Page 85 of Romancing the Scot
Captain Rivenhall’s lips had formed a tight, thin line. His eyes searched the room for the answer he clearly didn’t want to give.
Grace’s mind raced. Of all the correspondence she wrote out for her father, several missives had contained sensitive information regarding Bonaparte business. But nothing was as important as to warrant what her father had requested . . . and what the British government was willing to grant.
“My father was carrying many letters and documents,” Grace told him. “You must be more specific, Captain. To which letter are you referring?”
“It’s a list,” Rivenhall told her grudgingly. “A list of names.”
“Names of whom?” Hugh demanded.
Sir Rupert spoke up. “Colonel Ware was to supply us with the code names of people working in the British government who supplied the French with sensitive information during the Peninsular campaign.”
“Englishmen? Working as spies for Napoleon?” the viscount asked.
“Yes, m’lord,” he replied. “We now have the key to trace them to individual operatives.”
Spies, Grace thought. Fighting between the nations had ceased, but many who betrayed their allegiance and worked for the enemy were still at large. In her mind’s eye, the painted face of Mrs. Douglas appeared. The woman who knew everyone. Who traveled in the highest circles of ministers and generals. Who socialized with their wives. Grace saw her and her husband, himself a minister in the British government, in Paris at the christening of Napoleon’s son. Her letter came back to Grace:old foes are now the closest of allies.She wondered if Mrs. Douglas’s name was on that list.
“The question still remains,” Captain Rivenhall said, directing his words at Grace, “whether you have the document.”
“We came here on the slimmest chance that you have it,” Sir Rupert explained. “When the bodies of the colonel and the others were found—and I beg your pardon for being so insensitive, Miss Ware—their personal belongings had been stolen. We don’t know if the document was taken by those villains. We only hope you have it.”
“This trip may have been for nothing,” Captain Rivenhall added. “But Sir Rupert felt that we must pursue every possibility, for the security of the realm.”
She had no such list. She had arrived with no letter. Grace exchanged a look with Hugh.
“And if she produces this document,” he asked, “what is she getting in return?”
“The pardon, of course. As agreed upon.”
This was the key to her future. She pressed her sweaty palms against her skirts.
“Where is this pardon? We’d like to see it.”
“Well,” Rivenhall replied. “We don’t have it with us. The document needed to be redrawn following the unfortunate death of Colonel Ware. We expect a rider to arrive with it from Westminster at any moment. But certainly you will take us on our honor that we—”
“Perhaps Miss Ware will accept your word, Captain, but I certainly do not.”
“M’lord, you are a peer of the realm and a Lord Justice of the King’s Bench. A decorated cavalry officer of the French wars. We would expect you, of anyone, to trust—”
“Because of all those titles you refer to, it is my duty not to trust you.”
Hugh raised himself to his full height, and Grace saw the lord justice emerge.
“You said that Colonel Ware sent a copy of his request to Westminster and to Brussels,” he said. “And that this letter was seen at the highest levels of government.”
“It was,” Rivenhall replied.
“And what steps were taken to ensure the safety of Colonel Ware when he arrived in Antwerp? What steps were taken to see that this valuable document did not fall into the wrong hands?”
The two men stared at Hugh as if they were struck dumb.
“Men died because Colonel Ware put his trust in you. You failed to protect them,” Hugh barked. “We have no reason to trust that you will even produce this pardon you promise. So when your rider arrives—if he indeeddoesarrive—you produce the pardon and Miss Ware will give you the list.”
Chapter 30
“Since the day Jo showed it to me,” Grace said, pacing across the study, “I thought the diamond was the reason we were attacked in Antwerp. But it was all about a list.”
Rays of late afternoon sunlight illuminated the room. MacKay had escorted the men back to the inn and had not yet returned. She stopped and gazed at the intricate patterns of the Persian rug as she considered the web of difficulties that now lay before them.
