Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4) (8 page)

Imogen opened her mouth but found that she couldn’t make a sound. Closing it again, she nodded and turned back to the dining room, sitting heavily on one of the chairs. This. This was why she so seldom shared the truth of her gifts with anyone. They either disbelieved her and derided her for foolishness, or avoided her like the plague. It helped little that there were so many charlatans in the world, people with fake claims of talents. Or that she was often lumped with the mystics, with their abstract ideals and off-putting beliefs.

It was just as well, she supposed. She had been concerned about him forming an attachment, and obviously that was no longer a concern. Having lost her appetite, she went upstairs to pack.

Chapter Fourteen

Once back in London, Robert focused on assessing how things had changed since he left. He spent a solid fourteen hours interviewing agents, reading reports, and making his own careful, and coded, notes about his conclusions. It was, fortunately, not the worst time to have been out of touch. Now here he was in his study, late into the night, parsing through the personal correspondence that had arrived in his absence. He set aside letters from Charlie and Sabre to read later, and flipped through the rest standing in front of the fireplace so he could simply burn the ones that were of no interest to him. The fifth missive stopped him cold. He tossed the remaining mail aside and brought this one to his desk, turning up the lamp so that he could study it more closely. He would need to examine it in daylight, but his immediate assessment included feeling the weight of the vellum, smelling it. French, if he wasn’t mistaken. Not that such a thing indicated the origin of the note, as this paper would be available to anyone who had the funds to acquire it. But it
was
expensive, far too fine to be wasted on such a short and cryptic message. The envelope had not been franked, thus had been delivered personally. Perhaps among a few hands, as it seemed a bit worn and grimy. Not overly so, but clearly enough on close examination.

He spread out the note in the lamplight and leaned over to read it again.

M. Bittlesworth,

If you keep losing top hats you’ll catch your death.

M. Amicus

An innocuous enough text, on the face of it, signed simply with the word for “friend” in Latin. Innocuous to anyone but Robert Bittlesworth. He sat down heavily in his chair. His first major coup for the Home Office had been building a network of informants within Great Britain. He had given it a very particular structure, designed to keep those who actually supplied the information ignorant of how that information was used. It was a complex, highly guarded secret and there were portions of it that still only Robert himself knew about. The regional information aggregators were known at the Home Office as Top Hats. They reported to their Key. Since June there had been ten Top Hats that had turned up dead, most beaten to death. Prior to this, Robert assumed it had been a product of the unrest that had been rife throughout his country since the end of the Wars, as Top Hats were agents also charged with forestalling uprisings. Now he had to suspect that they were being targeted. But why? And if those men had been beaten to death to extract information, what information had they yielded? At least enough, it seemed, for this vaguely threatening note to be addressed to him personally. Top Hats shouldn’t know who he was, only the Keys knew that and all the Keys were still in place.

Robert locked the note in the drawer of his desk and sat back to consider what he knew. His gaze, however, was on the desktop and he was soon distracted by memories. Miss Grant in her blue silk, bold and wild and lascivious. The lust that image inspired was welcome, but the thorn in his chest from wondering where she was, was not. He grabbed the bottle of scotch off his sideboard and the letters from his siblings and made his way to his bedroom in the early morning light.

* * *

Imogen had anticipated that she would be refreshed and relaxed from her illicit tryst. In some ways she was, but she was plagued with distracting thoughts. Upon waking she still missed having her lover’s hands on her. She tucked away the celestial blue gown at the back of her wardrobe, but couldn’t stand the thought of discarding it. She even, though she didn’t want to think on it too closely, took to wearing the lawn chemise he had given her, telling herself that it was more suited to the damp, cold British autumn approaching. While out shopping with Violetta, she would invariably encounter something that would make a clever gift for him, but would firmly set it aside. At times she wondered if a gift in thanks would be appropriate, but she doubted that he wanted anything from her.

Meanwhile, she had to keep answering Violetta’s questions about her week with the duchess. Imogen was a careful and creative spinner of tales, but her heart wasn’t in it. She didn’t have the energy to make her time sound fun and exciting. She related the details about Belle Fleur that Robert had told her, such as some of the flowers in the expansive gardens, but otherwise made it clear that whatever budding friendship she had with the duchess was mostly hers to enjoy. She was, as she pointed out to her cousin, leaving shortly so it hardly mattered.

The sixth day after she returned from the country, a box came for her, delivered from the
modiste
that she had frequented with her cousin since being in London. As she hadn’t ordered anything, she retreated to her room to open it. Inside the carton there was an envelope atop the tissue. She was entertained by the sender’s handwriting, the bold, dark strokes making “Miss Grant” look entirely too serious. She opened it to retrieve the brief note inside.

Miss Grant,

My apologies for the delay, but your taste in fabrics and colors proved to be a challenge for the seamstress.

Robert

She folded back the tissue to find ten absolutely stunning chemises in bold, jewel-colored silk. Blues, greens, one a deep ruby, and another the darkest amethyst. But when she dug to the very bottom her breath caught. She lifted the pale garment up to rub against her cheek, enjoying the rose petal softness of the expensive silk. This one was the precise icy blue of Robert Bittlesworth’s eyes.

* * *

This evening Robert’s correspondence finally held something he wanted to see, a note from Miss Grant.

Robert,

Thank you for the kind gift; it was a wonderful gesture. As you had a struggle finding a seamstress, I can only be grateful that your sister didn’t volunteer to embroider them.

