Celia (A Sinclair Society Novella)

Chapter Nine

Instead of leading me to his bedroom or mine, Horace went all the way down to the garden. "I'm sorry for making you worry so much lately," he said, putting his hand on my back. "I didn't think it would affect you at all."

"Lately?" I echoed, astonished. "Horace, you have been making trips to help 'friends' as long as we have been married."

He flinched. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

"So you've said." I pulled away from him. We entered one of the small, walled gardens. There was no gardener in sight. Knowing my guests were in their rooms, I was certain of some privacy. "Well? What has been going on, Horace?"

Horace ran a hand through his hair, a sign that he was uneasy. "It's difficult to explain, Celia."

"Why don't you start at the beginning?" I suggested, sitting down on one of the benches. I folded my hands in my lap and waited.

It took several seconds for him to gather his thoughts. "Before my father died, I volunteered to help Harper with his work," he finally said. "Since we were at university together, Harper has been keeping his eyes and ears open for anyone who might be sympathetic to the French cause."

"He's a spy." The information didn't surprise me. Mr. Harper traveled so much and listened attentively to everything that went on around him. And hadn't Juliet said she was always startled by where he would turn up?

"I suppose you could say that," Horace agreed, though his tone was reluctant. "I can't tell you who else works with him."

"Mr. Sinclair did, though."

A flash of pain crossed my husband's face. "Yes."

He didn't know that I had already been informed of this, though I hadn't known Mr. Harper did such work. Juliet had only recently been informed of what her brother had been doing when he was murdered. Would she be relieved to learn her brother's friends had been helping him, or would it make the pain of his death worse because they hadn't been there when he needed them most?

"Sinclair was well liked by everyone," Horace continued. "When he...died—

"But he didn't just die, though, did he?" I interrupted again. "Mr. Sinclair was murdered. Presumably because of something he learned, isn't that so?"

With a start, Horace spun to face me. "How did you—?"

"I am not as sheltered as you might suppose," I told him, perhaps more smugly than was warranted. "The woman who has been working for me was once under the Sinclair roof, you know. She has heard a thing or two about this matter these past few months."

"Right. Julie Nelson." Horace shook his head. "Harper has told me about some of his encounters with that woman. It's a wonder she has not gotten herself killed before this."

I bristled on behalf of my friend. Juliet had told me a little of the scrapes she had encountered while on her journey. I thought she'd been brave to face the danger as she had. "What's done is done. Perhaps you might be good enough to continue?" I prompted.

"Well, Harper and I knew Sinclair had been close to identifying someone who had been selling information to the French," Horace said, his tone suddenly weary. "We had all hoped that this would be the last piece in a very large, very... complicated puzzle. When Harper found Sinclair dead, we knew he must have discovered something important."

For the first time, I felt the first stirrings of sympathy. "So you continued the search in his place?"

"I will admit it had become more personal." Horace sat down next to me, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I'd been planning to leave it behind me when we married. I'd had my fun, and it is an activity best left to the young and naïve. But how could I? My best friend was dead!"