The Lady's Daring Gambit (Diamonds of

London Book 2) Sandra Sookoo

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 The Lady’s Daring Gambit

Diamonds of London
Book Two

Sandra Sookoo

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the author. Neither is AI
reproduction allowed in any form. I do NOT give my permission for this work—or any of my others—to be used to train AI programs.
Likenesses of characters to anyone living or dead is strictly a coincidence.

THE LADY’S DARING GAMBIT © 2023 by Sandra Sookoo

Published by New Independence Books

ISBN- 9798215422540

Contact Information:
sandrasookoo@yahoo.com
newindependencebooks@gmail.com
Visit me at www.sandrasookoo.com

Book Cover Design by The Midnight Muse

https://midnightmusedesigns.com/site2/
Font placement and back cover by: David Sookoo

Publishing History:
First Digital Edition, 2023
 Author’s Pledge and Promise
You have my promise that I have never used AI technology to produce any part of the books I write
and publish, and that I never will. Each and every word is mine. I spend copious hours every day
outlining my books and then writing them. I refuse to use AI technology because then that product isn’t
writing. That is cheating and asking a computer to do the work for me.

So much of writing is organic, and computers simply can’t make a reader feel the things a hero and
heroine go through. I absolutely love connecting my characters with my readers, and letting my
readers have a fully immersive experience while reading my stories.

Rest assured that I will still write every single word in each one of my books, and you have my
guarantee that what you have purchased is the genuine book and not artificially created.

I adore my readers far too much, as well as the craft of writing, to cheat them in any way.

Thank you for your continued support.

 Table of Contents
Dear Readers
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter S ix
Chapter S even
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter S ixteen
Chapter S eventeen
Epilogue
Lake District lemon and spice cake
Lemon Buttermilk Cake
Regency-era romances by S andra S ookoo
Author Bio
S tay in Touch

Dear Readers
The Lady’s Daring Gambit is the second book in my new Diamonds of London series. As I did my last read through of the book, I
found myself chuckling at parts of the story and tearing up in others. There is something about a grumpy sunshine relationship that I
adore! I hope you do too.

Just like the first book in the series, the heroine in this one has more depth to her than appears at first glance. They might have been
diamonds of the first water in their Come Out years, but that doesn’t mean they are brainless or vapid.

The world, I’m convinced, was built upon the silent strength of women, and though they often don’t get the credit they deserve, it doesn’t
mean they didn’t play a part.

Here’s to everyone out there who loves a strong female lead who doesn’t make it obvious but certainly keeps an equally strong man on
his toes.

Happy reading!
Sandra
Dedication

To Belinda Wilson. Thank you so much for loving my books and for your encouraging support. I
couldn’t do this gig without readers and friends like you. And happy anniversary!

Acknowledgements
Thanks for the help on what a dad would say when a man of few words asked for permission to marry his daughter.

Linda Dell
Cindy Bartolotta
Kelly Price
Beth Hinterleiter-Udall
Jeff Salter
Dorothy Callahan

And thanks for the help in suggesting names for a gaming hell in the Diamonds of London series.

Rachel E. Moniz
Angela Pryce
Jeff Salter
Roslynn Ernst
Kari Maass
Meghan Lyndsey Ann Edwards
Linda Dell
Mary Dieterich
Deanna Dent
Lynne Connolly
Beth Hinterleiter-Udall
Cindy Bartolotta
 Blurb

She needs to ferret out his secrets. He’s doing his level best to keep them.

Miss Honor Winslow wants revenge. Her father has been missing since the war with Napoleon ended. Then a week ago, a letter arrived
from him asking for help, but it wasn’t signed, and no address had been included. Needing answers, she enlists the help of one of her
friends, who has connections to the Home Office. If the old, pompous windbags there won’t listen, she will do the job herself, despite her
physical difficulties following a minor apoplexy.

All Mr. Gideon McGarrett wants out of life is peace, and at nearly forty, it’s finally within reach. Ready to close his last mission, the only
thing he needs to do is extract a man of high military rank from where he’s hiding after being wounded. The one thing that stands in the
way of a spotless career is the damned interference of a clever and vulnerable woman who insists on joining his mission.

As Honor and Gideon bicker during the journey north, heated awareness springs from forced proximity, and all too soon that desire
becomes distracting, especially when a faux engagement is offered out of necessity. Once in the Lake District, when they locate her
father, the woman who wants him dead has also arrived. It will take some smart negotiating and perhaps a fight to unravel the mess.

Only then can the pair make a go at a life together—if they can stop hiding their emotions and let down their guards to enjoy
the ride.
 Chapter One

July 19, 1817

Stanwyck House
London, England

Miss Honor Winslow refreshed the tea in her cup and then did the same to her best friend
Edwina’s cup. She owed much to Winnie and her family. Since her father was a career military man
and had attained the title of general, he’d rarely been home, especially during the war, so she had
basically stayed with the Stanwycks.
Since Winnie’s parents were the Viscount and Viscountess of Berrensfield, they had gladly
sponsored her few Seasons while in London… before everything had come crashing down in her life
and she was left with no other choice than to remain a permanent fixture in their household. Once,
during one of those glorious years, she’d been heralded a Diamond of the First Water, and it had been
a year where gentlemen of the ton had favored brunettes. During that Season, she’d had a bevy of
admirers, who never failed to pine for what they called her “ruby lips” or her “unusual blue-brown
eyes.”
I should have chosen one of those young bucks, for then at least I’d have a husband. Now
she was a spinster with no prospects and little enough to recommend her.
“What shall we do this afternoon? For once it isn’t raining, and I would really enjoy the
chance to stretch my legs and take a walk.” As much to exercise her weakened muscles as to get out
of the house. “I feel as if life is passing me by, and there is naught I can do to stop it.”
“Or we could go driving and make a stop at Gunter’s for an ice. It’s quite stifling just now,
don’t you think?” Even as she said it, Winnie snapped open a blue silk fan and used it to cool her face
that held a trace of red color in her cheeks.
“It is, this is true, but getting out will allow us to feel the breeze and therefore cool us.” She
selected a honey cake from the tray. They were her favorite, and had also been her mother’s favorite
as well. “However, if you would rather stay inside, I will go by myself.” It was past time for her to
have something to show from life. She might not be married or even wanted now, but that didn’t mean
she couldn’t find a purpose.
Winnie pointed her gaze to the ceiling. Exasperation reflected in those cornflower blue
depths. “I suppose I shall come. With your health being what it is, I’d rather not have you going about
Town alone.”
Honor huffed. “I am never alone. Your parents see to that.” In fact, ever since she’d been with
the household, she’d had a maid or a footman accompany her everywhere. Never was she allowed to
shop by herself, or visit a lending library, or even splash about in the Serpentine at Hyde Park on days
such as this. If she went to a modiste or a milliner, someone came with her. All due to her suffering an
apoplexy four years before not long after her mother had died.
“Neither should you be.” Winnie snapped her fan closed. Once she tossed it to a sofa cushion
next to her, she took a few sips of tea before setting her cup into its saucer and resting them both on
the low table in front of her. A wash of sadness went through her expression. “I nearly lost you once. I
won’t take the chance again.” Her chin trembled as she struggled to conquer the emotions. “It was the
worst time of my life. Please don’t make me go through that a second time.”
Poor girl. Honor hadn’t given thought to the toll her illness had taken on others, but she’d
been heartily thankful she’d been more or less adopted by this family.
“Then it’s your misplaced guilt I should blame for never having a moment to myself?” But she
tempered the words with a soft smile. Without Edwina and her family, she would have been in much
more dire straits, perhaps even locked away in an asylum. “I appreciate your concern and that of your
parents. Without you, I would likely be dead or tucked away in my own home, alone except for a
handful of servants since Father is always away. I would be drooling and forever gazing out a
window because I couldn’t defeat my illness.”
For much of that had to do with the Stanwycke family.
The surgeon who had been called to attend to her following her stroke hadn’t been much help.
Other than proclaiming that she had, indeed, suffered an apoplexy, he didn’t know what the prognosis
might be. Her muscles would either be strengthened, or they wouldn’t. Full range of motion would
return to her left side, or it wouldn’t. And he’d admitted the medical field didn’t truly understand
much of what occurred or why in the human brain, especially of the female variety. When the viscount
had inquired as to what had brought on the emergency, the surgeon had shrugged and guessed that a
large shock—emotional or not—could have encouraged it, or perhaps fate had always pegged her to
go through it.
Very unhelpful, that one. But it stood to reason that the shock of her mother’s sudden death had
caused upheaval in Honor’s life.
Edwina shook her head. “Forgive my boldness, but your father is a nodcock. He should have
been here, riding neck or nothing to reach your side.”
“He is dedicated to his work.” No doubt being a general kept him quite busy. Over the course
of the war with Napoleon, she’d seen him only a handful of times, for his expertise and presence was
always needed elsewhere. To be honest, she didn’t truly know what he did within his position, and
he’d never shared that information.
“Dearest, you give him far too much credit.” The other woman sniffed. “Where is he since the
war has ended? He should have at least come home when your mother died and you suffered that
stroke. You needed him; the only blood family you have left.”
“I have no answers, but I, too, have felt the same.” That only made the resentment and anger
that had been simmering in her chest for years grow a tiny bit stronger. “He should have come home
to be with me. It was only right.” Except, he hadn’t. Even after the viscount had written a letter of
explanation to the Home Office in the hopes they would forward the missive on.
Which had never been answered nor had resulted in her father returning, as if she’d not
mattered to him. As an ache set up around her heart—grief most likely—her thoughts turned inward
once more.
Directly following the apoplexy, the surgeon had said she’d needed to be bled in order to
cleanse the blood and encourage the muscles to strengthen. She’d suffered a couple of months of that
ghastly bloodletting, but it had only left her tired and weaker than she’d been before. That, coupled
with being dosed with laudanum had made her about as effective as a lamp shade. For months, she’d
done nothing but lie in her bed, listening to the sounds of Mayfair through her window—weather
permitting—but that had grown dull. If she were to ever resume her life and meet the dreams she
persisted in dreaming, she would need to take things into her own hands.
So, she’d enlisted Edwina’s assistance. Immediately, she had refused the regular doses of
laudanum, and going through a bit of withdrawal from the drug had proved a nightmare, but she’d
prevailed with her best friend’s unwavering support.
After that, every day she would get up and walk about her room, exercise her hand, arm, and
shoulder. They’d thrown a ball to each other from across the drawing room, which had resulted in
many broken vases and collectibles until the viscountess had forbidden such play. She and Edwina
would make funny faces to help her facial muscles work properly again. Though her left side wasn’t
as strong as the right, she pushed herself until she didn’t need her best friend’s assistance.
The viscountess played soothing music on her harp, and when she wasn’t doing that, she
essentially taught Honor how to speak again, using children’s primers left over from Edwina’s days
spent with a governess. Yes, the words had been there, but pronouncing some of them with her tongue
and forming the words with her lips had proved problematic, but eventually, after several months of
therapy, Honor conquered that ability.
Edwina’s father also aided her cause. Besides being a viscount, he was a lover of history, so
he would quiz her each evening over dinner to encourage her brain to return to some semblance of
normality. Not only that, but he insisted she read aloud for an hour each evening to the family so she
could exercise her mind and the muscles in her eyes and lips.
That had proven a Godsend and something she wouldn’t have thought about on her own.
Edwina’s father was quite progressive for his time, and she hoped his influence would help steer
parliament toward making laws that would assist and protect people like her.
Throughout it all, someone always assisted her in walking about the townhouse. After a few
months, she was allowed outside with either Edwina or one of the servants to walk a couple of
blocks and then come back. With every passing day, her muscles strengthened, and her health
improved. At the end of a year and a half, she was allowed to visit Hyde Park and walk, sometimes
even frolic in the shallow parts of the Serpentine on fine days.
But never by herself. When a maid or footman accompanied her, they waited well behind her
to allow her privacy, but she was never alone.
Finally, at the second anniversary of suffering the stroke, she’d regained ninety percent of her
previous functions. Some things were stubborn and were still weak even now, but she was all the
more obstinate and would eventually overcome all of those problems. Occasionally, she would forget
how to say a word or pronounce one, and sometimes her mind wouldn’t work as it should which
made her trip over her words or steps. And at other times, various parts of her left side were numb
and she couldn’t feel the slide of fabric on her skin. The sensations came and went, and she never let
on that it troubled her, for what would that mean in her future? If she ever married, would she be able
to conceive and carry a child? The surgeon had no answers, and what was more, he hadn’t appeared
to care, but by and large, she took it in stride.
At least she was alive. Everything else could be dealt with whenever those things arose.
Regardless of how well-adjusted she thought she might be at the age of thirty—and an unwanted,
unwed spinster at that—thinking of the future brought her more anxiety than she would have liked.
There were many nights when she laid abed, wide awake and wracked with unanswered questions,
wondering when the rest of her life might begin.
“Honor?”
The sound of Winnie’s voice brought her out of her thoughts. “Hmm?” She blinked in
confusion as she looked at her best friend, for sometimes her mind wandered where it had never done
such things before. It was most maddening to know she merely dropped out of a conversation to think
about things not remotely related to the topic at hand. Apparently, the stroke had mucked about with
concentration as well.
Bully for me.
“Abbott said a letter arrived for you in the post a few days ago. It was delivered to your
townhouse, and one of the servants brought it by here just now.” Then she glanced across the room
where the butler stood with a silver salver in one gloved hand. “He says it has been marked with the
word ‘urgent’ at the top.”
“Interesting.” She flicked her gaze to the middle-aged butler. “Thank you, Abbott.”
Though she had no clue who would be writing to her. Over the past few years, she’d been out
of circulation within the ton, and had no suitors to speak of. When anyone of account had discovered
she’d suffered through an apoplexy, they immediately left her alone. To say nothing of her lack of
position. Being the daughter of a general was impressive, but not as good as having a titled
landowner in the family. And absolutely no one would wish her to see such a missive urgently.
“You are welcome, Miss Winslow.” He nodded at her then departed the room.
“Who is the letter from?” Winnie asked with curiosity stamped on her face as she tried to peer
past Honor’s arm.
“I don’t know. There is no address, but I think I recognize the handwriting.” Honor frowned at
the unremarkable envelope. And if she was correct, her father had written this letter. Cold
apprehension mixed with flutters of excitement in her belly. “I haven’t heard from him in at least six
months.” As fathers went, it didn’t matter how much she adored him on the odd times he was home,
being neglected more often than not due to his occupation left a foul taste in her mouth. “Let us see
what he wants.”
Quickly, she broke the rather messy brown wax seal. There was no stamp embedded in the
wax, but she didn’t know what that meant, if anything. As she slipped a folded piece of plain paper—
not his personal stationery he usually used from his field office—her hand shook. It was dated just
over two weeks ago. Then she smoothed out the paper and read the note.