Imogen

He smiled, remembering their first encounter in this very room, when she had disparaged Sabre’s early attempt at embroidery. He had originally ordered the chemises before they left for the country, and was glad for their delivery. His brief melancholy in missing her when first he returned to London had been superseded by lust and desire, and he wondered if she could find an afternoon, or even a full evening, free to rendezvous with him before she traveled again. Certainly he, one of the greatest operators in England, could find a way for them to meet covertly? Perhaps at one of the fancy hotels where he could spoil her with champagne and
hors d’oeuvres
? He became distracted thinking about what parts of her he could splash with champagne so that he could lap it up.

Then his mind took the perverse turn of wondering if she already had another lover. Was she, even now, wearing those chemises as she seduced another man? This time when he felt the pinch in his chest and twist to his gut he knew that he had done it to himself. But he could not deny that the idea of her moving on to another was bothersome. He penned a note for delivery this evening to an agent that he particularly wanted to speak with first thing in the morning. The agent who had been tasked with investigating her. Neither the agent, nor any of his other research, had yielded any suspicion of her. But one could never be too careful and he should find out if she had any new or unusual associates.

* * *

Imogen had been hopeful that her note might lead to at least a flirtation via correspondence with Robert, but it had been five days and she had yet to hear from him. He was, she supposed, busy. With discreet inquiry she had determined that his role with the government, which he had described as being completely public, was engrossing. She had heard three different jobs ascribed to him with vague but important titles like Secretary of Interior Communication, and didn’t know if he had done them successively or was doing them concurrently. Two men had also used the moniker ‘Hero of the Home Office’ for him. Whatever it was he did, it was Important. She was used to being set aside for things that were Important, and took the opportunity to focus more keenly on her own entertainment. At night she drank, flirted, and danced as though she hadn’t a care in the world. In the mornings she crawled about on cousin Violetta’s floors playing games with the boys. Anyone who encountered her at any time of the day would assume that she was the happiest, most vivacious woman of their acquaintance. Even cousin Vi remarked that Imogen had blossomed in the convivial company of London Society.

Alone at night, however, she was often restless. She took to sleeping with a pillow over her hip so that upon awakening she could imagine it was an arm.

Chapter Fifteen

Periodically Robert continued to receive little missives, always delivered by a different young boy. They hadn’t discovered anything based on the boys yet. Children who would do odd deliveries for a bit of coin were prevalent throughout the city. It was clear that his tormenter M. Amicus wanted the Keys and was becoming progressively insistent. Rather than supply the information at the suggested sites and times, Robert had them monitored. Nothing had come of it yet.

What was odd to him, however, was that his response to the threats was merely irritation. He had yet to even report it to the Home Secretary, because it seemed more nuisance than anything else. What he spent most of his late-night time on was poring over the reports of Miss Grant’s activities. She had not been disingenuous when she said her cousin had a full schedule planned for her. Her nights were taken up with balls and entertainments, her days with rides, trips to museums, and shopping. Robert reviewed every single detail his agent provided. Names of the men she danced with, women she spoke to. And the assurance that, once she was in the Chester home for the evening, she did not venture back out. She did not have any late night rendezvous, nor any scandalous liaisons while attending the
ton’s
numerous entertainments. She was, in short, not acting the woman he knew she could be. A woman of adventure and lusty appetites.

In his more paranoid moments he considered that she had targeted him purposefully. That she hadn’t been drawn to him by attraction, but by assignment. However, everything in his records on her, which were becoming quite voluminous, indicated that she was precisely what she presented herself to be. A wealthy heiress of a Scottish laird and American business magnate. She was discreet enough in her affairs that he actually had no record of them, although he could testify himself to her prowess and experience. Of particular note was the charity work she did in Boston with unwed mothers and orphans. He had not yet ascertained why that particular charity had captured her interest. She was a strange and interesting woman.

* * *

When Imogen finally
did
receive correspondence from a Bittlesworth, it wasn’t from the one she wanted. This one now went by Telford.

“What is it?” Violetta asked, on pins and needles. As far as her cousin was concerned, the duchess had ignored Imogen while only weeks ago had been treating her with favor. Little did Vi know, but the first and only time Imogen had spoken to the girl they had been ghastly rude to one another.

Imogen pasted a false smile on her face to report, “She wants to take a carriage ride and reminisce over our time together at Belle Fleur.”

“Splendid!” Violetta enthused.

But was this note actually from the duchess, or did Robert hope to steal her away for an afternoon? Neither idea filled her with delight, but both made her curious. Either way she would be gone in another week. She penned her acceptance.

* * *

As soon as the liveried servant handed her into the carriage, it was clear that this was, in fact, Sabrina Bittlesworth. Her Haberdashers were with her, the countess sitting next to the duchess, leaving the open seat for her next to the blond virago.

Imogen sat down with a nod. “Ladies.”

“You can imagine my surprise,” the duchess began without preamble, ”when Baron Whimby complimented my good taste in friends, as I had so recently hosted you at Belle Fleur.”

“Yes,” Imogen said evenly, “I suspect that was surprising.”

The duchess was quiet for a moment, staring at her. “I must say you were the most amiable house guest we’ve ever hosted. I didn’t even know you were there.”

Imogen had to smile. “What is it you want to know, your grace? Or are you just waiting for an apology?”

“What do you have to apologize for? You shared with people that you traveled to one of my country homes with me, and I confirmed it.”

“Thank you, your grace.”

“All that I ask is that you tell me where you
really
were.”

Imogen glanced out the window and frowned. “Where are we going, your grace?”

“I don’t want either of us to be liars, Miss Grant. We shall have nuncheon at Belle Fleur this afternoon. You will find the kitchen to be exceptional. Then the next time someone asks you if you have been there, or asks me if I have hosted you there, we can both say yes with a clear conscience. Now, then. Where were you?”