Chapter Nineteen
Resolved now to draw out the lady who appeared in Billingsgate, Inès went out on errands every day. She took only Hawkins with her. Mary stayed at home. Inès was on a mission to compare the woman Giselle remembered with the woman in Billingsgate market.
Evan was against her going, but she assured him that Hawkins was a fine fellow and the kitchen staff needed her assistance.
Inès had told no one of the meeting. Hawkins and Mary knew, but had no reason to think it remarkable. The dressmaker, Lock the hair rose at its roots.
Quick steps followed by intense scrutiny to anything and everything from shop windows to hailing street musicians one knew were the order of the day.
But no woman like the one she sought appeared. She comforted herself that she was an expert. She knew the ins and outs of tracking another. She was safe. Safe.
Wasn’t she?
“Are you well?” Evan asked her one evening as they climbed into their big, broad bed.
“I don’t care for the Christmas season.” That was true. “I recall my family and I am sad.” I recall my brother who languishes in prison, and I cannot abandon him. But I cannot tell you that. Cannot find a way to get him free without committing a crime…or ruining our marriage and you.
On the tenth day of the new year, Inès went to a coppersmith in a safe part of town north of Smithfield with the family cook. Peggy was a kind and jolly woman who loved her work—and she was a good companion.
“I’ve wanted a few new pots and pans for years but did not want to tell the madam to spend so much money.”
“You deserve to work with good equipment. The results will be ones we can see and taste.”
The bells over the shop door tinkled.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Holland.” The patron had her back to Inès, but her carriage and stature put Inès on alert. So did her French accent.
Inès and Peggy continued their appraisal of the cooper’s wares and bade him adieu.
“Good morning.” The tall woman stepped into Peggy’s path and put out her hand to Inès.
Inès recognized her. How could she not? She wore the latest fashion. She had chestnut-brown hair and large jade eyes.
She cast Inès a quizzical look. “Bonjour. Comment allez-vous, Madame le Comtesse?”
Inès gazed at her outstretched hand, then walked around her.
“You remember me, madame,” the woman said in English.
Inès kept walking toward the door.
“You ignore me, madame. How rude.” The woman glanced at Peggy. “Is your lady often so rude?”
Peggy, following her lady’s lead, sniffed and made for the shop door.
Inès opened it and motioned to Peggy to precede her. To the shopkeeper, she said, “We will return tomorrow for our order.”
“Quelle damage, madame!” The woman hurried up to Inès and pushed something into her coat pocket.
Inès plunged her hand into her pocket and withdrew it, intending to give it back.
The woman grabbed her hand and looked upon her with fire in her eyes as she shoved the note down. Then, with a toss of her head, she left the shop.
#
Inès hurried home, frantic that the woman had approached her and been so bold as to pass her a note.
Peggy sat rigid in their carriage, and wisely asked no questions.
Wild to get to her bedroom and deal with her outrage in privacy, Inès refused to yield her pelisse to Davis and ran like a lunatic up the staircase.
“Ma’am?” Mary bobbed at her as soon as she opened her dressing room door. She had been sorting the day’s washing.
“You may leave me, Mary.”
“Are ye sure, ma’am?” The maid lingered, examining her. “A cool cloth for your brow?”
“No, merci, Mary.”
“Tea? You do not look well, ma’am.”
“Tea, oui. And brandy.”
The girl gazed at her oddly. Inès did not usually drink in the middle of the day. “I will get them.”
Inès waited until she heard the girl close the door to the suite.
Then, from her coat pocket, she fished out the envelope. She tossed it to her dressing table and glared at it as if it were poison.
Poison.
Inès threw back her head and gritted her teeth. Logic told her that this woman was the one who had ordered the abduction of Giselle. That she fit Giselle’s description to perfection. That she had no reason to appear so coincidentally in the same spot Inès shopped—not unless she were following her.
And what reason could she have for that unless she were a French agent put here in England by Vaillancourt?
Inès cursed roundly and backed away from the note as if it had tentacles and the power to grab her and…
She unbuttoned her coat and let it drop to the floor. Her gown of good wool turned to a boiling shroud. She tore at the neckline and pulled the bodice wide.
Open the note.
Open it.
You will not know if the woman comes from Vaillancourt until you open it.
She swallowed down her fear. You have encountered worse than she. Open it. She crossed her arms. You can survive anything she does.
Open it.
She strode forward. Ripped the wax seal. A red lion, no less. What hubris, eh?
She flicked open the folded paper and threw it face up on her dressing table.
She stepped away. As if I would catch my fright. Or my death.
You need to act.
The big, bold letters were in French.
Inès clamped a hand to her mouth to stifle the scream that rose in her throat.
You need to act.
I cannot.
You must.
I will ruin the only joy I have enjoyed in years.
Act.
I will destroy my husband.
Act.
I cannot.
But then how do you free your brother from his hell if you cannot assassinate the prime minister?