The pen stopped moving. Cox looked up. "Colonel Wingate was injured six months ago during a training exercise when he suffered a fall from his horse. At that time, he was reassigned to the command of General Ulysses Stevens of the Royal Life Guards. The general is among those men whose advice is highly valued. He is kept abreast of troop movements on the Continent and would have had full knowledge of Wellesley's intention to confront the enemy at Oporto."
"Are you saying Wingate would also have that sort of knowledge?"
"I'm sure he does." Cox stuck the quill pen back into its holder. "Unfortunately, Captain Tanner, unless one of us can prove Colonel Wingate relayed that information to a person or persons other than those in proper circles, we cannot impinge upon his honor by making any sort of accusation."
"I understand, sir."
"What do you think of Lord Nash?" Cox asked. "Jonathan Parker is far more subtle than most of the Durant girl's admirers, but the plain truth is, he is just as eager to have her as the next man."
"Nash has made it clear he wishes to become her protector," Caleb said. "I'm uncertain whether or not he has ever been one of her lovers."
The colonel plucked a bit of lint off the front of his scarlet uniform jacket. "I realize Nash is a close friend of your father's, Captain, but as an advisor to the chancellor, he has access to a good deal of useful information. Is there any possibility he might be passing some of that along to the French, either through Vermillion or Gabriella Durant?"
"Lord Nash has always been a loyal Englishman, sir. I don't believe he would ever betray his country." And Caleb admired him greatly, had since he was a boy.
While his father was busy with his horses or running his earldom, Nash, the son of a peer who was his father's friend, always managed to find a spare moment for him.
That was years ago, of course. Caleb had rarely seen the man since. He doubted Nash would even recognize him now, though he made a point of avoiding him at Parklands.
"Just remember," the colonel warned, "Nash wants the girl—perhaps more than any other of her admirers—and when it comes to a woman he wants, no man is completely immune."
No, Caleb thought. It would be difficult for any man to be completely immune to Vermillion. "I'll keep that in mind, sir."
"Make certain that you do. Now, I suppose you had better hie yourself back to Parklands before you are missed."
"Yes, sir."
"Keep your eyes and ears open, Captain."
"I will, sir."
"That is all. You are dismissed."
Cox watched the youngest of the three men assigned to help him uncover a traitor, or more likely a ring of them, and thought that Wellesley had chosen extremely well. Captain Tanner was a fine officer, a skilled cavalryman and decorated hero of the war. He knew horses and racing—the reason he had been chosen—was intelligent and loyal, with a father who was a powerful friend to the Tories and extremely proud of his son. The captain would do the job that had been assigned him.
Across the desk, the major shifted in his chair. "Perhaps he'll wind up seducing one of them. I still think a more intimate relationship might be the answer to our prayers."
Cox raised an eyebrow. "You may be right, Major. If you are, Tanner is likely the man for the job. I don't believe even the practiced skills of a courtesan could seduce our handsome young captain away from his duties."
"Tanner's a good man," Sutton agreed. "And you're right. His career means everything to him. He won't let a woman come between him and his job."
It was past time she made a trip into London. Lee tried to go at least once a week, but somehow the days had rushed past and she had been unable to slip away. Forgoing her usual morning ride, she dressed in a simple gown of yellow muslin, summoned her smart little park phaeton, and along with Jeannie set out for the house she had rented in a quiet neighborhood at the edge of Bloomsbury a little over two years ago.
Though the three-story brick structure didn't perch on a street in Mayfair or any of the fashionable districts of London, the buildings in the area were clean and well cared for, the occupants mostly of the working classes, and there was a small park just a few blocks to the east.
"We should 'ave come in zee carriage," Jeannie grumbled in her heavy French accent, looking up at a sky that had begun to grow cloudy. "It will probably rain before we get back to the 'ouse."
"If it does," Lee said cheerfully, "we will simply put up the top. It might get a little damp going home but I'm sure we'll survive it."
Jeannie muttered something Vermillion ignored. Like a number of the servants in her aunt's employ, Jeannie was the child of a French immigrant who had fled to England during the Revolution. The ongoing troubles with Napoleon often made it difficult for French-speaking persons to find employment. Being part French herself, Gabriella felt it her duty to help whenever she could.
It was a similar sort of empathy that had led Vermillion to rent the house in Buford Street. Stepping up on the porch, she used the lion's head knocker to announce her arrival, and a few minutes later, the wooden door swung wide.
"Lee! We've missed you! Please come in." This from Helen Wilson, a plump, smiling young woman three years Lee's senior who had worked as a chambermaid for Lisette Moreau. Helen wasn't French but she had been in need, and Lee had decided to help her.
Since that time, four other young women, each enceinte and unmarried, had come to her for help. All of them now lived in the house in Buford Street.
"How are you, Helen? How is the baby?"
"Robbie is fine. So am I. Come and see. He always gets so excited when you come for a visit."
Lee smiled, pleased at the words. She loved little Robert Wilson, loved all of the children in the house. Helen set the boy on his feet and the baby of twenty-two months waddled toward her, a slobbery grin on his face. He held up his chubby little arms and she scooped him high against her breast.
"Hello, sweetheart. I've missed you so much. What a big boy you're getting to be."
Robbie giggled and banged his little fists up and down on her shoulders. Lee hugged him fiercely, then set him back down on his feet. Turning away, the little boy toddled over to where little Jilly, two months old, lay on a blanket near her mother's feet.
Lee stopped to talk to Jilly's mother, Annie Hickam, where she sat bent over her sewing. Born in a Southwark slum, Annie was a former prostitute who had earned her living on the street. Never a beauty, she was rawboned and rough-skinned, but she fiercely loved her child and she had vowed to make a better life for both of them.
" 'Tis good to see ya, Miss," Annie said. They talked about the baby and the colic she had suffered last week.
"She's fine now, don't ya see? Such a good lass, she is." She reached down, picked up the blanket-wrapped infant, and cuddled the child against her breast. "Aren't ya, sweet luv?"
Lee held the baby for a while, then handed her back to her mother and went over to check on the other two newborns in the house, Joshua Sweet and Benjamin Carey, and their mothers, Sarah and Rose. When she finished, she walked over to chat with a young pregnant woman named Mary Goodhouse, the newest addition to the group.
Mary was a chambermaid from Parklands who had gotten involved with a young man named Fredrick Hully, a lad from the village. A few months with Freddie, and Mary found herself with child, her belly swollen, and Freddie gone off to seek his fortune in the Colonies.
"He promised he would send for me," Mary had said, her soft brown eyes glossy with tears. "If he had known about the babe, he would have taken me with him."
Perhaps he would have, but Lee didn't think so. In the meantime, the house in Buford Street was the answer to Mary's prayers.
"How are you feeling, Mary?" She was small and brown-haired, her round belly ill-concealed by the apron she wore over her skirt. "You aren't still having those bouts of sickness in the mornings?"