My dear Honor,

I apologize for my lack of communication. My work has kept me quite busy.

However, it had been my plan to return to London before now, but the
situation I find myself in just now has turned dire. I am in need of
assistance, for I have suffered an injury to my foot that has curtailed my
ability to move about freely or with ease. Walking any distance is
impossible.

Before you worry, I am well enough but stuck in the north for the
foreseeable future. For your safety as well as mine, I am withholding my
exact location. However, I have informed the Home Office of that
information and am awaiting evacuation and assistance.

If all goes well, I shall be home soon to take care of you.

Until then.
 It wasn’t signed. “He couldn’t summon the wherewithal to at least sign his name?” She
frowned. “For that matter, who does he think has been looking after my care these years since I
suffered the apoplexy?”
“Perhaps he truly didn’t know,” Edwina said in a soothing voice. Truly, she didn’t like it
when people around her were upset.
“Your father wrote to him through the Home Office after I had the stroke, and he didn’t have
the common decency to come home then.” She shook her head as annoyance stabbed through her chest.
“I could have died, Winnie. And not even that would bring him to London.”
“That does make it look bad.” A sigh escaped her. “But perhaps the Home Office hadn’t
forwarded the letter. What do you think this means?”
“I couldn’t venture to say. This tells me exactly nothing and shows me that he values me even
less since he couldn’t bring himself to share his location.” And why was he in England to begin with?
The last she’d heard, he’d lingered in France to help after the end of the war, but all of that had been
over for nearly two years.
Why did he continue to stay away?
“Yet from his own admission in this letter, he sent another to the Home Office.” Edwina
caught her gaze. “Do you think your father is a spy for England?”
“I hadn’t considered that possibility, but it might explain his absences and his reticence to tell
me where he is or where he’s been.” Honor frowned as she folded the letter and returned it to the
envelope. “I suppose that would explain much.” Yet she remained baffled.
“My brother works for the Home Office. Perhaps I could ask Adam to poke around a bit.”
Honor snorted. “He won’t tell you anything. Men like that, men who are associated with those
pompous windbags at the Home Office seldom talk to other men about what they do. Never would
they reveal anything to a woman.”
And that didn’t make it any different from anything else in this world. Men were in charge of
everything, and women had no rights or freedoms, weren’t assumed to have any intelligence or talents
over and above wedding, bedding, keeping a neat house, and bearing children. None of them ever
assumed a woman wished to be anything different.
Did she? When she’d been young and innocent and entering her first Season, she thought she
wanted to catch the attention of a titled man, let him court her, and then eventually marry him. They
would live in bliss and no longer would she spend her time in silence or being neglected.
Then she’d lost her mother, and shortly after that, she’d suffered the apoplexy.
Now? She just wanted comfort and peace. Perhaps understanding and to be coddled a bit. She
dreamed of a man who was exciting but not overly so. As for romance, if a man wished to win her
affections or her heart, he would need to be creative and do it a big and bold way, do something
unusual, for love wasn’t a game and the man needn’t be meek about it. Ostentatious shows of affection
were lovely, but actions spoke louder.
Above all, he would need to be the exact opposite of her father.
I am done being ignored.
“I could still ask my brother if you’d like,” Edwina maintained with an earnest expression.
“He might do it for me.”
“Or he might pat you on your head and tell you to buy yourself another fan.” She heaved a
sigh, tapped the edge of the envelope against her chin. “I shall go myself.”
“To the Home Office or to rescue your father?”
 For the space of a heartbeat, Honor thought about it. “Both?” She smiled as Edwina gasped.
“You don’t think I can?”
“I didn’t say that.” She took Honor’s free hand and held it tightly. “What of your health?”
“Perhaps this will prove the challenge I need to decide once and for all that I am capable of
being self-sufficient.” With a grin, Honor hugged her friend. “Fear not. It is just paying a call to the
buffoons at the Home Office—your brother excluded.” Though she didn’t really know much about
Adam Stanwycke other than the fact he was a consummate rogue who had taken rooms at the Albany a
handful of years ago. He was using London as his playground, no doubt running wild until he needed
to take up the viscount title. “Come and help me choose something to wear. I’ll go tomorrow toward
teatime. Most of the men should be out of pocket by then.”
And she wouldn’t return home until she had some answers.
 Chapter Two

July 20, 1817

Home Office
Palace of Whitehall
Treasury Building
London, England

Mr. Gideon McGarrett grinned at some off-color joke one of the clerks said as he passed
through a reception room at the Home Office.
“Indeed, I am looking forward to retirement. Perhaps I shall finally have the time to hear
myself think, or fish, or even take in the exhibits at the British Museum.” All of which had been things
he’d wanted to do but had never had the time to accomplish.
One of the other clerks shot him a knowing glance. “Or you could find yourself domesticated,
eh McGarrett?”
Perish the thought.
“Only if there is absolutely nothing else to do.” Love and romance simply weren’t for him.
He’d thought he’d had those fleeting things in hand years ago, but he hadn’t wished to have a wife nor
start a nursery, so he’d broke off the relationship in order to chase his career with the Home Office,
for he was quite adept at retrieving things—people, objects, treasures. No matter that bedding women
was a particularly rewarding endeavor, he honestly just didn’t have the time to give his attention to a
woman as well as the position.
“Permanent bachelor, eh?” Another clerk asked as he passed through the room.
“Only fate knows.” If he were honest with himself, he might enjoy a romance if he thought
he’d be good at such nonsense, but at eight and thirty, he rather suspected he’d cock it up. Wooing and
pampering a woman wasn’t his forte, and when he wasn’t adept at something, he tended to shy away
from it.
As good-natured laughter cycled through the room, a door on one side opened and a tall, lean
man stood in the doorway. High collar points brushed his cheekbones, and with his longish blond hair
tied back with a leather queue, he was an odd mix of modern and old-fashioned gentleman, but Lord
Chettingham was unparalleled in his position of supervising a good portion of the men within the
Home Office.
“A moment of your time, McGarrett.” There was no mistaking the note of command in his
voice.
“Of course.” With a nod to the men he’d been speaking with, Gideon joined the man at the
doorway then was obliged to follow him through a warren of corridors until they arrived at the small,
cluttered office the lord occupied for much of the day. “Is something amiss?” he asked, and with a
frown, his gaze fell upon a woman who occupied one of the leather chairs that faced Lord
Chettingham’s desk.
 She wore a dress of lavender muslin with a matching spencer in shades of cream and
lavender. The straw bonnet perched on her head had been trimmed with matching lavender satin
ribbons and a few silk violets. Chestnut hair peeked out from beneath the bonnet, and she watched
him with round blue-brown eyes of a hue he didn’t usually see. Her dark pink lips were pressed
tightly together, as if she worked to tamp a reaction, but what?
Attractive enough, perhaps, but it was exceedingly odd. More to the point, he recognized her
name and eyes in passing, for she was a friend to his best friend’s sister and a permanent guest of the
Stanwycks, yet he couldn’t recall her Christian name at the moment. Women were seldom seen within
the Treasury building, or Whitehall Palace, for that matter. After that cursory glance, he dismissed her
from his mind. “Is there a problem?”
“Perhaps.” Lord Chettingham waved a hand toward the other chair. “Please, make yourself
comfortable Agent McGarrett. Something has come to light that might be of concern to you.”
Very odd, indeed.
“May I ask what this is about?” He lowered himself into the leather chair that was a
companion to the one the woman occupied and close enough to her that the elusive scent of violets
wafted to his nose. Interesting choice, that, for it denoted a woman no longer in the first or even
second blushes of youth.
“I have a new case for you,” Lord Chettingham said without preamble as he seated himself
behind the large rosewood desk.
“While I appreciate the faith in my work, I am set to retire next week. You already signed off
on the paperwork.”
“Yes, I remember.” The man tapped a long forefinger on a leather folio at his elbow. “That
paperwork is still here, and I will grant you the retirement… after you take this one last mission.”
Then he handed Gideon a much-creased sheet of paper. “This arrived in our offices yesterday. What’s
more, Miss Winslow claims to have received a letter from the same author on the same day.”
What difference did that make? “I fail to see the relevance. The post goes all over England.
I’m quite certain many people receive letters on the same day, and some of them from the same
person.” He leaned forward and snagged the paper from his superior. “Why is this important?” Then
he scowled when he noticed the signature of a General Winslow, a very well-known member of the
English infantry. Ah, an inkling of reason pushed its way into his brain. “I assume the general is Miss
Winslow’s father.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” For the first time, the woman beside him spoke. She tangled her gloved fingers with the
ties of her reticule. “In his letter to me, he indicated he was injured and couldn’t walk, that he’d
written to the Home Office, that I shouldn’t worry.” The emotions shadowing her eyes said she
refused to leave that at face value. “Though he didn’t leave me his direction, perhaps he gave that to
you lot. I want it.”
Well, damn. She was a bold miss. With an exchanged glance at Lord Chettingham, he cocked
an eyebrow. “How long has the general been missing?”
Once more, Miss Winslow butted in. “At least since the end of the war. He hasn’t been a
regular writer, but then, he chose his military career over being a father most of the time.” A trace of
bitterness clung to her words. Obviously, that wound ran deep.
His superior cast a speaking glance at Gideon “Read this letter, and then we will talk in
depth.”
“Fine.” The last thing he wanted today was to take on another case. Most of his things in his
rooms in the Albany had been packed away. He only needed to go through his clothing and a few
stacks of books before he had the lot of it transported to the modest manor house he’d bought in the
Surrey countryside—near enough to London that he could come up to visit but far enough to make it
feel that he’d truly retired from the life he led here. “What’s this, then?”
Aware that Miss Winslow watched his every move, he took a pair of round reading spectacles
out of the interior pocket of his jacket, popped them on the bridge of his nose and fit the silver arms
around his ears, then scanned the bold handwriting, addressed to a few of the lords who were in
charge of the whole of Whitehall.

Lords Liverpool, Sidmouth, and Chettingham,

I am writing today on perhaps limited time, for I am delayed in the Lake

District, in what was once used as a hunting lodge, I suppose, some time
ago. It’s comfortable enough, and not far from Windemere, perhaps twenty
miles or so due southeast, which has allowed me to secure supplies once,
but due to a rather severe injury to my foot—I was shot, you see. From an
unknown assailant who has made a second attempt just this morning, which
netted broken window glass and a shattered bottle of rum. I am unable to
walk long distances so will try to defend myself here with what I have
available. Truly, there is nothing around me except lakes and hills, pretty to
be sure, but impractical. Soon, the provisions and things I managed to
bring with me will run out, which puts me in rather dire straits.

Please send a removal team so that I might return to London for medical
assistance before I’m forced to have the limb amputated. Then and only
then, you may inform my daughter of my whereabouts and status. I will
debrief you at that time, for the person who gave me this injury is still out
there, and unless I miss my guess, they won’t stop until I am dead for
whatever reason. It is most vexing. There will be a boy coming to check on
me in the morning. I will have him post this letter.

