Chapter 3 - THE UNCLE WHO DIED NINE YEARS AGO
Adrien did not speak for several seconds.
He simply stared at the photograph.
Lord Sebastian Blackthornne had been his father’s younger brother.
Charming.
Restless.
A diplomat when diplomacy required a smile and a private threat delivered over brandy.
He had died in Vienna nine years earlier.
Fever, according to the official dispatch.
Closed coffin.
State funeral.
A portrait still hung in Blackthornne Hall.
I looked from the photograph to Adrien.
“You buried him?”
Adrien’s jaw tightened.
“I stood beside the grave.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“No.”
The answer came low.
“I never saw the body.”
Of course.
James sat near the fire.
“Neither did anyone in the family.”
Adrien looked at him.
“How did you get this?”
“A French journalist.”
“Name.”
“Étienne Marchand.”
“Why you?”
“He was investigating a network of British intermediaries buying military contracts through Belgian firms.”
Adrien went still.
“The Ashkam ledger.”
“Possibly.”
James continued.
“Marchand followed payments to a private estate outside Rouen. He photographed everyone entering.”
“And Martha.”
“Yes.”
“And Sebastian.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
Adrien stood.
“I need to contact Whitehall.”
“No.”
Both James and I spoke at once.
Adrien looked at us.
I folded my arms.
“You just learned the same office that controlled Martha may have lied to you about Sebastian for nine years.”
His expression hardened.
“Not every office is one office.”
“Then tell me which people you trust.”
He opened his mouth.
Stopped.
Good.
James said:
“That is the problem.”
Adrien looked at him.
“You knew more than you told Elizabeth.”
“Yes.”
“So did you.”
James’s face tightened.
“I was trying to keep my sister alive.”
Adrien laughed bitterly.
“So was I.”
I stood.
“And both of you succeeded so magnificently that I spent seven years hiding my son under a false name.”
Silence.
Good.
I was tired of men comparing whose secrecy had been nobler.
Nicholas appeared in the doorway.
Hair rumpled.
One sock missing.
“Why is everyone angry?”
Every adult stopped.
I exhaled.
“Because grown people make very complicated mistakes.”
He looked at Adrien.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
James raised one hand.
“So did I.”
Nicholas looked at me.
“You?”
I smiled without humor.
“Yes.”
He thought.
“Then maybe stop.”
Adrien closed his eyes.
James looked at floor.
I almost laughed.
“Nicholas.”
“What?”
“Bed.”
He sighed.
“Adults always say bed when children are right.”
Adrien turned away to hide a smile.
Nicholas went.
I waited until his door closed upstairs.
Then:
“We do what he said.”
Adrien looked at me.
“Stop?”
“Stop repeating the same mistake.”
James frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“No secret decisions about my safety.”
Adrien nodded immediately.
“Agreed.”
“No sending me away.”
“Agreed.”
“No taking Nicholas anywhere without asking me.”
His face changed.
“Elizabeth, I would never—”
“Good. Then agreeing should be easy.”
He nodded.
“Agreed.”
I looked at James.
“No hidden letters.”
His face fell.
“Agreed.”
“And if we find Martha alive, nobody treats her as a traitor until she speaks.”
Adrien hesitated.
I saw it.
“Adrien.”
“She may have hidden you from me deliberately.”
“She did.”
“That is not small.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“But you are living proof that motives can be hidden beneath terrible appearances.”
That stopped him.
His eyes held mine.
“Fair.”
The word carried weight.
James said:
“What now?”
Adrien moved to the map table.
“Marchand.”
“France.”
“Yes.”
“You intend to go.”
“Yes.”
I said:
“So do I.”
Adrien’s head snapped toward me.
“No.”
I stared.
He closed his eyes.
“Strong preference.”
“Still no.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Martha helped me give birth. She raised Nicholas beside me for two years. If she is alive, I go.”
“France may be dangerous.”
“So is England.”
“I can protect you better here.”
“You just learned your house was compromised seven years ago.”
His jaw tightened.
I hated hurting him.
I hated being right more.
