most part, however, the isle of Sark offered peace and quiet. A haven of tranquility, where the taciturn locals did not ask prying questions. If at times it was too tranquil, that was a small price to pay for distancing herself from her former life.
She had once been a Merlin, a highflying member of an elite group of women warriors. As students at Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies, she and her comrades-in-arms had engaged in a rigorous program of training, learning the art of spying, swordplay and seduction. Only the very best earned their wings as full-fledged agents.
But for those who won the right to sport a small tattoo of a merlin hawk above their left breast, no assignment was too daunting or too dangerous. Indeed, they were England’s ultimate secret weapon, called upon to counter the most diabolical threats to the Crown.
There were times when she missed the training fields, the hell-for-leather riding, the camaraderie of her fellow warriors . . .
A last few hard strokes brought back to the rocky beach. Stepping out of the surf, Valencia hurried to towel the salt water from her skin, her gaze as usual avoiding the jagged scar that cut across her thigh. It was not quite so easy to ignore the limp that hobbled her stride. Though a regimen of grueling exercises had made it less pronounced, she was still painfully aware of her own limitations. In the past . . .
“To hell with the past,” she muttered.
Tugging on her shift, Valencia reached for her woolen gown. Regrets and recriminations were crippling. The trick was to stay one step ahead of such maudlin moods.
She was just tying off the top laces when the crunch of stones underfoot caused her to turn.
“Well, well, wot’s we got here?” Two men were closing in on her. The leader—a barrel-chested brute with a mane of matted red hair—dropped his armful of firewood and drew a knife.
“Looks like a tasty tart, Flame.” The other man smacked his lips as he tossed away his sticks. “And we ain’t had our breakfast yet.”
Finian O’Hanlon, known as ‘The Flame’ for his explosive temper and burning dislike for the British authorities, was an Irish smuggler who had recently begun to muscle in on the Cornish and Channel Island trade. Neither the local men nor the revenue officials were happy about his presence. The Flame and his crew were said to be ruthless in their pursuit of profit, and rumor had it that the sinking of Will Starling’s fishing boat was no accident.
Valencia made no move to flee. The chances of escape were virtually nil, given her bad leg. But a surrender to Fate was not what kept her from running. Sark was her home, its people her neighbors. Will had been a good customer. And a good friend.
“Aye, Seagull, she’ll make a nice treat fer us and the laddies back on board.” O’Hanlon lunged and caught her arm.
Valencia didn’t flinch as his knife kissed up against her throat.
“Looks to be meek as a mouse, don’t she? Reckon she’s too terrified to twitch a muscle.” Seagull laughed. “I hope she’s shows a bit more life when I’m swiving her. I like a bit o’ fight in my doxies.”
“Don’t worry, I know plenty ‘o ways of warming up a woman.” O’Hanlon shoved her roughly toward the narrow footpath that cut through the thickets of gorse and brambles. “Move, missy. And don’t be getting any ideas from Seagull. Ye try to kick or scream and I’ll slit that lovely neck o’ yours.”
Valencia allowed herself to be marched to the crest of the rocks. The craggy coastline of the island was dotted with countless hidden inlets and coves, making it nigh on impossible for the revenue patrols to catch a smuggler who knew the ins and outs of the local waters. Flame and his crew were no doubt well aware of the area’s advantages.
Sure enough, rounding a jut of windcarved granite, she saw that a dark-hulled ketch was anchored in the narrow spit of water just below, its raked masts hidden from view of the open seas.
“Watch yer step.” O’Hanlon tightened his hold on her arm as she stumbled over the uneven scree. “Wouldn’t us want te end up wiv damaged goods, now would ye, missie?”
“Heh, heh, heh,” grunted Seagull. “She’s gonna be a lot worse for wear when we finish taking our pleasure wid her.”
“How many of you are there?” asked Valencia.
“Wot’s it matter?” retorted Seagull.
“Just curious as to how many arses I have to kick in order to take over the ship,” she replied evenly.