Regards,

General Winslow

The exact location had been scribbled below his name in barely legible handwriting. Did he
think the letter might be intercepted, or had pain gotten the best of him while writing the missive? Or
worse yet, had he already been found out by whatever enemy hunted him?
“As you can discern, this is a matter of some discretion and urgency.” Lord Chettingham
folded his hands on his desktop. “I have tapped you to retrieve the general.”
Gideon frowned. “Why me? There are other, younger agents available.”
“You are one of the best.” His superior shrugged. “And you are still employed with us for the
next three weeks.”
Bloody hell.
“I am in the process of retiring. Most of my things in my set have been packed in preparation
for my move to Surrey.”
 “And I will wish you all the good fortune with that… after you do this last case.”
Miss Winslow became agitated then. She surged to her feet, and her standing height was
slightly shorter than average. “If you don’t do this, Agent McGarrett, I will go fetch my father,
because you will give me his address, of course.”
Both he and Lord Chettingham stared at her and scrambled into standing positions. Gideon
cleared his throat. “These things don’t lend themselves to having a woman along.”
“Agent McGarrett will inform you once the task has been completed,” his superior told her,
clearly expecting her to back down and leave them alone. “Let me have one of the junior agents escort
you home, Miss Winslow.”
“I refuse to leave this office until you agree to let me go on this mission.”
“You are not going, and that’s final,” Gideon said. He rubbed a hand along the side of his
face. God, he couldn’t imagine traveling with someone so bold and outspoken and… female. “This is
a matter best suited to men like myself.”
“Ah, arrogant, pig-headed, and unwilling to listen to someone who knows the subject best?”
She popped her hands on her hips, which only served to draw his attention down the slim length of
her body. With the spencer, it was difficult to discern the exact shape of her, but there was enough
curve of her hips to engage a man’s baser instincts.
“While my agent is indeed all of those things, he is also one of the best men I have to put out
in the field.” Lord Chettingham cleared his throat to cover a snort of laughter. “Well, I shall leave
Miss Winslow in your capable hands, McGarrett, for I have a meeting.” He glanced at Gideon. “I’m
certain if you have further inquiries, Winslow’s daughter will be more than capable of answering your
questions.”
“But I—”
His superior left the room before he could get out the remainder of his protest.
With nothing else to do, Gideon scowled at Miss Winslow. This wasn’t exactly how he
wished to go into retirement. “I have had a spotless career with the Home Office.”
“Then that is merely another reason why having me along won’t be an issue for you.”
He huffed. “No.”
She stamped a slippered foot. “Yes.” And she returned his glare.
The woman needed to leave these offices, and soon. “My apologies for speaking candidly,
Miss Winslow, but even for me, this mission has all the earmarks of a fool’s errand.”
“Why would you say that?” When those dark pink lips turned down in a frown, he couldn’t
help but stare at her mouth before jogging his gaze away. “It seems simple to me. Go to his address,
take him away, bring him back to London.”
“One would like to think that, but no. There is generally more effort than that put into a
retrieval mission.” When she didn’t appear convinced, he shoved the fingers of one hand through his
hair and then moved to rest his hip against the side of Chettingham’s desk. “As much as I am sorry that
your father is missing, if he is involved in espionage or something more sinister than that and truly
immobile at his chosen hiding location, I might not reach him in time.” It was imperative she learn the
truth rather sooner than later. “The Lake District is at least a journey of five days if traveling by
coach, which is what I’ll need to take in order to extract your father and deal with his injury. And that
assumes the weather will hold fair the whole time.”
And he did not want any of that complicated by catering to the whims and complaints of a
woman, especially one who might be emotionally compromised by having her father missing.
“I see.” Though she remained mostly composed, her chin trembled. That was the only tell his
words had made an impression. Then she raised that chin a couple of notches and met his gaze. “That
doesn’t matter. He is my only family, Mr. McGarrett. What wouldn’t you do for your father?”
Bloody, bloody hell.
His chest tightened and his heart squeezed. It was his turn to battle with emotions and he
didn’t wish to give her an entry point to worm her way into. His own father was in declining health,
growing more frail with each passing month and his faculties failing along with his strength. It was
one reason for Gideon’s imminent retirement to the country. At least there he could look after his
father with more accuracy than he’d been able to over the past ten years or so. Already, he paid his
valet to sit in as a companion for his father at his place at the Albany, but eventually, something more
permanent would need to be put into place.
What a coil. “If I do this, it might mar my spotless career, which will make a difference on
the pension I am able to draw.”
Miss Winslow shrugged. “It seems to me that if a man isn’t failing or making mistakes, then
his tasks and his life are too easy, and he won’t grow.” Her gaze never flinched. “At least that is what
my father always used to say, but then, he probably has much more courage than you.”
The audacity of this woman! “I’d wager that is not your concern.” Just because he hadn’t
failed didn’t mean his missions and cases had been too easy. She had no idea what he’d been through
over the course of his career, and he had the scars and stories to prove it.
“Perhaps, but if you won’t go, then I will.” So saying, she made to move around him toward
the door, but he wrapped a hand around her upper arm.
“Like hell you will, Miss Winslow.” The heat of her was mildly intriguing, but then he shoved
that to the back of his mind. “I rather think you won’t.” He glared down in her upturned face. “I’m
going to escort you outside, put you into a hired hack, and sent you back to the Stanwycks.”
Where the hell was Adam when he needed him? Vaguely, he recalled his best friend had
something pressing to attend this afternoon and wouldn’t be in the office until later.
“First of all, I took the Stanwyck carriage. I told the driver to wait for me.”
“Well, bully for you.”
“Indeed.” She snorted and wrenched her arm out of his hold. “He is my father. That makes him
my responsibility.”
“I understand why his absence might upset you, but you are hardly in a position—”
“—if you have the bad manners to refer to my health, shame on you.” Something flickered in
her eyes, but it was gone before he had the chance to read the emotion. “My health in recent weeks
has been much improved.”
“Be that as it may, I was striving to remain a gentleman about it in not immediately bringing it
up the second I saw you.” He frowned at her. It didn’t matter he was curious as to what exactly had
happened to her. None of the Stanwycks had ever come right out and said what she ailed from. And
now it didn’t matter. Their association ended in this office.
A tiny huff of apparent annoyance came from her. “I am not hiding my difficulties, Mr.
McGarrett. I want people to look at me and see me, not my affliction.”
“That is admirable, of course.” He nodded, and his estimation for her rose. “Adding to what I
have already said, this mission is not for you over and above your fragile health. You are a woman
and have not the connection that I do. For those reasons, you need to stay behind.”
Twin spots of color blazed on her cheeks. Annoyance flashed through her eyes. “You assume I
am helpless.” It wasn’t a question.
Oh, but the woman was tiring and vexing. “I assume you will leave me to my position.” Once
more, he wrapped his hand around her upper arm and this time firmly shuttled her to the doorway. Her
steps weren’t as quick as his, he noted. Yet another reason for her to stay behind. “If I do this—and I
have yet to agree to take the case—it is not your concern. Go home, Miss Winslow.” Under no
circumstances would he do something rash without first doing research on the area, who might have
been threatened by her father, and what he’d been working on or who he’d met with before he went
missing.
“Home is empty without my father.” Her voice broke slightly. “I have been staying with the
Stanwycks.”
“I am well aware of that, so therefore, I also assumed that was home for the time being.” God,
she was aggravating!
“I suppose that is true enough, but I don’t wish to go into the wheres and whys of that just
now.”
“Understood.” Gideon refused to be drawn in by a pretty face or let her bond with him over
shared angst. Above all, he didn’t need an entanglement of any sort. That wasn’t where he wished for
his life to go. Without another word, he propelled her through the corridors, through the common room
almost as if she were a criminal, and then finally escorted her to the entry hall of the building. “Go
home,” he repeated. “Someone from the Home Office—probably Adam—will keep you apprised of
any new developments regarding your father.”
An honest to goodness growl escaped her throat, and once more she wrenched from his hold.
“Ah, so then you will give my head a pat with a stern warning that the men know best and an
admonishment to go work at my embroidery?”
“It needn’t be embroidery. Just something to keep you occupied.” With a cheeky wink, he put a
hand to the small of her back, ushered her outside and down the limestone steps to the street. The
viscount’s crest glimmered on the door of a shiny black open carriage. “Good day, Miss Winslow.
We’ll take it from here.” Then he saw her into the vehicle, told the driver to take her back to
Stanwyck House with no detours. After, he went back inside the building.
Annoyance lanced through his chest but worry pulled knots within his gut. Of course he
remembered her father; he’d had cause to meet the man a few times at various functions. Nice fellow.
Right now, Gideon needed to speak with his best friend Adam, discern what he knew of General
Winslow’s last known meetings, for Adam had been a spy in his past while Gideon was merely the
man they sent in to do reconnaissance and rescue—or clean up a scene if rescue was no longer
possible. He’d recovered too many bodies in his career to know that any of it would have a happy
ending.
The bold, stubborn Miss Winslow would need to square with that. Life wasn’t storybook
perfect, and damn it all, his sterling reputation did not mean he had stagnated!
 Chapter Three

“Oh, that dratted Home Office man!”

