More than a Masquerade by Adele Clee

Chapter 5

“Miss Gambit.”The whispered words drifted into Rachel’s mind. “Miss Gambit!” The next were as sharp as a stab to the ribs. “Wake up. We’ve almost reached our destination.” A hot hand came to rest on her knee and shook her twice.

Rachel opened her eyes and met Mr Hunter’s intense stare. It was so dark in the confines of his conveyance one might believe it was the dead of night. He sat like the master of the underworld, dressed in black, exuding a raw masculinity that would make the bravest men cower.

Mr Hunter raised the blind. “We’ve reached St Albans.”

The sky was the deep Aegean blue one saw before sunrise, the horizon a glowing hem of orange, a prelude to the dawn of a new day. The carriage wasn’t clattering along narrow town streets but thundering through open countryside.

“We’ll take a room at the next inn, wash and change our clothes before continuing to Trēowith.” His stern tone said he was still annoyed at Lucius Daventry. Mr Hunter preferred to live alone, eat alone, sleep alone. He did not want to share his house or life with anyone, least of all a stubborn shrew.

“What time is it, sir?” Her voice was thick from sleep.

“A little after six. And you’ll need to call me Hunter, not sir.”

Six! Heavens. Had he spent the last two hours watching her doze?

“I pray you weren’t party to my incessant mumbling, Hunter.” Strange, she had spoken his name many times, but it sounded so intimate without the prefixed title.

“You fidget. You nibble your lip. You don’t mumble.”

“And you’ve started talking in clipped sentences. Don’t be angry. If spending time with me bothers you, perhaps you should hire someone else to take my place.”

He dragged his gaze from the window. “It’s not you, Miss Gambit. I like solitude, value privacy. I share nothing, least of all my time.”

Lord, the man was as blunt as a butter knife.

“Well, it seems we have the makings of an excellent partnership.” If she could just break down his barriers. “Honesty is the foundation of any strong relationship.”

“And yet so many are based on lies and deceit.”

The comment wasn’t an opening for her to pry into his affairs. Still, she would not forgo an opportunity to know him better.

“You speak from experience, Mr Hunter.”

“We all speak from experience, Miss Gambit, not always our own.”

“As a man who solves problems, you must have seen the worst of people.” From the age of sixteen, she’d seen cruelty that beggared belief.

“I’ve seen levels of depravity that would make the devil appear saintly.” He took a silver flask from his coat pocket, unscrewed the cap, removed the plug and swigged the contents. “But to me, nothing is worse than betrayal.”

“Do you speak of the traitor?”

Mr Hunter leant forward and handed her the flask. “Take a nip of brandy. It will stave off the cold.” He meant it would keep her quiet and stop her asking personal questions.

She noted the engraving on the flask. “Facta, non verba. Acts, not words.” It was the motto of a man who’d once believed someone’s lies.

“You can tell a lot about a person from how they behave. Words are meaningless when one’s actions are in discord.”

Rachel sipped the brandy. “You must have loved her deeply.”

“Who?”

“The woman who betrayed you.”

Tension loomed. “Evidently, not deeply enough.”

His confession spoke of progress. Indeed, Rachel resisted the urge to fly across the carriage and hug him for his bravery. She swallowed another nip of liquor, coughed to cool the burn, and handed him the flask.

He set his lips to the vessel without wiping it, pinned her to the seat with his gaze while he took a drink. The brandy must be potent enough to meddle with a lady’s mind, for she imagined a sensual scene where he drank from her mouth, not the flask.

“I knew a man who collected secrets,” she said as the carriage pulled into the Old Crown coaching inn and rumbled to a halt. “Family secrets, work secrets, financial secrets. They lived inside him, gorging on despair, growing until his heart could no longer take the strain.”

Mr Hunter opened the door, dropped the steps and alighted. “I have the unnerving suspicion there’s a point to your ramblings, Miss Gambit.”

“A man needs someone to talk to at night. Someone to help share the burden.” Rachel gripped his hand and descended. Her knees buckled the second her feet hit the ground.

Mr Hunter’s strong arm snaked around her waist to keep her upright. “Perhaps you should spend time concentrating on where to place your feet and less about constructing interesting metaphors.” He released her promptly and brushed imagined dust from his coat sleeve.

