Chapter 13

13

The Home Office needed good, reliable intelligence—that is why spies were necessary.

—Sue Wilkes, Regency Spies

When she’d finished her own breakfast the next day, Claire excused herself and walked through the dining room to make sure all was in order.

She hesitated upon seeing a man she did not recognize seated with their four other guests. He was of small stature, fastidiously dressed, with thinning dark hair and keen, shining eyes.

Claire bid good morning to Mr. and Mrs. Bracegirdle, busy tucking into a hearty breakfast, then asked the others, “Have everything you need?”

The newcomer looked up and replied in French, “ Délicieux, merci .”

She wanted to ask his name. But if he were a guest there, should she not know it?

Mr. Jackson rose from the table and picked up his cases. “All finished. Another excellent repast, thank you.”

Not wanting to embarrass him, Claire silently caught his eye and pointed to her own neck.

“Oh!” He belatedly removed the table napkin he’d tucked there, now liberally smeared with jam and egg yolk. “Obliged to you.”

Although Claire had initially worried about the salesman, he had been perfectly respectful since their first introduction, even kind.

He followed her into the hall. “Have you ever watched the lace makers, Miss Summers? Sitting upon their stools, bent over straw-stuffed pillows, hands flying from bobbin to bobbin?”

“I have not.”

“You must stop and admire their skill when next you see one of them. I often do that, especially at one particular cottage on my route. The widow who lives there, we are of an age. She and her daughters often sit outside for the best light and work their magic. She, of course, would never look twice at a man like me, but still, the heart will hope.”

“Yes...” Claire breathed in sympathy. “It will.”

After the salesman had taken his leave, Claire found Mr. Hammond still seated at the table in the morning room, head bent over coffee and a newspaper. Sonali and Mira had evidently already gone back upstairs.

“Mr. Hammond, we seem to have a new guest. One I don’t recall meeting...?”

“Ah yes. Jules Lemaire arrived late last night. I did not wish to wake you. I put him in number five.”

This was not the same man she’d seen him talking to in the alley beside the house. This newcomer must have arrived even later. She said, “I did not hear anyone knock late last night.”

“Well, no. I met his coach at the inn and walked him over here myself.”

“A friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance, yes.”

“From France?”

“The Netherlands, actually. Brussels. One of its capitals now, thanks to the Congress of Vienna.”

“How did you mee—”

“Now, if there is nothing else?” He rose abruptly.

At that moment, the man himself appeared in the doorway.

“ Bonjour. ”

“Ah, Monsieur Lemaire.” Mr. Hammond smiled. “We were just speaking of you. Please meet Miss Summers, l’h?tesse. ”

He gave her a crisp bow. “ Enchanté, mademoiselle. ”

“Um ... moi de même ,” Claire murmured in reply, the smattering of French she had learned as a girl mostly forgotten.

Monsieur Lemaire went on to ask Mr. Hammond a question in rapid French, perhaps assuming Claire would understand.

She excused herself with a quiet “ Excusez-moi ” and slipped away, but not before she heard Mr. Hammond’s reply in seemingly fluent French. Russian, and now French too?

She told herself she should not be surprised. Many educated people spoke French. Yet the situation troubled her: the late-night arrival of a foreign guest, Mr. Hammond’s curt dismissal when she asked how they’d met, and his closely guarded past and study.

Claire told herself to focus on her own responsibilities and not let it bother her. But she found his secrecy increasingly vexing.

Later that day, Claire answered the door to find Emily standing there, a thin volume in her gloved hands.

She said, “I hope you don’t mind seeing me again so soon. I fear you shall quickly grow weary of sisters stopping by unannounced.”

“Never,” Claire replied, although privately she wondered if Mr. Hammond would. She opened the door wider, and Emily stepped inside.

“I have brought you a Sidmouth guidebook.” Emily thrust the volume toward her.

Claire thought of the guidebook in the parlour, left there for guests’ use, but said only, “Thank you. How kind.”

“I thought it might help acquaint you—or reacquaint you—with the area. You were here only a few months during our first visit, and that was years ago.”

“I agree. I am sure I shall find it useful.”

“I know Mr. Hammond—or even Fran—probably already bought a guidebook for the boarding house. No doubt the older one, published by Mr. Wallis. This is a newer one, published by John Marsh. I suppose those names mean nothing to you, but the thing is, well, can you keep a secret?”

Daily. “Yes.”

“I wrote this one.”

For a moment, Claire stared in amazement, then she threw her arms around Emily—the little sister who’d always wanted to write a book someday. “How wonderful. Congratulations.”

Emily’s face shone with pleasure. “I should mention that my name does not appear in it, and Mr. Marsh made several changes before it was printed. And sadly it’s already out of date as his library has since closed, but otherwise I think some of the descriptions are rather good.”

“I am sure they are, and I look forward to reading it. Now, can you stay for a bit? I was just about to have a cup of tea.”

“Yes, if you are sure I won’t be a bother.”