Honor was still stewing six hours later. What was his name? Agent McSomething. She should
have known it, for she’d seen him in passing a handful of times over the years. He was the best friend
of Edwina’s brother.
Not bad to look at, and his piercing sapphire eyes had seemed to sear themselves into her soul
when he’d taken her upper arm the first time. He was certainly a man not used to grinning, and she
rather had the impression he didn’t do much laughing either. Yet he had wide shoulders and dark
brown hair that was a tad longer than style demanded so it curled at his collar, and even though it had
been around teatime, there had already been a hint of an evening shadow clinging to his jaws and
chin.
She tamped on the urge to sigh in sheer appreciation only. One could admire a man’s form
even though one thought that same man was a dolt.
What was his name?
With more than a bit of effort expended, she called his image into her mind’s eye, and the
scowl that appeared on his face ignited her annoyance all over again. Oh, yes, Mr. McGarrett.
The man had been rude, arrogant, inconsiderate, and probably all sorts of other foul-mannered
things she would have borne witness to if she’d been in his company longer. But that hadn’t been
possible, for the agent had manipulated her into the carriage and sent her on her way as if she’d been
a wayward child.
The gall of him!
She had gone to the Home Office thinking to avoid the disagreeable Mr. McGarrett, and when
she’d been shown into a private office and left there for nigh onto a half hour, she half suspected
she’d been forgotten. Then he had appeared with another man that had the looks of a rather put upon
vulture, who incidentally didn’t grin either. What was it with the men at the Home Office? Did
entering the building suddenly rob them all of the ability to find humor in the everyday?
While the conversation had ensued, she’d hoped Edwina’s brother Adam would have
sauntered into that office eventually and took command of the situation—for he would have sided
with her, presumably—but he hadn’t, and none of the clerks or secretaries would tell her if he was
even in the building. Were they all afraid of women? Assumed that the females of the species couldn’t
comprehend the same things their minds could?
Well, that was all about to change. After tonight, she would make the impossible Mr.
McGarrett pay attention to her, and he could watch her retreating back as she went on to do what he’d
hinted at that was too dangerous or what he was too lazy out of fear for his spotless reputation.
Truly, it mattered not to her. She might be in a snit with her father, but that didn’t mean he
deserved to be stranded in a strange place, injured and alone.
A discreet knock sounded on her door then quickly opened. Edwina scurried inside the room
and closed the panel behind her. A pile of folded clothing was tucked beneath an arm. “I managed to
find some of James’ old clothes tucked away in the back of his clothespress. No doubt he’s long
outgrown them. It appears they have been missed by the housekeeper during her quarterly tidying
binges.”
James was the youngest Stanwyck sibling, and he’d recently turned one and twenty. Now that
school was out for the summer holidays, he’d made it a point to be anywhere his family was not, no
doubt in an effort to spread his wings.
Men are given so much more freedom than women.
“Thank you.” Honor huffed, for she was out of patience with the lot of them. “Let us hope they
fit me enough that I won’t attract undo attention.” She took the clothing from her friend and then rooted
through them. “I refuse to let Mr. McGarrett ignore me.”
Edwina dissolved into giggles. “Why not? He does ignore me. For that matter, he ignores most
women, actually. I have seen him do it whenever Adam has him over for however briefly.” She
shrugged. “He never stays long, so there’s that, but I rather think he’s a Neanderthal.”
“That is an apt description for Mr. McGarrett.”
“Yes, his manners certainly need help, but the trouble lies in the fact that he’s rather
handsome.”
“Damn his eyes,” Honor muttered beneath her breath as she laid out the clothes on her bed.
“Why are all the unsavory ones possessed of good looks too?”
“I’m afraid that is the way of the world.” Edwina perched on the edge of the bed. “The longer
Adam hangs about him, the more Mama and Papa lecture. They would rather Adam stop sowing wild
oats and find himself engaged to a well-connected lady.”
“Even I know your parents wish Adam was married by now.” It wasn’t a secret, and though
Edwina’s brother had moved out of the family townhouse a couple of years prior, it seemed he was
constantly underfoot for one reason or the other.
“There was a time when I’d entertained hopes that you and my brother would make a go of it.”
She sent a sly glance at Honor. “You two rub along well together.”
“Stop, Winnie.” A trace of heat went through her cheeks. “I think Adam is a wonderful man,
but I am not interested in him like that. I have lived with your family for so long, he’s much more a
brother to me than anything else.” She shook her head. “Additionally, I have no desire to hold a title,
let alone marry a titled gentleman.”
Not that it had been a problem before. Men seldom paid her mind any longer, and she had
made her peace with the fact she was an unwanted spinster.
“Which is why my parents wish him settled. He’ll be the viscount someday, and needs to
domesticate himself before that happens.”
Honor snorted. “Somehow, I cannot see Adam willingly going into parson’s mousetrap. He
enjoys playing the rogue too much.”
“Do you ever hope to marry, though? You rarely mingle enough when we attend society
functions that warrant attracting a good match.”
“Some days yes. Some days no.” Honor heaved a sigh. “It is a complicated subject. Knowing
what I do of myself, I fear that I would fail in all the ways that matter at being a wife.” She
swallowed a few times to stave off the rising emotion in her throat. “In order for a man to win me,
he’ll need to make unusual strides to show me that he loves me. I don’t want flowers and chocolate,
nor do I want poetry or pretty words. So many men in my life have lied, so if someone were to be
earnest, he’ll need to apply himself boldly.”
“I completely understand, and you deserve that.”
 “Perhaps.” She stripped down to a lawn camisole and a pair of matching drawers. Such
garments weren’t in fashion, and they were certainly awkward enough, but she didn’t fancy having the
rougher clothing against the more sensitive portions of her anatomy. “Should I leave the stays on?”
“It will keep your bosom contained. You’re rather fuller in that area than I am.” Edwina
glanced up from a French fashion circular. “No sense in giving yourself away sooner than later.”
“True.” Flutters of apprehension scudded through her belly as she donned the fine lawn shirt.
“Oh, dear.” The sleeves were at least three inches too long on both arms. She couldn’t help but laugh
along with Edwina. “I suppose there’s nothing for it but to roll them up?”
“Or tug them up enough that you don’t lose the cuffs.” Winnie slipped off the bed to fuss with
the sleeves until they both found way to for Honor to appear put together well enough to pretend she
was a man.
Once they had the sleeves fixed, Honor slipped on the breeches, which were also too long, but
she would have a pair of boots. And even those would need to be stuffed with fabric in the toes to
make them fit.
“I fear this won’t work.” A glance into the cheval glass showed her dressed in frumpy
clothing, almost as if she were mucking about with someone else’s clothing for sheer entertainment. “I
don’t look the part.”
“Not yet.” Edwina frowned at the length of the jacket. “The sleeves can’t be helped, but
perhaps the club’s lighting will be dim, so it won’t be noticeable, especially if you don’t call
attention to yourself.” She continued to fuss. “And with your hair in a severe knot beneath one of the
slouch-style caps, your gender won’t be so obvious.” A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. “It
is quite a risk, though.”
“Agreed, but Mr. McGarrett refuses to hear me out. I rather doubt he’ll see me if I go to the
Home Office tomorrow, and I won’t be sent off with a scowl again.” For the next few moments, she
concentrated on doing up the cravat with enough flair that she wouldn’t be humiliated. “So, I shall
need to think differently.”
“But going to his club? Oh, and by the by, it’s called Milton’s, located on the opposite end of
the street where Brooks is.”
“Ah. Good to know.”
“Also, there is a gaming hell inside, according to Adam’s hints. On paper, the members might
belong to a Milton’s club, but it’s privately known as The Rapscallions’ Consortium.”
“Truly? What a marvelous name.”
“Yes. I wormed that information out of Adam once when I’d overheard him telling James
about the club. It’s what the gaming hell is called. Milton’s is only in place to prevent the authorities
from raiding the establishment.”
“The world that men inhabit is truly wonderous and a bit complicated.” How did they keep it
all straight with the lies?
“Oh, indeed.” Edwina shivered as if the very idea was distasteful. “You have more bravery
than I, and I most certainly don’t wish to enter a man’s domain. Who truly wants to know what they
talk about? If you get caught, there will be scandal for certain and Mama will lecture.”
That was a risk she was willing to take. And honestly, knowing what men spoke of when not
around women made her a tad curious. “We are old enough now that it shouldn’t matter.” Since she
had recently turned thirty and Edwina nine and twenty—and with Winnie a widow after a month of
marriage besides—they could move about society without too much scrutiny. Yes, her best friend had
a bit more freedom than she did, Honor was an unwanted spinster and easily overlooked.
 “While that is so, you still have a reputation to guard.”
Oh, bother.
“I don’t care much about that. Why I should I be considered above reproach when men don’t
want me as I am?”
Edwina frowned. “You wish to be caught?”
“I do not. I am only saying that if I am, it won’t damage my reputation all that much, but I do
feel badly for your poor mother.” Her frown matched Winnie’s. “I suppose this is disrespectful to her,
but I’m equally certain that no one would believe such gossip about me.” She shrank down into
herself and affected a breathless, helpless air. “My health is delicate, after all, so it must have been a
case of mistaken identity.”
“You are quite good at dissembling.” Edwina’s laughter tinkled about the room. “If you are
clever enough, no one will know.” For long moments, she stared at Honor. “Have you considered the
possibility that if you are caught alone in Mr. McGarrett’s presence, the hell to pay might come in the
form of an unwanted engagement.”
“Oh.” No, that thought hadn’t entered into her mind. This time, it was she who gave into a
shiver. “I cannot imagine being betrothed to that horrible person.”
“Yet you still plan to go.”
“How can I not, Winnie? It’s my father’s life that hangs in the balance.” Tears stung the backs
of her eyelids as she regarded her friend. “Mr. McGarrett has been tasked with bringing him back to
London, and if he doesn’t do it, I have a feeling no one will.”
“Then are you seeking him out tonight to encourage him to take the case, or give you the
information needed so that you can?”
“I’ll decide when I see him.” Honor shrugged. Not that she wanted to do this, yet curiosity
burned through her brain to see what the inside of a gentleman’s club looked like. Did the men merely
sit around, talking and drinking? How dull. Were there gaming tables? Was Mr. McGarrett the type of
man to gamble large sums of coin? Or did they sit around in comfortable leather chairs, discussing
politics, news of the day, and reading books or newspapers while indulging in fine spirits? The
possibilities were endless. “The fly in the ointment is that I won’t know where the agent is once I
enter the club.”
“Now that I can help you with.” There was far too much mischief twinkling in Edwina’s eyes
for her liking. As her friend fit the starched cuffs to Honor’s sleeves, she continued. “According to the
things I’ve gleaned from Adam, there is a large common room where various members gather when
they aren’t in private rooms, utilizing the gaming floor, or upstairs with the courtesans.”
Oh, dear heavens, I forgot about the possibility of lightskirts.
“What, uh, do the men do in the common room?” The conversation was both enlightening and
a bit intimidating.
Edwina fit the starched collar to Honor’s shirt. The points were excessively annoying. “They
read and drink. Sometimes talk and pontificate. No doubt Mr. McGarrett will be there with Adam.”
Tea and crumpets. “You think Adam will be in attendance?” He would definitely see through
her poor attempt at a disguise.
“Most likely. He attends at least three times a week, and since he wasn’t at dinner with us
tonight, it’s a good wager he’ll be there. Especially if Mr. McGarrett was given a mission.”
“Drat.” Honor heaved out a sigh. “What sorts of things do men like that read?”
“Well, if we’re talking about Mr. McGarrett, it’s poetry. Occasionally Shakespeare or delving
into works such as the Odyssey. At least that’s what Adam teases him about.” Edwina shrugged. “In
my brother’s case, he enjoys current and world events. London on dits.”
“How interesting.” A man that enjoyed reading and literature. If things were different, she
might wish to talk about books with him. “Too bad the agent is such an ogre.”
Edwina snorted. “An ogre whose assistance you need. No cutting him to ribbons
prematurely.”
“Right.” Then Honor began the onerous process of plaiting her hair. “If nothing else, I can flirt
with him. That might encourage him to give up my father’s location.”
“You?” Her friend laughed so loudly it was a wonder some of the servants didn’t come by to
check on them. As she wiped her streaming eyes, she said, “Do you know how to flirt?”
Heat slapped at her cheeks. “I can no doubt muddle through.” She moved to sit on the trunk at
the foot of the bed then drew on one of James’ boots. When her toes hit the wadded up fabric she
wriggled her toes to see how uncomfortable it would be. “Though I’m not incapable of attracting a
man’s notice.”
I hope.
Her record with men hadn’t been ideal. She might be considered still attractive enough, but
men tended to lie, and she suspected more men were like Mr. McGarrett than not. With her father
missing, not even her sponsorship from the viscountess had managed to bring decent suitors. And lord
knew her stroke hadn’t done her any favors. Occasionally, there were still times when she stumbled
over words, forgot things at dinner parties, had weakness on her left side for no apparent reason,
which made her reluctant to enter into dancing.
To say nothing of her ongoing frets regarding her ability to conceive, carry, or bear children. If
a man wished to further his line, she wasn’t a safe bet.
All of that would hold her back in society while Edwina would leave her and have a life of
her own all too soon.
I cannot think about that now. Not while her father was in peril, and most assuredly not when
she needed to have a clear head regarding her own mission of sorts.
“Oh, Winnie, I am not certain I have the wherewithal to do this,” she admitted in a whispered
voice as she donned the second boot. Then she stood and took a few experimental strides. The
footwear was heavier than she’d anticipated, and the tops ended just above her knees. Clearly, she
looked as if she were an urchin in borrowed clothing, but it would have to do. Hopefully, the lighting
was kept dim, or the men were well into their cups.
“You can.” Edwina closed the distance. She held Honor by the shoulders and gave her a little
shake while holding her gaze. “Just get in and out quickly. Do your business, don’t look anyone in the
eye. Act like you belong there and no one will question you. Of course, Mr. McGarrett will
undoubtedly be shocked and livid once he recognizes you. Men don’t like their inner sanctums
breached.”
Yet women had not the same freedoms. “That’s a risk I cannot avoid. He’ll need to know who
I am in order for me to talk with him.” Knots of worry pulled in her belly, but there was no other
choice.
“What if he orders you out?”
“He can try, but I refuse to budge until he gives over the information I need.” Hopefully, that
would be easy enough to accomplish.
The long case clock in the corridor chimed the nine o’clock hour. “I should leave. If all goes
well, I’ll return and be tucked into bed before your parents return from the opera.”
Concern etched through Edwina’s brow. “Good luck, and if you feel things going south, get out
of there immediately before someone can guess you are not a man. No one there is worth the scandal
or a forced engagement to a man you despise.”
“I promise to be careful.” Then she took up the slouch cap from the bed and fit it on her head,
tugging it low over her eyes. “Let us hope I can escape the house without one of the servants seeing
me.”
“You should be good at this time of the evening, for no one would suspect either of us of going
out.” Edwina looked at her with speculation. “Please do your best. I won’t be able to relax until I
know you are safely home.”
Honor nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Please let the agent not be as impossible as he was earlier today.
 Chapter Four

