“To be honest, I’m not sure how I recognize your name,” she said. “You were looking for me?”
He inclined his head. “Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was unable to attend your husband’s services. When I heard you were in the area, I rushed over to offer my condolences.”
“I had not thought my arrival was widely known.”
“When one works at the Foreign Office, one hears all sorts of chatter.”
“Foreign Office?”
“Why, yes,” he said in a curious tone. “That’s how I came to know your husband.”
Catherine’s world narrowed to a small circle of vision, one that centered on Cochran’s mouth. She stared hard, waiting for more words to emerge. Words that would clarify his ridiculous statement. None arrived.
“Pardon, sir? Are you implying my husband was also employed by the Foreign Office?”
He searched her face. “You didn’t know.”
Time slowed, and Catherine’s heart slammed once, twice, three times against her rib cage. The crowd, the carriages, the squabbling vendors disappeared. Only silence remained. Punishing, unrelenting silence. Deafening, suffocating silence. “How long?”
He glanced around. “Is this your carriage approaching?”
She nodded, not removing her gaze from his face.
Taking in her small cache of luggage stacked behind her, he asked, “You are returning home?”
“Yes, Mr. Cochran,” she said with growing impatience. “Please answer my question.”
The carriage rocked to a halt, and Cochran motioned her inside. “Let me explain in a more private setting.”
Catherine considered the propriety of allowing a stranger into her carriage, especially while in mourning. But this was London, not Showbury. No one knew her here, and she had learned long ago to take matters into her own hands if she wished for a particular result.
“Very well, Mr. Cochran. Mary,” she called.
“Yes, ma’am?” The maid eyed Cochran.
“Would you mind riding with the driver for a short time?” Catherine asked.
“No, ma’am.”
While the hotel staff busied themselves loading her trunks, Cochran assisted her into the carriage and made arrangements to have his horse tied to the back. When Mary was seated and all was in readiness, he bounded inside and settled across from her.
They rumbled down the street in silence for what felt like hours. Her pulse pounded hard within her ears and sweat trickled down her right side. “Please do not torture me with this suspense any longer, Mr. Cochran. How long was my husband with the government and in what capacity?”
“I believe Lord Somerton brought him into the fold about four years ago.”
Catherine ignored the sharp clenching pain around her heart. “And his capacity?”
He brushed a few specks of dust from his coat sleeve. “Since Ashcroft is gone, I suppose telling you won’t do any harm. But I must ask you to keep what I’m about to impart to yourself. Discussing Foreign Office affairs—even old affairs—could have an ill-effect on current initiatives.”
“You have my word.” She would promise him anything at the moment. “I will not repeat your confidence.”
“Ashcroft was in the business of collecting sensitive information.”
“What sort of information?”
“I can’t go so far as to tell you specifics,” he said, “but he sought any type of intelligence that would protect England’s shores.”
“Do you mean he was a spy?”
He paused a moment. “The preferable term is agent.”
Jeffrey was a spy. For four years. Under Lord Somerton’s tutelage. Dear God. How could she be ignorant of something so important and dangerous? Could Jeffrey’s work for the government be the reason he all but abandoned his family to the country?
“He wasn’t always an agent, mind you,” Mr. Cochran said. “Somerton started him out as a messenger. Your husband made many forays across the Channel retrieving vital intelligence on Napoleon’s movements.”
Gut-churning dread washed over her, not only for the danger her husband faced but also for the role Lord Somerton had played in Jeffrey’s activities and his decision to keep this knowledge from her. How amused he must have been yesterday. “Are you aware of the details surrounding my husband’s death?”
“He was set upon by footpads, as I recall.”
“That is what was reported to me.” She studied him. “However, I have reason to believe something far more nefarious occurred.”
“What do you mean?”
“Based upon what you’ve disclosed and the nature of the letters I delivered to Lord Somerton, I can’t imagine any other outcome at the moment.”
“Letters?” A new intensity entered his tone.
“My husband’s,” she said. “Jeffrey sent me several pieces of correspondence before he died. They made little sense to me, but a few of them mentioned Lord Somerton, so I thought they might be of use to him.”