“Not at all. Though it won’t be a silver tea service brought in by a footman. It will be two plain cups and saucers carried by yours truly.”

Emily smiled. “Just as I like it.”

When the two were seated at the small table in Claire’s room, Emily sipped her tea, then asked, “How are things going here?”

“All right so far. Although I am supposed to be thinking of ways to increase business and have not a clue how to go about it.”

“I could help you write a new advertisement. I have written several for Sea View. And writing is my specialty, after all.” She winked.

“Yes, please.” Claire wasted no time in providing paper and ink.

She and Emily spent several minutes composing an advertisement announcing Broadbridge’s new management and the continuation of its excellent service and commodious accommodation.

Then Emily returned the quill to its holder. “Now, tell me about Mr. Hammond. How on earth did this business arrangement come about? And is it only a business arrangement?”

“Yes, of course it is. Don’t be a goose!” Ignoring the heat rising up her neck, Claire went on to tell Emily about the newspaper advertisement she had answered.

“Quite brave of you, not knowing what sort of man had written it.”

“Brave or foolish? Perhaps I am the goose.”

“And what sort of a man is the dashing Mr. Hammond?”

“Dashing? Do you think so?”

Emily nodded, eyes sparkling. “I am happily married, yet I still have eyes, have I not?”

Yes, he is handsome , Claire inwardly allowed, but what sort of man was he? That was more difficult to answer. Thinking aloud, she began, “He’s a widower. And seems a caring father to his daughter.”

“Ah. I noticed him in church with a little girl. So his wife was...?”

“From India, I believe.”

“Was he there with the East India Company, like Viola’s husband, Major Hutton?”

“I don’t know. He’s rather private—secretive, even—about his past.”

Claire told her about the foreign languages, coins, and guests. His evasive answers when asked about his prior profession. His out-of-bounds study.

Excitement brightened Emily’s face. “Maybe he is a spy!”

“No, I don’t think so,” Claire said, then frowned. “Wait—a foreign spy or a British spy?”

“A British spy, we hope. A foreign spy could be frightfully dangerous if found out.”

“What would any spy be doing in a boarding house?”

“Perhaps it is a cover—a place to meet with foreign informants without raising suspicion. Or ... now that the wars with France and America are over, maybe he has returned to England to start a new life. Oh! Maybe he has assumed a new identity as well. Hammond might not even be his real name.”

“Goodness! You have quite the imagination. Then again, you always did. Still reading a great many novels?”

“Yes. Writing one too.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

Emily drew in a sharp breath. “Perhaps he is even a famous spy, and that’s why his name seemed familiar to James—if he did not change it, that is. How romantic!”

But Claire saw nothing romantic about living under the same roof as a man spying for or against his country. In fact, she found the notion quite unsettling.

Emily set down her cup. “Just supposition, of course. Perhaps James will find out more about him.”

“I cannot ask you to keep secrets from your husband, but please ask him not to share what I told you about Mr. Hammond. I would not want the man to get into any trouble over my silly suspicions. There is no doubt some other explanation.”

At least Claire hoped so.

The next day it rained hard, and Claire guessed it would curtail Mr. Hammond’s regular jaunt out of doors.

She entered the morning room with a duster, planning to tidy the desk with its cluttered stacks of correspondence, pen knives, and quills that needed mending. She lifted the registration book to dust beneath it, and a scrap of paper fell to the floor. Had Mr. Hammond been using it to mark his place?

She picked it up and glanced at it. On the small sheet of note paper was a handwritten series of numbers.

834 1151 4479 2667 2742 3067 788....

She frowned down at them. What did the numbers refer to? Amounts due? Debts owed? Something else?

Emily’s conjecture that Mr. Hammond might be a spy returned to her. Was it some sort of code? She tried to thrust the outrageous thought from her mind. Even so, Claire hesitated to throw the paper away. She considered tucking it into the desk drawer as she had the foreign letter and coin. Instead she decided to present it to Mr. Hammond and see how he reacted.

Despite his obvious displeasure at her previous intrusion, Claire again crossed the passage and pushed through the outer door into his apartment, ready to confront him. She stepped onto the landing and found the door to his bedchamber open. Peeking in, she saw the room was surprisingly neat, especially considering he cleaned it himself.

Next she knocked on the closed door of his study. No answer.

She tried the latch. Not locked. She lifted the latch and tentatively inched the door open. The room was empty. The desk ... crowded indeed.

Nervously, she tiptoed inside and looked at the papers spread atop the desk: correspondence with foreign postal markings. A Russian newspaper. Maps. A journal opened to a page of his handwriting, the words Constantinople and cipher coming into view.

A floorboard creaked nearby, and Claire gasped and looked up, hand to her chest, frozen above his desk.

William Hammond stood there, anger sketched on his face. “What are you doing in here? Have I not made it clear this is my private study?”

Indignation flared. “You have made it clear. Suspiciously so. Yet have I not a right to wonder about the man I’ve entered into a partnership with? A man who won’t talk about his past or previous profession? Who—”

“You have your own secrets,” he interrupted. “I don’t pry into your private history.”