Milton’s Club

Gideon sipped from his second glass of fine French—and quite smuggled—brandy as he
chuckled to himself over the leather-bound book in his lap. Though he didn’t usually select comedies
to occupy his mind, he’d needed something to help lift his spirits, for the day had been trying, in many
varied ways. But the leather of the chair in which he sat was made of the finest and most supple
leather, and though there wasn’t a fire crackling in the magnificent hearth nearby, the leaded windows
had been thrown open. A breeze came into the room to keep the warmth of the summer evening at bay
as well as to help whisk the various scents away.
“What do you find so humorous, McGarrett?”
He glanced over the rims of his reading spectacles at his best friend with a grin. “It’s called
the Batrachomyomachia by Homer, or at least historians theorize he could have written it as a parody
of the Iliad. But they also speculate that others wrote it to make fun of him and his works.” When
Adam Stanwycke appeared confused, his grin widened. “Essentially, it’s the Battle of the Frogs and
Mice, and it’s a comedy of sorts. I am finding it highly amusing. Just the thing to distract me.”
“Ah.” Adam snorted. “Your taste in literature is vastly different from mine.”
“That’s because what you loosely call ‘literature’ isn’t that at all.” He would certainly miss
spending so much time with the man once he removed to Surrey.
“Of course I beg to differ.” He shook his head with a wide grin. “I thought you’d be stewing
over your final mission, or at the very least, preparing to depart.”
How could I forget? “Why do you think I consented to wile away the evening here with you?”
“I thought you enjoyed my company.”
“I do. Since you are my close friend—”
“—your only friend,” he interrupted with a cheeky expression.
“I have other friends.”
Adam didn’t appear convinced. “Do you? Or do you keep to yourself when not in my
company?
“Fine.” He huffed with good-natured annoyance. “—my only friend, I feel comfortable enough
in telling you that I’m not yet convinced that I’m taking the mission.” They had worked together at the
Home Office for nearly ten years. While Gideon had made a name for himself in the field retrieving
lost things and people, Adam had gone on to become a celebrated spy for England. While Adam
collected the public accolades for deeds of daring—as well as gifts from the Crown—Gideon had
quietly let his friend have the attention, for he didn’t need such things to feel validated.
“Interesting, and not like you at all.” Adam shoved his free hand through his sandy blond hair.
Amusement twinkled in his hazel eyes. “You were given direct orders, man. Why wouldn’t you do
it?” He took a deep draught from his wine glass. “No doubt the pay is decent. Your skill justifies the
expense even if you are nearly elderly.”
 “As if eight and thirty is ancient.” Though he certainly felt that way at times, which was
another reason for his impending retirement.
“I’ll let you know when I reach those heights.”
“You have a year, my friend.”
“Still younger than you.” Adam rolled his eyes. “So your pay is commensurate to the talent?”
“It is. Lord Chettingham discussed those details with me once he’d left his meeting earlier
today.” And about an hour after Gideon had seen Miss Winslow into the Stanwycke carriage.
Troublesome minx. Perhaps she would catch the eye of a man who had deep pockets and they would
live out a romance.
Some poor bastard who wants that for his life.
“Did you accept?”
“I have the bank note tucked away but haven’t drawn the funds pending a decision.” With a
sigh, Gideon removed his spectacles, carefully folded the arms, and then tucked them into the interior
pocket of his evening jacket. A thousand pounds for the retrieval and removal of General Winslow,
with another five hundred pending if the man was brought back to London alive. The price was
princely enough and would allow him to look after his father as well as see them both settled in
Surrey for many years to come, but it also meant Chettingham thought as he did—that the mission was
a fool’s errand. “I rather think Winslow has gotten himself involved in a mess wherein he won’t
survive.”
The startling lack of information regarding that indicated such.
“You don’t wish to do it out of misguided pride.” Adam watched him as he sipped his wine.
The red hue seemed dark and mysterious in the light of the guttering candle flames.
“Misguided?
“Your perfect record. Unflawed missions. Bringing the subject back alive.” One of Adam’s
eyebrows rose. “Does it truly matter even if finding the general alive is slim? I would think the
challenge of it would intrigue you.”
“I don’t need another challenge in my life.”
A curious expression crossed his friend’s face. “I heard you and Miss Winslow nearly
exchanged harsh words today. What happened?”
“Oh, that woman!” Quickly, he drained his brandy glass then set both the tumbler and his book
on the table between him and Adam. “She had the gall to tell me that if I didn’t go retrieve her father,
she would go in my stead. Told me that I was afraid of making a mistake and marring my record
which meant I was stagnating in life.”
“Rather bold.”
“Indeed.” He heaved out a breath. “So I escorted her out of the building, put her in your
father’s carriage, and sent her home. It’s not her business.”
“Agreed.” The corners of Adam’s lips twitched but a grin never materialized. “I never knew
Miss Winslow had such a tart mouth or an independent streak. Every time I’ve ever seen her with
Edwina, she’s been rather mousy and meek.”
“That was what I expected as well. The reality is quite a different story. Good riddance to
her.” The last thing he needed in life was to have that harridan bedevil him. “Keeping my father out of
trouble and looked after is my first priority. Miss Winslow can sit at home and complain to your
parents. I care not, so I might tell Chettingham I decline, regardless of if the coin is good.” And he
certainly didn’t need her around watching him with those unusual blue-brown eyes or him wasting
time wondering what she might look like if she smiled.
 “What of the manor house you purchased not long ago? Have you given it a name?” The paper
his friend had been reading rattled as he folded up the sheets.
Gideon sighed. “I’ll admit, the payout for bringing back the general is attractive; the mission
will take at least a month. What of my father’s wellbeing?”
Adam waved a hand. “I shall pop in on him from time to time, but your valet seems to
genuinely enjoy spending time with him.”
“He does, but that doesn’t mean he should be stuck with him. Once we remove to Surrey, there
will be more room for everyone. Perhaps my father can find a hobby or merely sit by a pond and
watch the water all day.” His chest tightened, and if he allowed himself to think too hard upon the
situation, the pain he’d been forced to swallow and tamp down merely to move through daily life
would come rushing out. “Live his remaining time in peace and relaxation.” If his voice was more
graveled than usual, he didn’t mention it, and neither did his friend.
When Adam glanced at him, concern and compassion warred for dominance in his eyes. “Why
not go ahead and send them both down to Surrey? At least they can settle in while you do this mission,
for we both know that you will.”
“It hadn’t occurred to me to do that.” But it was definitely an option, and one that might be the
perfect solution. At least then the stress over his father would lessen. Slightly. He cleared his throat.
“Oh, and I named the manor Prentice Hall. Prentice was my mother’s maiden name.”
“A fitting tribute, and one your father will appreciate. Make the arrangements, my friend. It
will help with your mindset.” Adam drained his wineglass. “An influx of coin from Chettingham
would go a long way into seeing it remodeled and a finding a staff.”
“While you sit in comfortable London, angling your way into a political position to gain
power before you hold the viscounty?” He couldn’t resist teasing his friend.
“Why not?” The other man poured more wine into his glass and then set the bottle on the rose-
inlaid table with a decided thunk. “What was the purpose of dealing in diplomacy all those years if I
cannot put it to good advantage now?”
“Clever.” He lifted his brandy glass in silent tribute. “I told Chettingham I would let him know
either way tomorrow.” Furtive movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. When
Gideon turned his head, he focused on a weird, shifty sort of young man creeping around the
perimeter of the room while peering intently at patrons in the area as he passed. There was something
oddly familiar about the fellow, even if he’d never seen… “Well, shit.”
Adam frowned, straightened his spine as he went on alert. “What’s wrong?”
“Without making it obvious, casually glance to your left near the newspaper table.” What the
devil was she doing here? And in such a horrible disguise? Could no one discern that she wasn’t a
young man? It would undoubtedly take a few moments, but eventually members of the club would
figure it out, then all hell would break loose.
“Hell’s bells. Surely that isn’t…” Adam’s words trailed off as the truth dawned. “What the
devil is happening with her to cause such reckless behavior?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Hot annoyance coursed through Gideon’s veins. How dare
she invade what was a private space, but more to the point, did she truly have no idea how much
scandal she’d just immersed herself in? “We obviously can’t let her remain here.”
“Most certainly not. It’s simply too embarrassing.” Yet his friend frowned and took a gulp of
wine. “Such a nodcock idea. Is nothing sacred anymore?”
“Not to a woman of her caliber, apparently.” Without making it obvious, he watched Miss
Winslow move about the room. She was too skittish and furtive, which made her behavior all the
more discernable. “What should we do?”
“We?” Adam snorted as if that were the most humorous thing in the world. “She is no doubt
here to see you after what happened at the Home Office earlier today. If anyone is going to confront
her, it will need to be you.”
Buggar. That didn’t sit well with him. “Perhaps, but you are the son of the family she’s staying
with. Almost like a brother. Surely that gives you some sort of responsibility.”
“Like hell it does.”
They sat in silence while Miss Winslow continued her odd circuit of the room. How the devil
did no one around them perceive her true identity or form? Though she’d worn all the correct clothing
a young man might, the fact she hadn’t removed the cap immediately brought the focus to her. Those
eyes and cheekbones alone would proclaim her a female to anyone who bothered to look closer.
“I can’t sit here and let her risk discovery.” He clenched a hand into a fist on the armrest.
“The woman is too naïve by half. All it would take would be for some drunk lord to puzzle out that
she’s a woman then spirit her upstairs. That would be the end of her reputation.” And her innocence.
Assuming she was still untouched.
Not that he thought such an occurrence would definitely happen, but it wasn’t outside the
realm of possibility. Plenty of men in the club couldn’t be trusted. Himself included. Even now, the
thoughts danced through his brain that removing such clothing from her body would be the height of
wicked. There was something about showing her how wrong she’d been, teaching her a lesson, that
had awareness shivering along his nerve endings. What would her skin feel like beneath his
fingertips, his tongue?
Get hold of yourself, McGarrett. You don’t need a woman, and if you did, there are much
better candidates than Miss Winslow.
Adam waved a hand while he rested an ankle on a knee. “Then by all means, go contain her,
but do it discreetly else you’ll land into scandal with her.”
“Perish the thought.”
“Indeed. Leg-shackling, especially forced by society, doesn’t sound pleasant.” But the worry
remained in his eyes. “Send her home. Hell, I should warn my parents to post a guard at her door or at
the very least employ a junior agent to tail her every time she leaves the house.”
“It might not be a bad idea. She seems rather intent to land into trouble.” With a long-suffering
sigh, Gideon stood up from his chair. “Why are women so damned irritating?”
Adam’s bark of laughter drew a few pairs of eyes their direction. “And you’re not even
romantically involved. Just think of the additional complications that would bring.”
“I’d rather not.” He pulled a face at his friend. “Enjoy your night, for I suspect once I do battle
with Miss Winslow, my mood will have turned too foul to return here.”
“Better you than me. Looking out for my sister is enough of a drain on my time.”
Why couldn’t ladies of genteel breeding remain content with sitting quietly at home, fussing
over handiwork, or practicing the pianoforte? Weren’t those types of things what they enjoyed? Why
did they feel the need to galivant all over London and in the most scandalous ways?
With annoyance pulsing through his veins, Gideon slowly approached Miss Winslow. “You
look a bit lost, friend. Can I direct you to the spot you need to be? Or perhaps I can wave over a
footman to secure you a drink.” For the time being, he wouldn’t betray her identity.
She startled then turned about to face him. Recognition flashed through her eyes. “It is good
you sought me out, for that saves me the trouble.”
What was this, then? “Ah, so you won’t expend more effort trying to convince me you are a
man?” He kept his voice purposefully low to not attract attention.
A faint blush stained her cheeks. “You knew who I was all along?”
“I am not an idiot, Miss Winslow,” he bit off, and when he would have grabbed her upper
arm, he stopped himself. “Let us go somewhere more private to converse.”
“Upstairs?” How she managed to infuse so much apprehension and curiosity in that one word,
he would never know, but he was slightly offended.
“Are you mad? Those are the gaming floors and rooms for…” Gideon cleared his throat.
“Well, nevermind.” She didn’t need to know all that went on behind a club’s closed doors. “Outside.
Now.” When he glanced at Adam, his friend watched him with a faint smirk.
Bastard.
“You needn’t be so grouchy about it.” But she walked beside him across the room and out into
the corridor beyond. “And if you weren’t such a stubborn arse, I wouldn’t have had to resort to such
extreme measures merely to talk with you.”
As if any of this was his fault. “There is nothing else to say. We do not need to talk.” With
every step he took, his annoyance grew. Thank goodness they met no one else in the hallway so were
able to slip outside with no one the wiser. Only then did he take hold of her upper arm and quickly
shuttled her into a shadowy alleyway to one side of the building.
The temperature was still rather stifling even though the sun had gone down, but this
conversation needed to be had.
“Why the devil did you think it was a good idea to try and pass yourself off as a man, sneak
into a gentleman’s club, and then proceed to wander about as if you have fluff for brains?”
“It was the one thing that could ensure you’d be forced to pay attention to me.” She glared up
into his face, and even through the gloom, there was no mistaking her ire.
“Why?”
“I want you to take the mission to retrieve my father.”
“It is no concern of yours whether I do or do not.” Surely, it was outside enough that she
thought ordering him about would prove effective.
“I rather think it is since it’s my father who is in peril.” The woman propped her hands on her
hips, much like she’d done in Chettingham’s office earlier in the day. It was too damned bad the
darkness in the alley shrouded her form, for he would have liked to admire her legs clad in the
breeches a bit more. “If you don’t go, I will.”
“Ha!” That was a more nodcock plan than sneaking into the club. “Where? You have no
direction or the means to convey yourself there. Not to mention, do you even know what to do once
you arrive?”
“No, but I can improvise.” Her chin tilted into a stubborn angle.
“You will not go anywhere, Miss Winslow, except back to Stanwycke House. I won’t be best
pleased to see you again.” When he turned to go, she caught his forearm, and the unexpected warmth
of her gloved fingers on his sleeve gave him pause. “Don’t think to order me about. You are not my
keeper, Mr. McGarrett. If I choose to rescue my father, I will.”
The unveiled annoyance in her voice had him biting the inside of his cheek merely to keep
from laughing. “Such things are no place for a woman.”
“Of course you would say that, for you have no value for the fairer sex.”
“I value them when needed. Especially when they remember their place.” He shook off her
touch. “And I won’t waste time talking in riddles with you.”
“Then you are a fool. Your arse will be dispatched to rescue not only my father but me as
well, because my plans haven’t changed.”
Hot anger speared through his chest. That was undoubtedly true, but he refused to concede the
fact. “I am under no authority to take the mission. Especially if you are waiting at the other end.” He
waved a hand. “There are plenty of other agents who can do so.”
“None as skilled as you, I’ll wager,” she said in a low voice that he was forced to come
closer to her. She touched the fingers of one hand to his chest, and the sound she made was a mix
between a weird throat clearing and a purr. Was she trying to… flirt? “Perhaps I could offer you an
incentive.”
Gideon gawked at her. Obviously, she had as much experience in seduction as she did in
sneaking about costumed as a man. It was both amusing and disturbing. He might give her enough rope
to hang herself with before he firmly sent the woman on her way. “Oh?” No way in hell would he
agree to whatever she had to say.
“There might be a kiss in the offing if you were to take the mission,” she continued as she
walked her fingers up his chest.
Is that what she thought to give? Naïve woman. More annoyed than amused now, Gideon
cupped the side of her face, tilted her head up, and brought his lips within a hairsbreadth of hers.
“What is stopping me from taking a kiss regardless? I rather think I don’t need you to dangle that in
front of me like a carrot to a donkey.” Her skin was soft beneath his fingertips, and her slightly parted
lips were all too inviting, but it was the almost imperceptible trembles transferring from her to him
that kept further reaction in check. He would indeed be a fool to tarry with her, yet he couldn’t resist
baiting her. “What else do you have to offer?”
“I…” For the space of a few heartbeats, she held his gaze, and her breath warmed his lips.
The hand resting on his chest curled into his lapel. Finally, she pushed out of his hold and took a few
steps toward the mouth of the alley. Then she looked over her shoulder at him, and in the dim light,
tears glimmered in her eyes. “Edwina told me that your father is in failing health.”
“That is not your affair either.”
“Perhaps it is not, but please take the job because you genuinely care, because my father is
injured, and his life is in danger. If it was your father in his stead, you wouldn’t hesitate, so why is
mine any different?”
Shit, shit, shit.
The more he attempted to shut off his emotions, block out the logic in her statement, the more
rapidly he stumbled. Yes, he was the best at what he did, so he was the obvious choice. “Fine.” The
word was practically forced out on a snarl. “I’ll take the mission.”
“Excellent. I suppose you are not as bad of an ogre as I first thought.” Before he could
respond to that, she quickly added, “And one more thing. I’m coming with you.”
“Like hell you are.”
For the first time since he’d formally met her, she smiled, but it was a weak affair. “Listen,
you arrogant, pig-headed dunce. You can either take me with you so I can look after my father once
we find him, or you can rescue me along the way if I happen to fall into trouble, for I intend to tail
your every movement from now until my father is safely back in London. You decide.”
His lips twitched from the effort of not chuckling from her use of insults, but her threat was all
too real. And what was more, from the annoyance she already represented, he could easily see her
doing exactly as she’d threatened. Allowing her to join him was the lesser of the two evils, and he’d
been neatly manipulated.
Fuck it all.
 “We leave at first light. Pack a bag with the basic essentials. No one comes with you. Be
ready when the traveling coach rolls up to the curb in front of Stanwycke House. I won’t wait.”
She gasped. “That’s far too scandalous.”
“Assess the risk and decide if the gambit is worth it, for I am going regardless.” Then,
because he couldn’t be in her company a second longer without wanting to give her the dressing down
she so richly deserved, Gideon left the alley and slammed back into the club.
Damned fool woman.
 Chapter Five