Seagull answered with an obscenity.
“Ye got spunk, I’ll grant ye that.” O’Hanlon’s mouth stretched wide to reveal a flash of teeth.
Valencia doubted it was meant as a reassuring smile.
“But if ye know what’s good fer ye,” continued O’Hanlon, “Ye’ll keep a sweet tongue when talking te me, lassie.” The blade pressed harder against her flesh. “It’s dangerous to make me angry.”
That makes two of us, thought Valencia.
The steep path led down to where a dingy was pulled up on the sliver of sand. “Lazy buggers,” growled Seagull, slanting a critical eye at the ketch. Spitting into the sea, he fisted the oars. “Looks like Gremlin, Blackie and Cheshire are still sleeping it off.”
So, there were five men in all.
Valencia surveyed the deserted deck. It looked to loaded with a full cargo, for an overflow of barrels were stacked in the stern. No doubt the smugglers had decided to take shelter and ride out the coming bad weather, rather than risk crossing the Channel in the teeth of a gale.
“Stow the complaining and row, Seagull.” O’Hanlon gave a warning waggle of his knife and smirked. “Don’t I always finds us comfort in a storm?”
The Marquess of Lynsley shook the drops of water from his oilskin cloak and entered the Secretary of State for War’s private office.
“Forgive me for being late, Bathurst,” he murmured, handing it to a young adjutant who discreetly removed both himself and the still-dripping garment from the room. “I came as quickly as I could.”
The Secretary of State looked up from a sheaf of military dispatches. “Thank you, Lynsley. My apologies for the filthy conditions, and for calling you back to London on such short notice, but the matter is most urgent.”
“So I gathered from your note.” After nodding a quick greeting to the other gentlemen at the long table, Lynsley took a seat and opened his document case. The presence of Admiral Cornwallis, commander of the Channel Fleet, and Major Fenimore, General Burrand’s top strategist, confirmed that the situation must be grave indeed. “Perhaps you would be so good as to elaborate. The facts were, by necessity, rather sparse.”
“Actually, I will let Colonel Whitney explain the problem.” The Secretary gestured to the officer seated to his left. “He arrived from Portugal last night, with a personal request from Wellington that we give this top priority.”
Lynsley didn’t recognize the face, but his uniform identified him as a senior member of the Duke’s staff.
“Thank you, milord. As you all undoubtedly know, Wellington has appointed me to oversee our intelligence- gathering network throughout the Peninsula, and it was my men who discovered the details . . .” Whitney made a show of rising as he spoke, and smoothing a hand over the row of medals decorating his chest.
Pompous ass , thought Lynsley as he squared his papers into order. But as usual, he hid his irritation behind a mask of perfunctory politeness. “How good to hear that you are doing your job,” he replied dryly. “Please go on.”
Whitney hesitated for a fraction before continuing in a slightly less condescending tone. “Er, yes, well, I hardly need explain to you that the recent events in Russia were a grievous blow to Napoleon’s aura of invincibility. Word is, his army has suffered huge losses and is in full retreat from Moscow. If our forces strike hard and fast, while morale is low and his chain of command is stretched thin, we may have a chance to end this interminable war . . .”
As the colonel droned on, Lynsley surreptitiously studied his own intelligence reports. His official title—Minister to the Secretary of State for War—was a deliberately vague cover for his true responsibilities. Charged with countering foreign espionage and intrigue, he was head of a secret cadre of warriors that dealt with the most dangerous and diabolical threats to England’s sovereignty.
As a rule, he usually avoided committee meetings such as this one—the fewer people aware of his real work, the better. But in this case, the latest dispatches from his own informants corroborated what the colonel was saying. The situation was indeed unique. There was finally a chink in the Emperor’s armor.
The last page turned with a faint crackle. Or was there?