“Well, I don’t leave odd codes lying around.”

“What codes?”

She thrust the paper toward him.

He glanced at it dismissively. “It’s just a list. Nothing that concerns you.”

“Nothing that concerns me? You hide up here doing who knows what and go off somewhere almost daily....”

“I simply like to climb the surrounding hills. For the exercise.”

Undeterred, she went on, “You meet privately with strangers and have foreign guests to stay but don’t explain how you met them—and that’s only what I know about. Very well, I shall just come out and ask. Are you a spy?”

“Am I a...?” He gave a bark of laughter. “No, Miss Summers, I am not a spy. Not now, not ever.”

“Then how do you explain all ... this?” She gestured around his study, at the letters, journal, and maps spread about.

He huffed. “You will find the explanation a disappointment, I fear. There’s little intrigue to the truth.”

“Go on.”

“If you really must know, before coming here I was a diplomat. In various capacities in various places: Austria, Russia, the Ottoman Empire...”

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly.”

She raised both hands in frustration. “Then why not just say so? Why all the secrecy?”

“I don’t like talking about it.”

“Why? I would think you’d be proud.”

“Not proud. Just the opposite. I don’t like who I was then. Driven by ambition. Determined to advance, to attain a better post. Perhaps be appointed envoy extraordinary or even ambassador one day.”

“Is there something wrong with ambition?”

“There is when you put it before the wishes of someone you love.”

He gazed morosely into the vague distance. Then he looked back at her as if just remembering she was there.

“I regret those years, and that is the main reason I don’t talk about them. The other is more about expediency. Why would a diplomat who lived in some of the finest embassies in the world leave it all behind to buy a humble seaside boarding house?”

“A natural question.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “And one I don’t wish to answer five times a day. For answering the one inevitably leads to the other.”

“Then why buy a boarding house in the first place?”

“It’s a long story.”

Claire glanced at the rain cascading down the windowpanes. “I am not going anywhere. And we are unlikely to receive any new guests during this.”

He heaved a sigh, then gestured toward a chair. “Very well.” When she was seated, he sat down as well.

For a few moments, he rested his chin on one hand and stared at the maps, apparently gathering his thoughts.

He began, “My wife, Vanita, grew up listening to tales of her father’s idyllic childhood on the English seaside. He promised to take her there one day.”

“Her father was English?” Claire asked in surprise.

“Yes. He went to India to make his fortune, as did many. There he met and married an Indian woman—a young widow with a son. They had Vanita a few years later.

“Unlike many Englishmen, he did not treat Vanita’s mother as an unofficial ‘lady wife’ to be discarded before leaving India. He truly loved her and was devastated when she died.”

“How sad.”

He nodded his agreement. “By that point, her son had grown and left home to become a soldier. He soon fell out of contact with the family.”

“Did you meet Vanita in India?”

He shook his head. “In Vienna. But that’s a story for another day. Suffice it to say, her father was not in good health when I met them, and he died shortly after we wed.”

“Oh no.”

“I promised Vanita I would one day bring her to England in his stead. She wanted our children to grow up in the ideal setting she’d heard about all her life. I tried to caution her about dreams of a perfect life in a perfect England—gently warned her that she might not be accepted in that imagined seaside village she longed to call home. You know how some people can be about foreigners. Especially those with darker skin.”

“So I am learning.”

“But I put off that promised trip to England, accepting one appointment after another. Sadly, Vanita died before I could fulfill my promise.”

“I’m terribly sorry. So much loss.” Claire considered, then asked, “So you decided to bring Mira here after your wife’s death?”

He nodded. “Better late than never...I hope.”

“One thing I don’t understand. Of all the seaside towns, some far larger and more fashionable than this one, you randomly chose Sidmouth. Why?”

“Not random at all. Through my diplomatic connections, I had been endeavoring for quite some time to discover what became of Vanita’s half brother. I am still trying to find him. For Mira’s sake.

“I finally received a reply to my inquiries shortly after Vanita died. I learned that he too had left India. He received permission to accompany a wounded British officer on his return to England. They were thought to be residing in Sidmouth, Devonshire—where the officer had been advised to live for his health.”

“So that’s why you came here.”

“Yes. The boarding house was simply a way to supplement my diplomatic pension.”

Claire thought of the Indian man she had met on the coach and again in Sidmouth. “And have you found him here?”

“Not yet. I asked around town shortly after we arrived. It seems there might be a man of similar age and description residing on the other side of town in a place called Westmount. I went there but the servant who came to the door was reluctant to talk to me. He would tell me only that the man was not there presently but was expected back at some point.”

“Why would he not say more?”

Mr. Hammond shrugged. “He seemed wary of my motives—what I might want with him. I did not explain the connection. Simply left a message that I would like to speak to him if and when he returns.”

Oh, I think he has returned , Claire thought to herself. And his name is Armaan.