July 21, 1817

Five hours into the trip
First Day

Honor hadn’t known what to expect when she’d started this adventure hours ago, but it
certainly wasn’t what the reality held. Listening to unending snoring from the man lying on the bench
across from her. Enduring the traveling coach hitting seemingly every bump in the road. Perspiring
with unladylike vigor in the stifling confines. Unable to concentrate on the scandalous novel she’d
brought with her.
They had left at six o’clock in the morning, which didn’t bother her, for she was often awake
early, especially in the summer. But she hadn’t slept well the previous night. Excitement and
apprehension had sent odd dreams to interrupt her slumber, plus Edwina had decided to sleep in the
bed next to her in the event something happened, and Honor didn’t return.
However, Mr. McGarrett proved he was every inch the ogre she suspected. From the moment
he reluctantly assisted her into the traveling coach—which was well-sprung enough to indicate the
Home Office had lent it to him—to the present moment, he had either interacted with her with one-
word answers or surly replies, or he had simply fallen asleep as if he were unconcerned about the
prospect of travelling to begin with.
Perhaps he was.
She frowned at him as envy cut through her chest. He’d wadded up his tweed jacket beneath
his head and had used it as a pillow. The long length of him lay stretched out on the bench with his
right leg bent at the knee and his left foot resting on the floorboards. His arms were crossed at his
chest. The dark arc of his lashes swept over his cheeks, and of course he hadn’t shaved in a couple of
days, for the shadow of those bristles was fully discernable in the sunlight while a shock of his
chocolate brown hair flopped over his brow.
The man would make an attractive package… if he wasn’t snoring. How could such a sound
come out of a human? Because she couldn’t abide the noise and she was a tad lonely besides, Honor
leaned across the narrow aisle and jostled his shoulder.
Before she knew what was happening, he’d encircled her wrist with his fingers that felt like
iron, and he’d flipped himself over with her now pressed against the bench and his hard body atop of
hers. It had taken only a few seconds and he’d made not a sound. No doubt it was a learned reaction
to whatever work he’d done for the Home Office over the years, but as she stared up at him with her
pulse bouncing through her veins and her breath coming in quick pants out of fright, she rather thought
he was a mix of impressive intimidation.
“What are you doing?” Her eyes felt wide as she stared up at him. Dear heavens, he was so
close, much more so than when he’d tried to tease her back in the alley when she offered a kiss as an
incentive to come on this mission. Never had she had cause to be on such personal terms with a man
before, and regardless of what had precipitated this, the heavy weight of him as his harder angles fit
into her more soft body was far too interesting. “This is quite scandalous,” she added, and her voice
was breathless. Would that she had the freedom to explore, for the sharp cut of his jaw practically
begged her to put her lips on that skin.
Stop it, Honor. You don’t need a man.
“I beg your pardon.” Immediately, he lifted off her form and stumbled across the aisle to sit
heavily on the bench she’d been recently removed from. “When one has been out in the field for as
long as I have, one learns how to enter into a light doze where one never fully loses control.” His
dark gaze trailed over her legs, but since his eyes were slightly hooded, she couldn’t read his
emotions.
“Ah.” Honor rubbed her wrist from where he’d grabbed her. The strength of him boggled her
mind, for to outward appearances, he hadn’t appeared that large, but as she looked at him in his
current state of undress, she must have been a ninny not to see it before. “I didn’t mean to activate
your killing instincts.” Once the shock of it all wore off, she struggled into a sitting position, for it
simply wasn’t proper to remain lying on the bench with her skirting twisted inelegantly about her
lower limbs.
Had he killed people during his tenure with the Home Office? There was no way to know
unless she asked, and it seemed a bit intrusive since they barely knew each other.
“Everything related to my work is instinctive.” He shoved a hand through his hair. He looked
at her with eyes full of shadows. Why? What haunted him? “I should have probably told you not to
touch me while I’m asleep.” When she continued to rub her wrist, he frowned. “Have I hurt you?”
Would it leave a bruise? Difficult to say. “Not overly much. I apologize for startling you.” It
was rather interesting, this coming to know intimate things about him. “Have you been snuck up during
your times in the field?”
His shrug only served to call her attention to the breadth of his shoulders, the slight pull of his
lawn shirt over his chest. “A few. After that, I have always been prepared. It’s never a good thing to
have your position compromised while on a mission.”
“I assume not.” With heat lingering in her cheeks and still feeling the press of his body against
hers, she busied herself with rolling down the window glass on that side of the coach. As a modicum
of a breeze entered the vehicle, she sighed in relief. “I hadn’t anticipated that travel would be so
decidedly uncomfortable.”
A grunt escaped him. “Travel is unpredictable at best.” When he leaned across the aisle, she
thought he might try to touch her again, but instead, he snagged his jacket from the bench she occupied.
The scent of his shaving soap wafted to her nose, and she breathed it in as unobtrusively as she could.
Sandalwood, leather, and oranges. What an interesting combination, but decidedly manly and
somehow fitting. “I’d rather assumed I was done with it for the most part.”
“That is far too sad.” She watched with appreciation as he donned the jacket. It was sad, also,
to see those impressive shoulders covered with the tweed. “What had you planned once you no longer
work for the Home Office?”
“That is not your business.” The words were clipped and short.
“And I suppose being polite isn’t yours.” The words were out of her mouth before she could
recall them. Why must he act so disagreeable?
The corners of his lips twitched. “I am not being paid to be polite. Nor am I being
compensated for bringing you along, so it would behoove you to act grateful.”
Well, that was rude. “Ah, so you can continue treating me like a recalcitrant schoolgirl who
should be seen and not heard?”
“Unless you have knowledge on how to shoot a pistol, how to move with stealth through an
area, have insights on how to detect threats, then by all means, speak up.” One of his eyebrows
cocked. “Since you do not have any discernable skills that will assist on this mission, perhaps you
should leave any decision making and conversation leads to me.”
“You cannot help playing the part of an ogre.” She narrowed her gaze on him. How could she
have found him attractive not five minutes ago? “Edwina warned me you were a Neanderthal.”
“A rather dim view of my person. I just don’t enjoy wasting time.”
“Then talking to me like a gentleman is a waste of your time?” As annoyance filled her chest,
Honor crossed her arms over her chest. “In fact, that is how I have been treated the whole of my life.
My father acts much like you do, as if I’m a troublesome gnat who needs to be swatted away with a
hand. ‘Don’t bother a man when he is changing the world, Honor,’ he used to say to me all the time,
but it never occurred to him that a woman can do the same if given half the chance.”
Oh, dear. That is perhaps too much sharing.
Mr. McGarrett stared from the other bench. “I… At times, fathers disappoint us all.”
“Did yours?”
“Of course. No one is perfect in this world, but I learned how to remind myself to give
everyone a bit of latitude.” There was an unexpected softness in his voice that gave her pause. “Too
many people fight their own battles in silence that we have no right to judge.”
“My father chose a military career over being in my life.” Under no circumstances would this
man side with her father. He didn’t know either of them.
“Did you argue with him like you argue with me? That could be a reason why he didn’t wish
to come home.”
Her lower jaw dropped. “You… You… dirty baboon.” Really, she needed to ask people
about insults they particularly enjoyed. “Are you that uncouth?”
Again, his lips twitched but a grin never materialized. “I can be.”
“Now I know why you have attained the age you are without having married.” If he wished to
be ugly, she would play by those rules.
“You know nothing about my life.”
“Exactly, and you know nothing about mine, yet there you sit, in judgment of me and dare to
assume I will do whatever you say.” She shook her head. “I know my own mind, Mr. McGarrett, and I
will do what I please when I wish. Within reason, of course.”
“Of course. Because nothing matters to you except putting yourself and others into magnified
danger. You admitted you don’t have any sort of skills that will help, so I’m essentially playing
nanny.” With a glance out the window, he rolled down the glass on that side. “We should stop over for
luncheon in an hour. Will change horses then too.”
“I don’t say this often, but I fear I might despise you.” Wishing there was something at hand to
throw, she glared instead. “I have never met a more disagreeable man.”
“Believe it or not, it doesn’t come naturally. I have to work to cultivate it.” He glanced at her
book that had fallen to the floorboards when the flurry of activity had occurred. “Do you enjoy
reading?”
“Yes, but I suppose you shall now make jest of me for that.” This would be an insufferable
trip, and they were only halfway into the first day.
“On the contrary, we have that in common.” He bent, retrieved the book, and then handed it to
her. “I enjoy reading as well. The content or subject matter doesn’t matter; I find all of it useful and
entertaining, but recently, I’ve gravitated toward the humorous.”
“You will excuse me if I find that difficult to believe.” As she raked her gaze up and down his
person, she remembered all too well what that hard body had felt against hers and heat enveloped her
being. “A man with your horrid personality doesn’t willingly choose pieces that might make him
laugh.”
“Then I hate to disappoint you, Miss Winslow, but that is exactly why I need such material.”
He huffed in apparent frustration. “The world is often a harsh mistress and fate rarely plays fair. That
is when I take refuge in books.”
Despite her misgivings, she thawed slightly toward him. Any man who genuinely enjoyed
reading couldn’t be that bad. “Since we will have been forced to spend time together, and much of it
in the foreseeable future, you may refer to me as Honor.”
“Honor?”
“That is my Christian name. Honor June.”
“It’s rather lovely, and is somehow fitting for the daughter of a military man.” He studied her
with renewed interest. So much so that her cheeks heated. “And it gives me a bit of insight into the
general.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I’m Gideon.”
Somehow, it suited him. “It’s an unusual name and quite refreshing.”
“My parents were Biblically minded. It means great destroyer.” He shrugged. “In the Bible,
Gideon was also a military leader.”
“Were you in the military?”
“I was not.” The muscle ticced in his cheek again. “I didn’t feel the need to fight in someone
else’s war, so I served the Crown in different ways.”
“By going places everyone else had forgotten to rescue people others had given up on.” When
he remained silent, staring out the window with a slight frown, Honor stifled a sigh. Whether he
believed it or not, he was truly a man of honor. She stifled a snicker at the unexpected play on words
lest he think her deranged. “Yet, God called Gideon anyway.”
He snorted. “Gideon was afraid. He didn’t believe in himself, told God to look elsewhere for
a hero. There are times when I feel that to my bones.”
Seeing him in a vulnerable moment made her see him in a different light. Oh, he was still very
much an ogre, but he wasn’t rotten to the core. “We all feel helpless at times, and we all think we’re
useless.”
“Even you?” The speculation in his dark eyes gave her pause.
How exactly did he think of her? Truly, did he assume she was helpless and had fluff for
brains, or was that merely an act? Perhaps she didn’t wish to know. “Yes. Of course I do, especially
following my history.”
“Ah.” Gideon resettled on the bench. He rested an ankle on a knee. “Adam mentioned in
passing a few years ago that you’d suffered some sort of health trouble.”
She snorted. “If only it had been as trifling as that.” A glance out the window confirmed they
were still no closer to civilization than they had been an hour ago. “What I went through has defined
my life, I suppose you could say.”
“Meaning?”
When Honor turned her head and met his gaze, questions lingered in his eyes. The man was far
too intelligent for his own good, and he might prove a thorn in her side if he thought to prevent her
from assisting in this mission. “Meaning I am grateful to be alive, and I don’t wish to waste that
boon.”
 “Understandable.” The longer his regard rested on her, the more she wanted to fidget.
“Explain your illness to me so that I might be prepared if something untoward should happen during
this trip.” That slight note of command in his voice sent a tingle down her spine.
“Only if you promise you won’t treat me differently because of it.”
The man shook his head. “I can’t make such a promise without being able to assess the
situation for myself.”
Fair enough. No, he wasn’t a stupid man by any stretch. She appreciated that, for there was a
certain degree of safety that being in his presence brought. “Nearly four years ago, I suffered an
unexpected and quite debilitating apoplexy brought on by the shock of my mother dying suddenly.”
“Had she had a stroke as well?”
“I don’t believe so. The doctor’s said it was a weakened heart.” Would that be a worry for
her own future on top of everything else? “In any event, I was basically paralyzed on my left side for
a short time immediately following the incident.” Her voice wavered. “It was quite the most terrifying
event I have ever lived through.” Remembering what it felt like to not be able to move anything on
that side left her breathing labored and sweat to bead on her brow. Occasionally, she had nightmares
about that very thing.
“Indeed, that would be horrifying.” A trace of sympathy went through his tone.
“Yes.” Honor nodded. “Lord Berrensfield wrote to the Home Office so they could forward the
news to my father, but he didn’t even have the decency to come back to London and see to my care.”
“Ah, and that is how you landed with the Stanwyckes.”
“Yes. They were instrumental in helping me back from the brink.” She pressed her lips
together. How much should she tell him? “I suffered bloodletting for months following the initial
apoplexy. Thankfully, the paralysis lifted after a couple of days, but it left me terrified that it might
happen again.” After a few moments of reflection, she added, “The surgeon had no more idea of how
to help me than asking a monkey. His answer was dosing me with laudanum, which left me adrift for
months. I did not like that feeling.”
“Nasty stuff, indeed. It’s far too easy to fall addicted to it, especially if you weren’t in heavy
pain.” When she nodded, he huffed out a breath. “I think the medical establishment—while they try
their best with limited knowledge—errs on the side of medication, as if that will somehow
miraculously cure their patients.”
“I knew that if I ever wished to resume my life or even build a new one, I needed to take
matters into my own hands, and you are correct. My body had become all too used to the drug.
Coming off it was a ghastly mess.”
“Excuse my vulgarity, but you have survived a shit-ton of things that would bring a man to his
knees. For that you have my respect, Miss Winslow.” When she lifted an eyebrow, he winked. “I
meant to say, Honor.”
Oh, dear. Hearing her name in his voice, watching his lips form the word awoke a horde of
butterflies in her lower belly that she never knew were housed there. “While I thank you for that,
please don’t think to pity me. It was hard work coming back to life as it were, and I am reminded
daily that I fought to be here. Without the care and concern of the Stanwycke family, it would have
been easy to overdose on the drug and put an end to everything.”
“Yet you persevered.” There was a bit of awe in his expression. “What is the prognosis?”
“That’s a rather sticky wicket.” A sigh escaped her, for he would undoubtedly judge her
ability to be effective, which meant there was a chance he’d try to leave her in the nearest posting inn
to her father’s location. “Even though I have worked hard to strengthen my muscles and my health has
improved, I live in fear that I will either have a relapse or my muscles will remain forever weak.”
“Is that fear based in fact?”
“A bit. Some things are stubborn and are still weak even now, but I will continue to exercise
them. Occasionally, I will forget how to say a word or pronounce one, and sometimes my mind won’t
work as it should and I will trip or blank on words.” She looked out the window to escape possibly
seeing pity in his eyes. “At others, I still have residual numbness on my left side, or I am unable to
feel the slide of fabric on my skin. I try not to worry, for I have survived.”
She couldn’t bring herself to tell him of the larger worries that occupied her mind, for she
didn’t know him that well and didn’t trust him. Perhaps later she would, but it didn’t concern him, so
he didn’t need to be privy to that.
“I see.”
Then she couldn’t stand the silence. Once more finding his gaze with hers, she leaned forward
and touched his knee briefly. “Promise me that you will let me assist on every leg of this journey to
the best of my ability before you put restrictions on me or assume I am incapable.” She forced a
swallow into her suddenly dry throat. “While the Stanwyckes are a lovely family, they tend to coddle
me, and I am of an age where I know my own mind and take offense at being relegated to one of the
infirm.”
“You have my word, and quite frankly, you are as stubborn as they come.” This time, his grin
actually materialized, and she stared, for the gesture softened his features, made him handsome and a
bit wicked. “If something were to challenge you as we go, I fully expect you to meet it head on before
my interference is ever needed.”
“Thank you.” Heat went through her cheeks. Not knowing what else to do, she blurted, “Tell
me about the book you are currently reading.”
Perhaps the trip to rescue her father wouldn’t be as bad as she feared.
 Chapter Six