Whitney finished with a flourish. “To sum it up in a nutshell, gentlemen, Boney’s forced retreat sends a signal to our faltering Allies that the French are at last vulnerable. However, we recently learned that one of his most dangerous agents—a fellow named Rochambeau—has made a diabolical discovery. One that may cause our advantage to go up in flames.”
The other men around the table straightened in their chairs.
Lynsley looked up as well. His most recent report from the Peninsula had made mention of a disquieting incident in the city of Cordoba. So far, the information had not been confirmed. But if Rochambeau was involved, that was bad news indeed.
“Kindly dispel with the theatrics, colonel,” he said. “And report the facts.”
Whitney gave an aggrieved sniff, clearly enjoying the captive audience. However, on meeting the marquess’s stony stare, he swallowed any retort and continued. “For some time, our army intelligence network in southern Spain had been hearing rumors concerning an elderly Arab scholar who specialized in the study of ancient science. It was said that he had unearthed some long lost treatise on the art of explosives.” He drew a deep breath. “One that apparently detailed discoveries made by the Turks, using innovations developed in China. Which, as you all undoubtedly know, was where gunpowder was first created?—”
“Cut to the chase, man,” growled Admiral Cornwallis. “None of us need a lecture in military history.”
“In this case, background information is important,” replied Whitney through gritted teeth. “For it explains why Wellesley dispatched me to Whitehall with such urgency. But as you wish me to get to the point—it is this! After experimenting with the information he discovered, the scientist succeeded in creating a . . . a diabolical secret weapon. Not only is the explosive power far beyond anything we currently possess, but we have also been told that the resulting flames cannot be extinguished by water alone. My understanding is that it’s like the ancient Greek Fire, but with a modern twist.” The colonel’s voice rose a notch. “If true, just imagine what it would do to our Royal Navy. Such a substance could turn the tide of war in Napoleon’s favor and allow the French to invade our shores.”
Cornwallis paled.
Fenimore looked more skeptical. “A diabolical secret weapon? Surely you are exaggerating.”
“I am not,” said Whitney stiffly. “Furthermore, we know that the formula, and a small sample of the stuff are on their way to Paris as we speak, carried by Rochambeau.”
“Why can’t we get a copy of the bloody formula, too?” demanded the Admiral. “Fight fire with fire is what I say.”
“Impossible,” said Whitney curtly. “The scholar was murdered and his laboratory destroyed by the Frenchman, including all the ancient manuscripts. There is no other copy. Just the original laboratory journal.”
“Which will be locked right and tight in the French military headquarters,” muttered Cornwallis. “And guarded by a horde of Hussars.”
“On the contrary, that is the one glimmer of good news we have.” Looking somewhat less defensive, Whitney was quick to continue. “Apparently the journal is written in some arcane code, and Rochambeau is unwilling to let the military take a crack at deciphering the formula and thus steal all the glory for the discovery. Instead, he means to keep the notes and sample a secret until he can personally hand them over to the Emperor. So, chances are that for the next few weeks, the material will be in his private residence, not be locked away in a Ministry vault.” He cracked his knuckles. “If we could get our hands on it and spirit it out of the country . . .”
“And if pigs could fly,” murmured Fenimore.
The colonel shot him a quelling look, then held the pause a moment longer. “Once again, gentlemen, I ask you to consider the consequences if Napoleon is allowed to develop this for military use!”
Lynsley’s mood turned more brooding as the others began to pepper the colonel with more questions. Steepling his fingers, he stared meditatively at the recent reports sent out from his own operatives across the Channel. They all confirmed that with Wellington on the offensive in Spain and Napoleon fighting his way through the eastern Europe, the French were at long last vulnerable.
Vulnerable.
But by some strange twist of fate, his own forces were also not at full strength.
Of all the cursed luck . . .
As if echoing his sentiments, Admiral Cornwallis let loose with a volley of expletives. “Damn it,” he added. “We simply must find a way to get at that weapon. From what you say, Whitney, it may spell the difference between a quick, decisive victory and allowing the Little Corsican to rise, like a phoenix, from the ashes of Moscow.”