“Forgive me. Three hours sitting in a carriage has given me cramp.” She curled her toes in her boot to ease the ache. “And it wasn’t a construct. My father bore everyone’s burdens until the stress killed him. I wish I could have recognised it sooner.”

Mr Hunter had the decency to incline his head by way of an apology. “It’s human nature to look to the past and contemplate what we could have done differently. But it’s the worst sort of torment.” He reached into the carriage, took her satchel and handed it to her. “I shall use false names when hiring a room. I trust you have no objection.”

“A room? In the singular?”

“I’ve sworn an oath to Lucius Daventry. I have a duty to protect you, Miss Gambit. Consequently, we may be forced to bear uncomfortable situations.”

“We’re to protect each other,” she corrected.

Those had been Mr Daventry’s orders. Odd that he felt a man as dangerous as Mr Hunter should require assistance from a female agent.

Mr Hunter dismissed her comment. “We’ll be expected to stay the night at Trēowith, so I doubt we’ll return to the inn. You’ll stay in Daventry’s room. Mine is across the landing.”

“Trēowith is a house, not a place?”

“It’s a country estate owned by the Order of Themis where the brethren meet monthly. We’ll sit with the Council this afternoon.”

“Trēow is an old English word, I believe.” Lady Hanaway had been a lover of history and an excellent tutor. She had devoted so much time to Rachel’s studies it had fed her sons’ jealousy.

“It stands for loyalty and truth. Trēowith is where we remember the noble men who’ve served this country since the Norman Conquest. We must do everything in our power to stop the traitor before he tramples over their memory.”

It was a mammoth task, made colossal by a distinct lack of information. “It might help if you told me what evidence you have. We should make a list of suspects. Examine possible motives. I need to know more if I’m to be of assistance.”

Or, like her father, did he intend to keep everyone in the dark?

“Madam, it’s six o’clock on a bitter February morning. If we’re not meeting the Council until this afternoon, why do you think we’ve come so early?”

Rachel raised her chin. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“Because you spent most of the journey snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

Mr Hunter smiled. Good Lord! It was a magnificent sight to behold.

“You do when your chin touches your chest.”

Rachel felt a blush of mortification. “I’d wager you grunt in your sleep.”

“Come this evening, you’re sure to find out.”

Mr Hunter gathered their valises and closed the carriage door. He informed his coachman they’d be leaving for Trēowith at noon, then escorted her into the inn.

It came as some surprise at such an early hour to find two men seated around a table in the taproom, eating a hearty meal of ham and eggs. Mr Hunter observed the men through suspicious eyes and then proceeded to where the innkeeper’s wife stood cleaning tankards behind the counter.

Mr Hunter gave their names as Mr and Mrs Monroe.

Rachel used the opportunity to test her acting skills. She hugged Mr Hunter’s arm and gave an affectionate squeeze. “It’s our first trip to St Albans. Our first trip anywhere since we married. My husband plans to show me the sights and buy me a new bonnet.”

The buxom woman with red hair took one look at Mr Hunter’s pleasing countenance and gave an envious sigh. “There’s a quaint little tea shop near the cathedral that’s not to be missed.” She took payment and handed him an iron key. “You’ve room nine.” She leant forward, flopping her bosom onto the counter, and whispered, “It’s the only room where the bed don’t creak. A keeper’s got to think of her other guests.”

Mr Hunter had no option but to return the teasing woman’s grin.

He led Rachel upstairs to a room with oak furnishings and shabby blue curtains. The sterile smell of soap lingered in the air, along with a waft of cooked ham. The tempting aroma had her stomach grumbling as loud as rolling thunder.

Being a man who noticed everything, Mr Hunter headed for the door. “I’ll order a simple bill of fare to break our fast.”

“And a bottle of burgundy to wash it all down?”

“You know me so well, Miss Gambit.”

“Mrs Monroe,” she corrected. “We should maintain our cover story. Hurry back, my love.”

“My heart aches every second we’re parted,” he countered drily.