Dancing Stag Inn

First night on the road

Gideon breathed a silent sigh of relief when the traveling coach pulled into the inn yard that
evening. Though it had been an excessively long day confined to the vehicle with no other company
than Miss Winslow—Honor—it hadn’t been as terrible as he’d first thought.
Before they’d stopped for luncheon, he’d almost shared too much about himself, but had
covered it by that bit of fiction regarding the meaning of his first name. The reality was, his parents
had named him because they’d seen an advertisement in the paper for a brand of shoe shine by Anais
Gideon. There was no warrior background nor was there a sense of low self-worth or the inability to
be a hero.
None of that applied. He was merely the product of a catchy grouping of words and a
caricature rendering in a newspaper. A paper people would crumple to use as a fire starter or to wrap
fish in for an evening meal.
And now he regretted the lie, for she no doubt would use that to try and fret over his psyche or
delve into why he was who he was.
One thing it had done, though, was to encourage Honor to open up to him about a part of her
history. He’d not known of her health concerns, and now that he did, he had no choice but to respect
her. Any person who survived all that she had deserved to conduct themselves as a managing
baggage… even if it did set his teeth on edge to constantly be challenged. On the other side of that
coin was a certain responsibility toward her. They had four more days on the road together, to say
nothing of the return trip, and what they would find when they located her father. If she suffered a
relapse, if she suddenly succumbed to a weakness of muscles or mind, he would be forced to look
after her, protect her, even if she’d badgered her way into the trip.
Damn it all to hell and back.
He wasn’t in the habit of squiring females about the countryside let alone rescuing them if they
tumbled into trouble.
“Gideon? Is there something wrong?”
The dulcet sound of her voice brought him out of his thoughts. “Why would you think there
was?” She’d come abreast of him with a large valise in hand. The fact that she’d taken “pack only
essentials” to heart had his respect rising up another notch. How many women could fit clothing and
other accessories into one bag when she knew she’d be gone for possibly a month?
“You are scowling at that puddle as if it’s a personal affront.” Confusion lined Honor’s face
as she peered up at him. “What are you thinking about?”
“Uh, dinner.” This traveling with someone else was a monumental change, for he usually went
everywhere alone, was used to looking after only himself. Now he’d be expected to make
conversation and look decent at all times.
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 THE BOBO RAPIDS.

To-morrow we should pass Dunga where Amadu himself lived,

and I determined that our boats should look their best, so I had
everything put ship-shape on board. Our masts, which had been
lowered, as they gave too much purchase to the wind, were raised
again, and from them floated the tricolour flag of France. We were off
again now in fine style.
Our friend Hugo, however, was no friend to demonstrations of any
kind, and said to us, “What are you going to do on the left bank?
Can’t you follow me on the right where there is nothing to fear? It
won’t help your voyage much to be received with musket-shots, will
it? Besides, if you don’t follow me carefully, who will guide you
amongst the rocks?”
He had told us the evening before that there were no rocks
between Dunga and Say, so we let him go down his right bank all
alone, whilst we filed past Dunga, about a hundred yards from the
land.
 A group of some twenty horsemen had been following us ever
since the morning, and they halted at the landing-place of the village,
unsaddled their steeds and let them drink. On a height on which the
village is perched a square battalion of something like a thousand
warriors was drawn up.
All remained perfectly still, and not a cry or threat broke the
silence. We passed very slowly, our barges swept on by the current,
whilst we on deck looked about us proudly. Our enemies on their
side acquitted themselves bravely, and with considerable dignity,
though it must be confessed they reminded us rather of china dogs
glaring at each other.
When all is said and done, however, I think I may claim the credit
of having fairly challenged the Toucouleurs, leaving them to take up
my glove or to leave it alone as they chose. This may have seemed
like bravado, and perhaps there was a little of that in my attitude, but
as an old warrior of the Sudan myself, and a fellow-worker though a
humble one of the Gallieni and the Archinards, I would rather have
run any risk than have had our historic enemies the Toucouleurs
think I was afraid of them. The tone I took up too gave us an
ascendency later which we sorely needed.
After going about twenty-two miles further down the river, we
anchored near enough to Say to make out the trees surrounding it,
and the next day we reached the town itself, which had for so long
been the object of our desires.
Say is a comparatively big place, but not nearly as important as it
is often made out to be. It is made up of straw huts with pointed
roofs, and is surrounded by palisades also of straw. Only one house
is built of mud, and that forms the entrance sacred to the chief.
The river flows on the east of the town, and on the west is a low-
lying tract of what are meadows in the dry season, but mere swamps
in the winter.
We anchored at once, but the stench from the rubbish on the
banks of the river was so great that we soon moved to the southern
extremity of the village, where the shore was cleaner.
 Our passengers meanwhile had gone to announce our arrival,
and old Abdu, who is in command of the prisoners of the chief of
Say, soon came to see us. Baud and Vermesch had had some
dealings with him, and had spoken well of him to us, while Monteil
also alludes to him. He seemed a very worthy sort of fellow.
After the customary exchange of compliments, I asked to be
permitted to pay a visit to his master, Amadu Saturu, generally
known under the name of Modibo, or the savant, and Abdu went off
to make my request known at once, but we waited and waited a very
long time before any answer was vouchsafed.
We were simply consumed with impatience, and I augured ill from
the delay. I remembered of course that Modibo had signed treaty
after treaty with Baud, Decœur, and Toutée, only I could not help
also remembering how little a diplomatic document such as a so-
called treaty really ever binds a negro, and that made me hesitate to
trust him.
Most Mussulmans, at least most of the Mahommedan chiefs and
marabouts, are liars and deceivers. They have a hundred ways, not
to speak of mental reservation, of swearing by the Koran, without
feeling themselves bound by their oath. If they respected a promise
given as they ought to do, would their prophet have taught that four
days’ fasting expiated the violation of an oath?
If they cheat like this when they know what they are about, how
are they likely to behave when everything is strange to them? and
they attach no moral value to the terms of an agreement, especially
of an agreement of many clauses such as is the fashion for the
French to make with native chiefs.
To pass the time whilst waiting for the return of our messenger we
chatted with a Kurteye marabout, who came to give us a greeting.
He read Madidu’s letter with some difficulty, but great interest. I
asked him whether Modibo generally kept his visitors waiting like
this, and he replied, “Yes, it makes him seem more important, but
you will see him when it gets cooler.”
 So we waited with what patience we could, and at about five
o’clock Amadu Saturu sent for me. Oh, what a series of preliminaries
we still had to go through!
According to my usual custom I went to see the chief unarmed,
accompanied only by Suleyman and Tierno Abdulaye.
First we had to wait in the ante-chamber—I mean the mud hut
referred to above—the walls of which were pierced with niches
making it look like a pigeon-cote.
At last his majesty condescended to admit us to his presence.
The king of Say could not be called handsome, sympathetic, or
clean. He was a big, blear-eyed man, with a furtive expression, a
regular typical fat negro. He was crouching rather than sitting on a
bed of palm-leaves, wearing a native costume, the original colour of
which it was impossible to tell, so coated was it with filth. He was
surrounded by some thirty armed men. On his left stood the chief of
the captives, Abdu, with an old dried-up looking man, who I was told
was the cadi of the village, and, to my great and disagreeable
surprise, quite a large number of Toucouleurs. Suleyman and
Abdulaye, who recognized what this meant, exchanged anxious
glances with me. I now realized that my apprehensions had been
well founded. Still I took my seat quietly, without betraying any
emotion, on a wooden mortar, and begun my speech.
 VIEW OF SAY.

“The Sultan of the French greets you, the chief of the Sudan
greets you, etc. We come from Timbuktu. We passed peacefully
everywhere. We are now tired, the river is low, and in conformity with
the conventions you have made with the French we have come to
demand your hospitality that we may rest and repair the damage
done to our boats by the rocks. We also want a courier to go and tell
our relations at Bandiagara that we have arrived here safely. All we
need to support us during our stay will be paid for at prices agreed
on beforehand between us. Lastly, I wish to go and see Ibrahim
Galadjo, your friend and ours.”
“Impossible,” replied Modibo. “Galadjo is not now at his capital, he
is collecting a column; besides, you will not have time for the journey
to him.”
“Why not, pray?”
“Because you, like those who have preceded you, must not stop
here more than four or five days longer. That is the custom of the
country.”
 If I still cherished any illusions this speech finally dispersed them.
The groups about the chief moreover left me in no doubt as to his
sentiments, or as to whom we had to thank for those sentiments.
The Toucouleurs grinned, and waved their muskets above their
heads in a hostile manner. Abdu alone tried to speak on our behalf,
but Modibo ordered him to be silent, and the cadi joined in the
chorus against us. A griot then began a song, the few words of which
I caught were certainly not in our praise. Everything seemed to be
going wrong.
What was I to do? As I had said, we were all tired out, the river
was half dried up, the boats were terribly knocked about. Still it was
not altogether impossible to go, for after leading the life of the
Wandering Jew for so long, a little more or less travelling could not
matter much. We might perhaps have managed to do another fifty
miles or so, and try to find rest in a more hospitable district, where
we could pass the rainy season not so very far from Bussa, which
was to be our final goal.
One thing decided me to act as I did, and I can at least claim that I
made up my mind quickly. I was determined to fulfil to the letter, with
true military obedience, the last instructions I had received before
starting. These were my instructions—
“Bamako de Saint-Louis, Number 5074. Received on November
23, at half-past four in the afternoon—Will arrange for you to receive
supplementary instructions at Say. In case unforeseen
circumstances prevent those instructions being there before your
arrival, wait for them.”
This, as will be observed, is clear and precise enough. Of course
such orders would not have been sent but for the ignorance in
France of the state of things at Say. They would otherwise have
been simply ridiculous. However, an order cannot be considered
binding unless he who gives that order understands exactly what will
be the position when he receives it, of the person to whom it is sent,
and who is expected to execute it.
Still those instructions might arrive; rarely had such a thing
happened in French colonial policy, but it was just possible that our
presence at Say was part of a plan of operations at the mouth of the
Niger or in Dahomey. I need hardly add that it turned out not to be
so, but I was quite justified in my idea that it might have been, and in
any case I had no right to conclude to the contrary.
So I decided in spite of everything and everybody to remain.
Oh, if we had but started a little earlier; if M. Grodet had not
stopped us and kept us in the Sudan as he did! If we could but have
joined the Decœur-Baud, or even the Toutée expedition at Say, how
different everything would have been!
If only the promised instructions had really been sent us, as they
could have been, had any one wanted to send them! If only a small
column either from Dahomey or from Bandiagara had, as it might so
easily have been, commissioned to bring us those instructions, I am
convinced that Amadu Saturu would at this moment be a fugitive like
Amadu Cheiku, and that the Niger districts near Say would be
purged from the presence of slave-dealers. For all these robbers of
men, who are as cowardly as they are cruel and dishonest, would
have fled at the first rumour of an advance of the French upon their
haunts.
It ought to have been otherwise, that is all. It is not the time for
recrimination, but I shall count myself fortunate if what happened to
me serves as an example to others, and prevents the sending out of
expeditions only to abandon them to their fate, without instructions,
in the heart of Africa. For, as a rule, these expeditions seem to be
completely forgotten until the news arrives that they have managed
to get back to civilized districts after a struggle more glorious than
fruitful of results, or that, as sometimes happens, all the white men
have perished somewhere amongst the blacks.
To decide to remain at Say was, however, one thing, to be able to
do so was another.
There were just twenty-nine of us, five white men and twenty-four
black, with three children, the servants of Bluzet, Father Hacquart
and Taburet, and the Toucouleur Suleyman, on whom, by the way,
we did not feel we could altogether rely, a small party truly against
the 500 warriors of Amadu and his Toucouleurs or Foutankés, as
they are often called, not to speak of the people of Say and all who
were more or less dependent on Modibo.
I sometimes play, as no doubt my readers do too, at the game
called poker.
We all know that skill consists in making your adversary believe
when you have a bad hand that you have a very good one. This is
what is known as bluff. To make up for my purse having sometimes
suffered in this American game, it put me up to a dodge or two in
politics, notably on the present occasion.

CANOES AT SAY.

So I played poker as energetically as I could.