James said:
“I can go instead.”
“No.”
I looked at my brother.
“This is not a committee deciding where I am stored.”
Adrien flinched.
Good.
Then he nodded.
“You come.”
It should not have felt like victory.
It did.
“And Nicholas?” James asked.
Silence.
There it was.
I had no intention of taking my son into a foreign conspiracy.
Nor did I want him left at Blackthornne Hall if enemies knew I had returned.
Adrien said:
“My sister.”
I looked at him.
“Beatrice.”
I had not thought of her in years.
Lady Beatrice Harrow.
Adrien’s widowed older sister.
Practical.
Unimpressed by titles.
The only Blackthornne who once told Adrien he was being an ass at our wedding breakfast.
“She lives in Devon.”
“Yes.”
“Does she know I’m alive?”
“No.”
“Wonderful.”
Adrien almost smiled.
“She will be delighted to yell at me.”
“That I believe.”
We woke Nicholas at breakfast and told him we needed to travel.
He hated the plan immediately.
“You just found me.”
Adrien went still.
Nicholas was looking at him.
Not me.
“You just found me and now I have to go somewhere else.”
Adrien crouched.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Probably not.”
Nicholas frowned.
Adrien continued:
“I need to travel with your mother for a few days.”
“Why?”
“To find someone important.”
“Martha?”
I froze.
He had heard more than I thought.
Children always did.
“Yes.”
Nicholas looked at me.
“Martha died.”
“I thought so.”
“Did she lie?”
“I don’t know.”
He considered.
“Where do I go?”
“Aunt Beatrice.”
He looked at Adrien.
“My aunt?”
“Yes.”
“I have an aunt.”
“Yes.”
“Any cousins?”
“Three.”
His face brightened.
Traitor again.
“How old?”
“Eight, six, and four.”
Nicholas looked at me.
“I can go.”
Apparently family grief lasted until cousins appeared.
We left that afternoon.
Not for France.
First Devon.
Beatrice opened her front door herself.
She saw Adrien.
Saw me.
Dropped the book she was holding.
Then slapped him.
I almost smiled.
“Seven years,” she said.
Adrien rubbed his cheek.
“Yes.”
She hugged me.
Hard.
Then looked at Nicholas.
Everything changed.
“Oh.”
Nicholas stared.
“Are you Aunt Beatrice?”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“I’m Nicholas.”
“I know.”
He frowned.
“How?”
She looked at Adrien.
“She means she guessed,” he said quickly.
Beatrice recovered.
“Yes.”
Nicholas accepted.
Then three children appeared behind her and conversation ended forever.
Within five minutes, Nicholas disappeared into the garden with cousins.
Beatrice closed the door.
Turned to Adrien.
“Explain.”
He did.
Not all of it.
Enough.
Beatrice sat.
Then looked at me.
“You ran because of Victoria.”
“Yes.”
“She was not his mistress.”
“I know that now.”
Beatrice looked at Adrien.
“You absolute idiot.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“I told you secrecy would ruin you.”
“I know.”
“You never listen.”
“I know.”
I almost laughed.
Beatrice turned to me.
“And you never wrote me.”
That hurt.
“I thought you would tell him.”
“I would have.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Fair.”
Then she looked toward garden.
“Does Nicholas know?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Does he hate Adrien?”
Adrien answered:
“Undecided.”
Beatrice almost smiled.
Good.
Then:
“Sebastian.”
Adrien’s face hardened.
“You know something.”
Beatrice stood.
Walked to writing desk.
Opened a locked drawer.
Removed a letter.
“I received this nine years ago.”
Adrien stared.
“From him?”
“Yes.”
“After his death?”
“Two weeks after the funeral.”
Silence.
She handed it over.
My dear Bea,
If they tell you I died, believe them publicly.
Do not ask where I am.
Do not tell Adrien.
He is too loyal to the Crown and too angry to lie well.
Adrien looked offended despite everything.
Beatrice continued:
“He asked me to burn it.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because men tell women to burn evidence when they are certain we will obey.”
I liked her more than ever.
Adrien read.