“Eloquently put, Sir William,” said Fenimore. His brow arched in question, he looked to the Lord Bathurst.
The Secretary looked to Lynsley. “What about the Merlins?”
Lynsley blew out his cheeks. He had known that this question was coming. “I am sorry to say that their ranks are somewhat depleted at the moment. In truth, I have no one whom I consider ready to take on an assignment of this magnitude.”
The ensuing silence was broken by the clinking of the colonel’s medals. Crossing his arms with a sneering huff, the officer muttered “women” under his breath.
The marquess was tempted to reach across the polished oak and stuff the gaudy bits of brass down the man’s throat. Though he rarely betrayed any hint of emotion, the gratuitous insult struck a raw nerve.
“Perhaps if you pulled your head from out of your arse, you would see the light, Whitney,” he snapped. “This is a new century and the old world order is crumbling. Those who can’t accept radical new concepts—such as women being the equals of men when it comes to brains and bravery—will be left in the dust.”
Assuming an even more offensive drawl, Lynsley went on to rattle off several incidents where his Merlins had saved the day for England and her allies.
The Secretary, always the consummate diplomat, interceded before the colonel could reply. “Now, Thomas, no one is questioning the courage or competence of your, er, troops. We were merely, er, hoping. . .”
“That the girls could put aside their knitting and cooking long enough to pull your cods out of the fire?” he said sharply. “By the by, I see in my notes that it was one of Colonel Whitney’s cavalry patrols that let Rochambeau slip through their fingers in the first place.”
The officer had the grace to flush. “Yes, but if the Royal Navy had intercepted the schooner?—”
“Let us not bicker on who is to blame, gentlemen,” interrupted Bathurst. “We are, after all, on the same side.”
Lynsley leaned back, feeling their gazes once again shift to him.
Damn.
He supposed it was up to him to come up with a plan of action. Though God only knew what it might be. Sighing, he took a moment to pack up his papers. “Let us meet back here at the end of the day. By then I will have some ideas put together for you.”
The colonel did not look pleased at the delay. However the Secretary hustled him through the parting protocols and out of the office before any further fireworks could erupt.
“Do try to come up with something, Thomas,” murmured Bathurst as he watched the Admiral and Major Fenimore follow in Whitney’s wake. “Knightley is breathing down my neck to make a move—any move.”
“Even if the slightest slip would prove fatal?”
Bathurst made a wry face. “That is what comes from being so bloody good at what you do. The Crown expects miracles from the Merlins.”
“No matter than I am merely a flesh and blood man, not a magician?” said Lynsley somewhat waspishly.
The Secretary regarded him with some concern. “Is something troubling you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so . . . out of sorts.”
“Forgive me,” muttered Lynsley. “Men like Whitney, who are ruled by arrogance rather than intelligence, are particularly annoying. Especially when the women they so disparage are expected to ride to their rescue.”
“I am sorry to put you in such a damnably difficult position. But I have no choice.”
“I know, Henry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll come up with something.”
The Secretary gave a ghost of a smile. “You always do.”
You always do.
The drumbeat of his steps seemed a mocking echo of the words as Lynsley traversed the warren of Whitehall corridors leading down to his own suite of offices. Despite his avowal to Bathurst, he was not feeling overly sanguine about the chances of cobbling together a successful plan. A mission of this magnitude required months of meticulous planning. Proper reconnaissance, lines of supply, safe houses, support staff . . . And even then, there were a myriad of things that could go wrong.
It would take an act of God to pull off a miracle at this late moment.
Slouching into his desk chair, he absently picked up the sheaf of documents on his blotter. Numerous people owed him numerous favors, but even if he called in?—
His eyes fell on the top paper. After reading the scrawled message, he tapped thoughtfully at his chin.
Perhaps he did have a guardian angel after all.
It would take a good deal of luck, as well as divine intervention, but if he moved fast, the idea just might be turned into the answer to his prayers.