He left her to stare at the narrow tester bed, half the width of Mr Hunter’s imposing bed at home. The man disliked physical contact, so it was just as well they had separate rooms at Trēowith.

He returned promptly and locked the door. “The keeper’s wife is excited we’re taking a tray in our bedchamber. Don’t be surprised if she folds our napkins into kissing swans.”

Rachel laughed. “I doubt many men order wine in the morning. She must think you’re out to seduce me, Mr Monroe.”

“In bed, I prefer a woman to have full command of her faculties.”

The odd fluttering in her stomach started again. “Two drunkards would hardly make for a memorable coupling.”

Mr Hunter studied her. “Do you speak from experience, Mrs Monroe?”

“Not at all.” Heat crept up her neck to warm her cheeks. “I’ve never known a man’s touch, though I’ve seen Madame Dubarry falling over herself from a heady concoction of gin and lust. She collapsed on the stairs, comatose, while her lover tried to haul her to bed.”

“Daventry said you lived with the modiste for two years.”

“Yes. I suffered cramp on the stage from Shoreham to London. Madame Dubarry had just met her lover in the yard of the Lion and Crown. She saw me tumble down the carriage steps and rushed to my aid.”

“For you, cramp seems to be a constant blight.”

“And restless legs. That’s why I fidget in my sleep.”

A glint of amusement flashed in his eyes. “It seems you suffer from a restless spirit, too.”

“That’s a result of living on a knife-edge for five years.”

“The five years you spent with Lady Hanaway?”

“Indeed.”

Mr Hunter opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. He crossed the room, searched inside his valise and returned to hand Rachel a small blue book. Embossed in gold leaf on the cover board was the same symbol carved into the carnelian stone in Mr Daventry’s ring.

“The scales of justice.” She traced her finger over the gilding.

“It’s what the Order of Themis stands for.”

It was a noble cause, but there would never be true justice in the world. Not while hardworking people starved, and the Hanaway brothers ran amok.

Rachel opened the book and flipped through the pages. “It’s nought but a set of rules.”

“Rules handed down over centuries. Rules we’ve sworn to obey.” He gestured to the new book. “Daventry had these copies made from the original manuscript. You must memorise the edict on page twenty. You’ll need to recite it when we address the Council.”

A quick scan of the page explained his reasoning. “It’s a rule relating to the temporary absence of the master. Mr Daventry can choose a replacement, and only one member of the Council need agree.”

Mr Hunter nodded. “I’ll have the deciding vote. Nowhere does it mention the replacement must be a man. It will be the basis of your argument should the Council contest your appointment.”

Nerves gnawed away inside. When dealing with these men, she would need to apply the same defiant arrogance she’d used with Jacob and Peter Hanaway.

“How long will it take you to commit it to memory?”

Rachel cast him an assured grin. “Thirty minutes. I sing the words in my head. Finding a rhythm helps me to remember.”

“Do you need me to leave the room?”

“No, but I concentrate better in enclosed spaces.” It stemmed from time spent locked in dank cellars and hiding in the hold of The Canton. Rachel pointed to the folded dressing screen next to the washstand. “I’ll position a chair behind the screen. That should suffice.”

A knock on the door brought the keeper’s wife. The woman carried the tray while the girl scuttling behind lugged the trestle table.

“That ’ere’s the best bottle of burgundy you’ll find for miles around,” the buxom woman boasted when Mr Hunter snatched the bottle and examined the label. She glanced at the bed and gave another coy wink. Then she set down the tray, shooed the girl out of the room and promptly closed the door behind them.

“I doubt she’ll be satisfied until she hears bumps and moans.”

Mr Hunter arched a brow. “A bad case of cramp will have you howling and hopping on the boards. That should appease her.” He scrutinised the food on the tray with an unnerving level of intensity. Then inhaled the aromas as if expecting to catch a whiff of arsenic.

“You fear the traitor is seeking ways to get rid of the Council?”

“Poison is the weapon of a coward. In one fell swoop, it can kill a horde of men. It’s why I ordered a corked bottle of wine, not a flagon.” He motioned to the plate of ham and eggs. “I’ll sample the food first.” Fork to the ready, Mr Hunter tucked into the scrambled eggs.

