Indiscreet. Candace Camp
to wonder what you are doing or why you are willing to do this for her.”
Benedict snorted. “She would not wonder why I was willing. She thinks I would do anything for money.”
“You haven’t done a great deal to give the girl a good impression of you,” his friend pointed out. “And that’s all to our advantage. Thinking you are a scoundrel, she will not question your hiring yourself out as her fiancé. She will never dream that you are a spy in the midst of her family. You do not have to trust her. She will be as deceived as the rest of them.”
Benedict looked at his lifelong friend. Jermyn’s bland good looks and impeccable manners had always hidden an active and scheming brain. It had usually been Jermyn who came up with the tricks they pulled as lads, though it had just as usually been the dark, willful Benedict who was blamed for them, while the blond, angelic Jermyn was forgiven for going along with his mischievous friend. Benedict often thought that if the war with Napoléon had not come along, giving Jermyn a chance to turn his devious, imaginative skills to the task of defeating the enemy, Sedgewick would have wound up in Newgate—and doubtless would have somehow inveigled Benedict to be there with him.
“And you see nothing wrong in deceiving an innocent young woman in this way? In planting a spy in her household and embroiling her in a vipers’ nest of treachery and murder?”
Jermyn pulled back, one hand going to his chest in a dramatic fashion. “Benedict…you think that I would harm this young woman in any way? I wonder that you should even want to claim my friendship.”
“There are times when I do not,” Benedict retorted bluntly. “And don’t put on that innocent air with me. I think that you would do anything necessary to find out what has happened to our agents and to save our ‘little project’ from being destroyed.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Jermyn raised a cool eyebrow. “My dear friend, I have worked long and hard to establish those men in France, and their services are invaluable to our government. Knowledge is priceless. It is what wins wars. Right now, we are utterly without knowledge.”
During the past four years, while Benedict was with the army on the Peninsula, fighting Napoléon’s armies directly, Jermyn had been in the Home Office, battling the French on a secret front. He had established a network of spies within France, calling the project Gideon and planting men, both Englishmen and French émigrés, inside the other country, whence they kept him supplied with news of the enemy. Rumors, stolen documents, the mood of the people, financial and political conditions, news of troop movements and morale, of supplies and problems—all were funneled out of France and into Jermyn’s office. For the past few months, since Benedict was forced to leave the army because of the injuries he had suffered in battle, he had joined his friend in his dark, desperate conflict.
Benedict knew how invaluable their work was, and, though he chafed at being relegated to a passive, waiting role in the government offices, he had given it his usual full devotion. And, like Jermyn, he knew just how catastrophic was the danger that was now threatening the spy ring—and, by implication, England itself, for the destruction of the Gideon network in France would create a huge hole in the whole war effort. The army, the government, would once again be without the knowledge it so desperately needed. Worse, there was always the possibility that the French might be sending in spies or saboteurs of their own through the very channels that Jermyn, through the Gideon network, had created.
“You are right,” Jermyn went on implacably. “I would do almost anything to keep that network of agents in France intact and unknown, to keep them from being hunted down and killed. Those are my men out there, Benedict, and it is my responsibility to keep them safe, just as it was your responsibility to bring your comrades back to safety. You didn’t let your wounds stop you, and I am afraid I cannot allow the prospect of some minimal danger to one woman stop me.”
He stopped and sighed. “I know that sounds callous. But what would you have us do? Lose this chance? Benedict, this is a golden opportunity. You can get inside Chevington Park. You will be accepted as an insider, one of the family. They will talk to you.”
“Yes, but it hardly seems likely that anyone in the Earl’s family is connected with the smuggling.”
When Jermyn set up the spy ring, smuggling had seemed the logical way of bringing messages and people into and out of England. With trade with France barred legally, only the illegal trade in French brandy and tobacco from the United States offered an opportunity for passage in and out of France. The smugglers had been operating for centuries quite successfully, and it required only paying the smugglers to get them to bring in a few letters or human cargo, as well. Richard Winslow, one of Jermyn’s friends and coworkers, had been their connection to the smugglers who operated in the area of Edgecombe. Unfortunately, to keep news of the operation from getting out of the notoriously leaky Home Office, only Winslow had known who his contact among the smugglers was.
The flaw in this scheme had become obvious a few weeks ago, however, when Winslow had died, apparently by his own hand, taking the secret of the smugglers to his grave. Both Jermyn and Benedict had been astonished that the serious, dedicated Winslow had killed himself, thereby endangering the spy ring, but they had not been suspicious until a week later, when the messenger they were awaiting from France did not arrive. They did not know whom to contact in Edgecombe, so they could only wait and worry as weeks passed without word from him.
Growing ever more suspicious, they began to look into Winslow’s death again. On closer inspection, they had realized that the suicide note did not exactly match Winslow’s handwriting, though it had been a very good copy. In the face of that, certain inconsistencies about his death that they had dismissed before now loomed large, and they became convinced that Winslow had been murdered, rather than being the victim of his own melancholy.
They continued to receive no messages from France, and they became even more convinced that their messengers were being killed, as Winslow had been. There was a traitor working against the network. Their fears were further heightened by a message from a known French spy that had been intercepted on its way to France. One terse line in the message had conveyed the fact that “we have a man in place in Edgecombe, and we will pick them off one by one.” It was clear that Gideon was in danger.
Unfortunately, they were still in the dark about the identity of the French agent at work in Edgecombe. The Frenchman who had sent the messages fled before he could be arrested, and his whereabouts were unknown. Moreover, they did not even know how to get to their friend among the smugglers to warn him about the danger. Only Winslow had sent the messages or directed the agents where to go. Only Winslow knew the identity of the man with whom he had dealt.
It was for this reason that they had come to Edgecombe over a week ago: to gather information about the smugglers and hopefully discover not only whom they should contact, but also what had happened to their agent and who was trying to harm Gideon. Unfortunately, in the time they had been here, they had learned almost nothing. Jermyn had tried mingling with the villagers, but none of the locals would talk to him about the smugglers. However law-abiding the citizens were, the smugglers were, after all, their own, and they protected their own. Benedict, on the other hand, had kept a low profile, wandering the heath and shore for signs of the smugglers or their contraband, investigating caves and trails and spending every evening for a week lying in wait for them in the likeliest-looking places. He had discovered as little as Jermyn.
“No one in Chevington’s family is likely to be one of the smugglers, that’s true,” Sedgewick admitted now. “However, you know we have discussed the possibility that Winslow’s killer was someone he was at least acquainted with, another ‘gentleman,’ perhaps.”
Their suspicions had been aroused by the fact that the murder took place in Winslow’s study late at night. The doors and windows of the house had been locked, none of them forced, and there had been no sign of a struggle. The servants had heard nothing except the gunshot and had admitted no one into the house that evening. Lord Winslow, in fact, had not even been at home until late in the evening, and no one was sure when he had come in, as he had told the servants not to wait up for him.
Sedgewick and Benedict surmised that