If ever a man went to his dinner after listening to a lot of
nonsense, it was Modibo on this 7th of April when I had my interview
with him.
I said amongst other things—“I have lived amongst the negroes
now for seven years; I know the river which flows past your village
from the spot where it comes from the ground. I have been in many
countries. I have known Amadu Cheiku, who is a great liar” (here the
Toucouleurs all nodded their heads in acquiescence), “and his son
Madani, who is no better than he is.
“I must, however, confess that never, in the course of my
experience, have I seen anything to equal what I see here to-day.
“Relations of ours have been here, some alone, others with
soldiers, all of whom have loaded you with presents. You promised,
nay more, you made alliance with us French, but now you break your
word. Very well! My Sultan, who is a true Sultan and not a bad chief
like you, who lolls about in a dirty hut on a moth-eaten coverlid, has
done you too much honour. You are viler than the unclean animals
whose flesh your prophet forbids you to eat. Now listen to me. My
chief has ordered me to stop here, and here I shall stop, a day if I
choose, a year if I choose, ten years if I choose. We are only thirty,
and you are as numerous as the grains of sand of the desert; but try
and drive us away if you can. I do not mean to begin making war,
because my chief has forbidden me to do so; you will have to begin,
and you will see what will happen. We have God on our side, who
punishes perjurers. He is enough for me; I am not afraid of you.
Adieu! We are going to seek a place for our camp where there are
none but the beasts of the field, for in this country they are better
than the men. Collect your column and come and drive us away!—
that is to say, if you can!”
Suleyman was a first-rate interpreter when he had this sort of
harangue to translate. The good fellow, who was of anything but a
conciliatory disposition, would drop out all flattering expressions or
cut them very short, but when he had such a task as I had set him
just now, he went at it with hearty goodwill. He was more likely to
add to than to omit anything I had said.
After this vehement address Modibo and his attendants seemed
quite dumfounded. What grisgris, what fetiches must these infidels,
these accursed white men have, if they could dare to speak in such
a bold fashion as this when they were alone in a strange country with
not more than thirty muskets at the most.
 It was very important not to give our unfriendly host time to
recover from his stupor. We filed out therefore in truly British style,
and I think we did well not to loiter. It was not without a certain
satisfaction that after traversing the two or three hundred yards
between us and the river I saw our flags floating above our boats.
Imagine, however, the feelings of my people when I burst in upon
their preparations for a meal in the tents already pitched, with the
order, “Pick all that up, and be on your guard, ready to be off at any
moment.”
Farewell to our good cheer, farewell to what we thought was to be
a safe and comfortable camp. We had to place sentinels and be
constantly on the alert. Our coolies, too, who had already made
advances to some of the belles of Say, were bitterly disappointed,
but we had no choice, and they had to fall in with our wishes or
rather commands, that all intercourse with the natives should be
broken off.
The next night we had to be all eyes and ears, and I at least did
not sleep a wink, so absorbed was I in thinking what had better be
done. I was determined to remain at Say at whatever cost, and it
struck me that the best plan would be to lead a kind of aquatic life,
enlarging the decks of our boats, so to speak, which really were
rather too small for us and our goods. An island would be the thing
for us. So we resolved that we would go and look for a suitable one
the next day.
On the morning of the 8th, Abdu tried to bring about a
reconciliation, but the poor devil only wasted his time and his breath.
He was the only man at Say who in his heart of hearts had the least
real sympathy for us, and he gave ample proof of this, for he never
took any part in the intrigues against us, which were the worry of our
lives for five months and a half. We never saw him again; he never
came to beg for a present like the false and covetous marabouts
who form the sham court of his chief. In a word, the slave was
superior to his master.
At noon on the 8th, mentally calling down on Say all the
maledictions she deserved for disappointing all our hopes, I gave the
word of command to weigh anchor, and once more we were being
carried along by the waters of the Niger.

OUR GUIDES’ CANOE.

THE ‘AUBE’ AT FORT ARCHINARD.
 CHAPTER VII

STAY AT SAY

We soon came in sight, as we rounded a bend of the stream, of a

thicket of trees on an island which seemed made on purpose for us.
We landed and pitched our tents.
The most important characteristic of an island is that it should be
completely surrounded with water. Well, our island fulfilled this
condition, for the time being at least. On the left, looking down
stream we could see the principal arm of the Niger, the deepest part
of the river, in which, however, the rocks of the bed were already
beginning to emerge, whilst on the right was a narrower channel
barred at the end by a rapid, beyond which the water disappeared
entirely underground. Yet further away in the same direction we
could see a little branch of the broken-up river with a very strong
current hastening on its way to join the main stream, where I could
not tell.
Our island was about 218 yards long by 328 broad. At one end,
that looking up-stream, was a rocky bank, whilst the other, looking
down-stream, consisted of low-lying alluvial soil, often of course
submerged, dotted here, there, and everywhere with the mounds of
the termites, and at this time of year completely deserted. A few fine
and lofty tamarinds and other trees with large trunks but little foliage
formed a regular wood, and afforded us a grateful shade; but the
island as a whole, with its ant-hills, its twisted, tortuous, and leafless
trunks, and its ground strewn with sharp and broken flints, presented
a very wild and desolate appearance when we first landed.
Its situation, however, was really far from unpleasing, for on the
deserted left bank the inundations are never very deep, and near to
it rise wooded hills, with here and there perpendicular cliffs rising
straight up from the river. Nearly opposite to us was one of these
cliffs, white with guano or with lime, which looked to me very well
suited for a permanent post. Being quite bare of vegetation, this cliff
stands out against the verdure of the woods, and from the evening to
the morning, from twilight to sunrise, great troops of big black
monkeys assemble in it, and hold a regular palaver just as the
negroes do. Often at night their cries quite alarm us, and keep the
sentries constantly on the qui vive.
The whole of the riverside districts on the left bank, from Kibtachi
to the Toucouleur villages up-stream, are completely deserted and of
bad fame. Now and then we saw men armed with bows and arrows
prowling about on a slave hunt, or deer came down to drink. The
right bank is far less dreary. Opposite to us is Talibia, a little
agricultural village, tributary to Say. We can make out the gables of
the pointed huts surrounded by palisades and sanies or fences
made of mats. When the millet is full grown these pointed huts are
quite hidden by it, and the scene is one of great beauty, giving an
impression of considerable prosperity. Women come down to the
beach to fetch water, and bathe in the arm of the stream. On market
day at Say—that is to say, on Friday—there is great excitement at
Talibia, men, women, and children trooping to market with their
wares as they do in France, carrying their butter, their mats—in a
word, all the produce of the week’s work on their heads.
Above Talibia and the confluence of the third arm of the river the
wood becomes dense and impenetrable. A little path follows the
river-bank through the tall grass, and during our long stay in the
island it was the daily morning occupation to watch from the top of
the island who should come along this path, for by it alone could
king’s ambassadors, marabouts, market-women or any one else
approach us.
 VIEW OF OUR ISLAND AND OF THE SMALL ARM OF THE
RIVER.

Our island was quite deserted by the natives, for though the
people of Talibia grew millet on it before our arrival, they would never
live on it, or even sleep on it for one night, for it had a very bad
reputation, and was supposed to be haunted by devils, horrible
devils, who took the form of big fantastic-looking monkeys, and after
sunset climbed upon the ant-hills and held a fiendish sabbat.
Without calling in the aid of the supernatural to account for it,
there is no doubt that people belated on the left bank were never
seen again. Perhaps they are taken captive by the robber
Djermankobes, or fall victims to lions or hyænas.
However that may be, the Talibia devils, as were those of Wuro
and Geba later, were propitious to us. All these spirits, whether of
Kolikoro, of Debo, or of Pontoise, are really cousins-german. Ours
were the spirits of the Niger, and the negroes explained our immunity
from their attacks by saying, “They can do nothing against an
expedition, the leader of which is the friend of Somanguru, the great
demon of Kolikoro, and who knows the river at its source, where it
comes out of the earth, where no one else has ever seen it.”
I imagine that since our departure the natives of Talibia have still
avoided the island. Our residence on it was not enough to
rehabilitate it, and probably now many rumours are current about the
spirit which haunts the ruins of our camp.
It was really a great thing to be on an island. We were safe there
from hyænas at least, and all we had to do was to put our camp in a
state of defence against the Toucouleurs and their friends.
The first fortification we put up was a moral one, for we baptized
our camp Fort Archinard, in token of our gratitude to the Colonel of
that name, and it was worth many an abattis. The name of Archinard
was in fact a kind of double fetich, for it gave confidence to our own
men, and it inspired the Toucouleurs with superstitious terror. In the
French Sudan there is not a marabout, a soldier, or a sofa of
Samory, not a talibé of Amadu, not a friend nor an enemy of the
French who does not retain deeply graven upon his memory the
name of Colonel Archinard, for the present General will always be
the Colonel in Africa, the great Colonel whom, according to tradition,
no village ever resisted for a whole day.
So we managed that the news of the baptism of our Camp should
be spread far and near, and passed on from mouth to mouth till it
reached the ear of Amadu himself. No doubt he had some bad
dreams in consequence.
This moral defence, however, required to be supplemented by a
material one. Two hundred and twenty by forty-three yards is not a
very wide area for thirty-five people to live in, but it is far too big a
space to have to defend efficiently.
We felt it would be prudent to restrict the camp, properly so called,
to the northern point of the island, and taking six termitaries as points
of support, we placed abattis between them. Everything was ready to
our hands, branches, logs, brushwood, thorns, etc. We cut down the
trees at the lower end of the island, which cleared our firing range,
though it also rather spoiled the look of the landscape. We levelled
the site of our camp, razed many of the ant-hills to the ground, and
mounted our two guns, one pointing up-stream, on a huge trunk
which seemed to have been placed where it was on purpose, which
commanded the bank almost as far as Say itself, whilst the other
was placed on a big trunk which we drove firmly into the ground, and
would keep the people on the banks down-stream in awe. At each
gun sentries were always on guard. Then the unfortunate Aube was
unloaded, patched up somehow, provided with sixteen oars, and
armed with the machine-gun belonging to the Davoust, all ready to
advance to the attack or the defence whether to Say or to Dunga.
In a word, the urgent preliminary work was rapidly accomplished
in a very few days, and then in comparative security we began
building what the natives call the tata, that is to say, an earthwork
such as surrounds sedentary villages, or a fortified redoubt serving
as the residence of a chief.
Even if you had not been brought up a mason, you would very
soon become one in the Sudan; at least you will learn to build as the
negroes do. There are neither stones, lime, nor sand, nothing but
water and more or less argillaceous soil. With that you must make
bricks, mortar, and the mixture for graining, if graining you mean to
have. The clay is kneaded with the feet, and when it is ready, what
are called tufas are made of it, that is to say, flat or cylindrical bricks,
which the mason or baré places horizontally between two layers of
mortar. The baré sits astride on the wall he is building and chants the
same tune over and over again, whilst his assistants silently pass up
the tufas to him. I have noticed that all over the world masons and
tile-makers are as light-hearted as birds.
Our best mason in this case was a big Sarracolais named Samba
Demba, who generally acted as groom to our bicycle Suzanne.
When he was at work on the wall it grew apace, and we too grew
gay as we saw it rise, for with it increased our sense of security.
When the building went on well, we felt that everything else would
go well too.
Our tata was a triangular wall, each of the three sides being from
about eleven to sixteen yards long. It was thick enough to protect us
from treacherous shots from old-fashioned rifles, and indeed also
from the quick-firing weapons which the English had sold some time
ago to our enemy Samory. At a height of about six feet and a half
some forty loopholes were made, distributed about equally over the
three sides of the triangle formed by our wall. Inside, the walls were
supported by buttresses about three feet thick, which served alike as
seats and places in which to store our ammunition. The building
seemed likely to last well unless it should be disintegrated and
washed away in a tornado some day; breaches will of course be
made in it, parts of it will fall, but I expect, for a long time hence, its
ruins will bear witness to the stay here of the French expedition, and
to our effective occupation of the site.

FORT ARCHINARD.

I forget what king of Sego it was who rendered his tata

impregnable by making human corpses its foundation. In default of
such a precaution as this, which we refrained from taking, a few
determined men might at any moment have carried Fort Archinard
by assault, but they would have paid dearly for their success.
 On the summit of an ant-hill, at the top of the longest bamboo
stem we could find, we hoisted the French flag.
And in this remote island of Archinard, more than two hundred
leagues from any other European, we with our coolies lived for five
months, and made the French name, beneath the protection of the
French flag, respected in spite of old Amadu, in spite of the chief of
Say, and of all their intrigues against us; yes, in spite of all hostile
coalitions, in spite of the dreary rainy season, and of the home
sickness which consumed us,—in a word, in spite of everything.
The tata once constructed, we were now free to consider our
comfort a little, as we had really nothing better to do. Bluzet, who
had already acted as architect of the fort, undertook the building of
our huts. We each had our own palace, but what a simple palace! A
circular hollow rick of straw some 12 feet in diameter, upheld by a
central stake, interlaced stalks forming the framework of the roof,
whilst ropes were woven in and out of the straw, forming with it a
kind of net-work pattern. One little window was contrived in each hut,
a mere porthole just big enough to let in air and light but not rain,
whilst a low doorway was made on the opposite side to that from
which we might expect tornadoes.
Lastly, to protect us from stray bullets, a little earthen wall, some
19 inches high, was erected inside our huts, so that it just covered us
when we were lying full length at night. We each did our best to
make our own particular niche cosy and ship-shape; but in justice it
must be said that Baudry and I were the most successful, for we
achieved quite a brilliant result. Baudry’s straw walls were a perfect
museum of watches, instruments, medicines, patterns, objects for
exchange, and strangest of all—toads!
Father Hacquart’s hut was very soberly decorated. Sacred images
were nailed to the central stake, and in the little wall—I very nearly
said in a corner—was a cornet-à-piston, which was later the joy of
the chief of Bussa, but of which I own with the deepest regret we
never heard a single note.
 FORT ARCHINARD.

With Bluzet the keynote of the decorations was art. He had

draperies of velvet, a little faded and frayed perhaps, at nine-pence
or so a yard, with others of native manufacture. Dr. Taburet’s
speciality was medicine-bottles, with a horrible smell of iodoform, or,
to be more accurate, of all the disinfectants known to science, and
carefully protected in a tin case set on a what-not, a souvenir he
never parted with, and often gazed upon, the portrait of the lady he
was to marry on his return home.
Fili Kanté, a boy in the service of Bluzet, who was not only cook
but blacksmith and clown to the expedition, concocted a cocked hat
for each of our pointed huts, which after a few tornadoes had passed
over them were worn, so to speak, over one ear!
The huts of the men were all very much alike, but two on the side
of the longest wall were of course rather larger than the others, and
of a rectangular shape. Lastly, we had a big watertight store made, in
which we stowed away all our valuables. The canvas sail of the
foremast of the Aube fastened to the ground served as a kind of