There is rot inside the Office.
Ashkam knows part of it.
I know more.
If I vanish, it is because remaining dead may be the only useful thing I do.
Then one final line:
If a woman named Martha Bell ever comes to you, help her without asking whom she serves.
Adrien sat.
“Martha and Sebastian worked together.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she come to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe she did not trust you either,” I said.
Adrien gave me a look.
Reasonable.
Beatrice opened another drawer.
“Seven months ago, I received this.”
Another letter.
No signature.
One sentence:
THE BLACKTHORNNE HEIR HAS BEEN FOUND.
My blood turned cold.
“When?”
“Seven months.”
“Nicholas was hidden.”
“Yes.”
“Who knew?”
“Very few.”
Beatrice looked at me.
“Someone had been searching.”
Adrien took letter.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because if I responded, I confirmed relevance.”
Good.
Adrien looked impressed.
Beatrice smiled.
“Unlike my brother, I can lie well.”
He ignored.
“Postmark?”
“Calais.”
France.
Our route.
Martha.
Sebastian.
The ledger.
Everything waited across the Channel.
We left Nicholas with Beatrice the next morning.
He hugged me.
Then Adrien.
Awkwardly.
Adrien froze before putting one hand on his back.
Nicholas whispered:
“Come back.”
Adrien closed his eyes.
“I will try.”
Nicholas pulled away.
“No.”
Adrien looked at him.
“Say you will.”
Promises.
Dangerous.
Necessary sometimes.
Adrien looked at me.
Then Nicholas.
“I will come back.”
Our son nodded.
“Good.”
On the train to Dover, Adrien and I sat opposite each other.
For the first hour we discussed routes.
Names.
Marchand.
Nothing personal.
Then he said:
“Did you hate me?”
I looked out the window.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“For how long?”
“Years.”
“And now?”
I turned.
“I don’t know you now.”
Pain crossed his face.
Good.
Honest.
“I don’t know you either,” he said.
That surprised me.
“You knew me.”
“Seven years ago.”
“Yes.”
“You survived alone. raised a child. became someone I did not witness.”
He looked at me.
“I don’t get to assume I know that woman.”
My throat tightened.
“That is the first sensible thing you’ve said about us.”
He almost smiled.
Then:
“I want to know her.”
The train moved beneath gray sky.
I did not answer.
Not yet.
But I did not look away.
In Calais, a man waited on the platform holding a newspaper folded twice.
Étienne Marchand.
He recognized James’s description of us.
“Duke.”
“Mr. Marchand.”
He looked at me.
“Duchess.”
“Elizabeth.”
He smiled.
“Better.”
Then his face turned grave.
“You came quickly.”
“You found Sebastian.”
“Yes.”
“And Martha.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Marchand looked around.
Then whispered:
“Not where you think.”
Adrien’s expression hardened.
“Meaning?”
“They are not prisoners.”
My stomach tightened.
“What are they?”
Marchand looked at us.
“Partners.”
Silence.
He continued:
“And they have been running the investigation without the Crown for nine years.”
Adrien stopped.
“What investigation?”
Marchand lowered his voice.
“The one against Lord Ashkam.”
“Victoria’s father is dead,” Adrien said.
Marchand shook his head.
“No.”
I almost laughed.
Of course.
Marchand continued:
“He is alive.”
Adrien stared.
“And he knows you have a son.”
The station noise seemed to vanish.
Marchand leaned closer.
“That is why Martha sent for you.”
I stopped.
“She sent?”
“Yes.”
“The letters?”
“Yes.”
“The photograph?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Marchand looked at me.
“Because seven years ago, Martha took more than a ledger from your bag.”
My blood cooled.
“What?”
He answered:
“She took the list of names Lord Ashkam would kill to keep his network alive.”
Adrien went still.
Marchand continued:
“Your name was first.”
Then:
“And the second was the name of any child you might have with the Duke of Blackthornne.”
I could not breathe.
Nicholas had been marked before he was born.
May you like
And Martha had hidden me not from Adrien.
From a man we had all believed dead.