Rachel watched his mouth move, watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. Lord knows why she found him so fascinating. “Too much salt, not enough butter, but otherwise safe to eat.”

Jacob would have grabbed his own throat and pretended to choke, but Mr Hunter did not joke about serious matters.

They spent the next hour eating their meal and discussing the Order of Themis. Rachel hid behind the screen to memorise the edict, which took forty minutes because Mr Hunter took the opportunity to wash and change clothes. She’d imagined water trickling down his chin and neck, rivulets running down his naked torso. Had he stripped off his breeches? Did he wear linen drawers or was he strolling about naked?

“You’ve not told me why you suspect there’s a traitor,” she called.

“My suspicions were first roused almost a month ago when someone stole the sacred seal from the wall plaque in the Sanctum.”

“The sacred seal?”

“It’s made of walrus ivory and pre-dates the Norman Conquest. It was made for the first men of Themis. The emblem unites all those brethren who came before us.” He suddenly pulled back the screen. “Stealing it is like inciting war.”

Mr Hunter had changed out of black clothes into black clothes.

“Who had access to the Sanctum?”

“Only the men on the Council. Daventry, Truscott, Cantrell, Young and Swanson.”

Mr Hunter was a council member, too, but made no mention of himself. Was hiring an agent a matter of subterfuge? Was Mr Hunter so angry with the world, he was on a mission of destruction?

“Please tell me you have more evidence than that. Valuable artefacts are stolen all the time.”

“You’ll understand when you see the Sanctum.” He went to his valise and returned with a letter. “Crocker is the custodian at Trēowith. He chased a cloaked intruder who dropped this while making his escape.”

Rachel took the letter and peeled back the folds. She scanned the shapes and letters and runes and the odd little arrows dotted about the page.

“It’s written in code. Are you able to decipher it?”

Mr Hunter snorted. “Sadly, I’ve not the patience for such things. I hoped you might make sense of the symbols.”

She was touched he thought her intelligent enough to crack the code. “These things take time. Weeks, months, maybe years.” On The Canton, she’d had nothing better to do than memorise passages in books.

“The sands are running out, Miss Gambit. This letter is the only clue we have to the Council member who wore a disguise and entered the tunnels.”

“The tunnels?” The mention of enclosed spaces brought a flutter of panic.

“The Sanctum is underground. Two keys are needed to access the passageways and the inner chamber. All six council members have a key. Swanson reported his key stolen from his room at a coaching inn.”

Heavens! The case grew more complicated by the minute. But it explained why Mr Daventry had left them at The Wild Hare and returned with an intricate brass key he’d given to Mr Hunter.

“And the intruder stole the seal,” she clarified.

“The seal and the portfolio containing details of the current cases.”

Rachel sighed. “The current cases!” Themis helped thwart plots against the government. Helped save poor boys from the noose. She would lay odds someone had blackmailed a council member into destroying evidence of their nefarious deeds. “Why let me sleep on the journey when we could have spent the time examining motives?”

“Because you’ll need your wits when we confront the Council.” He nodded to the blue book resting in her lap. “Have you memorised the text?”

Rachel handed him the book and stood. “I can recite it verbatim.”

“Excellent.”

“May I keep the letter? Perhaps I might find the pattern that’s the clue to deciphering the symbols.”

Mr Hunter appeared conflicted.

“You can trust me, sir. I shall keep it close to my heart.”

“I’d rather keep it on my person.”

“Why when you haven’t the patience to sit and stare at it for hours?” She didn’t have the patience either, not anymore, but she had to solve this case if she hoped to keep her position with the Order.

With some reluctance, Mr Hunter nodded. “Very well.” He scanned her plain blue dress. “What will you wear when you present yourself to the Council?”

Having had little time to pack, she’d had to make a quick decision. A woman in frills and flounces gave the impression she could handle nothing more taxing than choosing an ice at Gunter’s.

Miss Trimble, the lady paid to manage the house in Howland Street, the home of the ladies of the Order, had come up with a sensible suggestion.

Rachel tapped Mr Hunter affectionately on the arm. “I thought I’d take a leaf out of your book, sir. Indeed, is there anything more intimidating than a person dressed in black?”