The Lady and ‘The Eagle’: Eagles Series Book Two

By Wayne M. Hoy

Blake Hansford, second son of the Duke of Warwick is widely known as one of London’s notoriously popular rakes. Unbeknownst to the family, however, save the duke himself, his son Blake—code name Eagle—is actually a secret agent for the Home Office, and a liaison with the Bow Street Runners. When a family friend is found to have committed suicide, the Duke is suspicious and enlists Blake’s help in investigating what transpired. Blake quickly recognizes there are too many inconsistencies surrounding his manner of death and concludes the suicide was staged to cover up something far more sinister.

Emily Johnston, still reeling from the shock and despair of her father’s suicide, is convinced he must have left some type of farewell letter to her with a reason for his bewildering actions. She decides it must be hidden in his desk in the secret compartment they frequently used when she was a child to share lighthearted confidences. When Emily slips back into the house to search for what she hopes is a message from her father, she is stunned to find the desk has vanished and she is not the only one with an interest in its whereabouts as she interrupts Blake along with a band of thieves all intent on finding the missing fixture...and what may be inside it.

Blake’s confrontation with the thugs convinces him that he is dealing with someone prepared to destroy anybody standing in his way and knows he must do whatever he can to keep Emily safe from harm. But how does an apparent happy-go-lucky womanizer justify his actions while executing an investigation into an obvious murder without revealing his true purpose?

Blake has no other choice but to enlist Emily’s help. Together they search for answers only to find themselves scrambling one step behind a cunning individual clearly willing to do anything, even kill, to keep his secret hidden.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728328386

Wayne M. Hoy

Wayne M. Hoy presently resides in Southern Indiana with his wife of 62 years. A retired Police Lieutenant and father of nine, Wayne has taught a wide range of courses in criminal justice during his law enforcement career. His diverse education has supplied him with an expertise in many areas and he is an educator in the field of Theology as well. In his spare time, he indulges his passion for writing and researching settings for his historical romances, which include, The Wolf and the Stag, The Miniature, Appeal to Honor, Banners of Canvas, Fire in the Sky, Lone Star Justice, Ambush at Piñon Canyon, Day of the Outlaw, The Long Way Home, Where Eagles Dare, The Lady and ‘The Eagle’, The Eagle’s Wing, Casey Sue Thornton, A Chance Encounter and his latest, An Occasion of Valor.

Book preview

53160.jpg Chapter One 53136.jpg

London, England

May, Year of our Lord 1835

L ord Horace Johnston sat at his desk in his study on Brooks Street leaning heavily on his elbows. He had once been a tall robust individual, but now he appeared small and broken. The carriage accident had left him bunged up; a broken wrist and broken ribs as well as a mass of bruises and contusions. The carriage mishap, however, had not been an accident. He knew that now after talking to Lord Blake Hansford. There had been proof. And with that same certainty he knew he was in the killer’s sights. He intended to finish the job and Horace knew why. He turned his attention to the sheet of paper in front of him. The letter had arrived yesterday from his friend Isaac Fallon, Chief Ambassador with the Diplomatic Office in Bombay, India, and it was easy to read between the lines.

Johnston’s head sprang up at the creak of a loose floorboard in the corridor outside his room. Had his footman returned this quickly? It must be his wife…or his daughter, Emily, though he had left them both upstairs in their chambers. Just in case it wasn’t either of them he decided he had better hide the letter until he had an opportunity to talk to Lord Whethall. He folded the letter and untying the ribbon encircling a stack of old correspondences that he and his wife had exchanged while he was in the Foreign Office years before, slipped the folded sheet in the middle of the stack and then retied the thin pink band. He pulled open the bottom desk drawer and pushed on a precise spot on the rear panel until he heard a click as it flipped up revealing a hidden cubbyhole.

Emily was the only one besides him who knew of the hidden space. He shoved the bundle of letters inside and closed the latch just as the door opened. He half expected to see his daughter but the dark shadow that filled the doorway sent an unbidden shiver along his spine. Lord Johnston couldn’t make out the intruder’s face, but could feel his eyes probing the room. Slowly he shoved the desk drawer closed. The figure took a step into the room, and then another until the circle of light from the lamp on the desk spilled upon his face. He was tall and thick-set, the well-made black wool coat he wore stretched tight across his massive shoulders. The rather drooping eyelids, the curve of his mouth and the outline of his jaw bristling with dark stubble; the bold distinctly insolent stare, was familiar and Lord Johnston wondered where he had seen him before. And then he remembered. The man had been among the crowd that had gathered around the overturned carriage. For some reason, even though he could hardly think at the time because of the pain, that insolent sneer had weighed on his mind.

How did you get in here? Lord Johnston demanded.

The man smirked. He began to whistle, the sound low and tuneless.

You received a letter from Bombay recently, he said, his black gaze searching the top of the desk.

That is none of your business, and I’ll ask you to leave my house, Lord Johnston said, his voice, however, sounded hollow to his own ears.

Ah, but it is my business. I want that letter. I can’t count on you keeping your mouth shut.

That’s why you tried to kill me by tampering with the carriage axle, Lord Johnston said nervously swiping a hand over his lips. But I don’t have the letter you describe.

I know better. I just saw you place it inside a bundle of other letters tied with a pink ribbon. You stuck the bundle in one of your desk drawers. Now give it to me.

The man stepped around the desk and it was then Lord Johnston saw the pistol. His eyes widened. The pistol looked familiar. The man smiled grimly. Recognize it? he sneered. I got it from the case in your library.

I know what you’re about, but you’ll never get away with it. You can’t hide the truth forever, Lord Johnston said.

Give me the letter.

Never, Lord Johnston said.

Then I shall have to take it, the man sneered. By the way, you wouldn’t want anything to happen to that beautiful daughter of yours would you—

Damn you! Lord Johnston cried and lunged at the man. Despite his broken wrist and ribs he fought hard.

The gunshot was loud in the room. Lord Johnston’s head pitched backward violently and then he slowly toppled over onto the desk. The man stood panting as he stared down at Lord Johnston’s dead body. He muttered a curse. His brother was not going to like this. He reached and placed the smoking pistol in Lord Johnston’s lifeless hand. Straightening he began to rummage through the papers on the desk careful to avoid the blood forming a pool around Lord Johnston’s head.

The man pulled open the top drawer and froze at the sound of a door slamming somewhere in the house followed by running feet. He cursed under his breath as he shut the drawer and hurried to the door and closing it turned the key in the lock. He had been told the house was empty that the ladies had gone to a soiree and wouldn’t be home until late. He stared at the desk as though debating searching it further, but instead walked quickly to the window and threw open the sash. In a moment he was out and closing the window behind him strode quickly away toward the back alley.

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Johannes Archer Hansford, duke of Warwick glanced up from the stack of papers on his desk that he had been going over most of the morning at the soft knock on the door to his study. Before he could call out the door opened and his son Blakely took a step into the room and halted. His father quickly got to his feet. Even at nine and fifty the duke was still a strapping individual at six foot two. The streaks of gray at his temples gave him a sense of judiciousness which took nothing away from his commanding presence.

Blake, the duke exclaimed, and a broad smile lit up his face. You got my message. Come in.

Blake crossed the floor and clasped his father’s hand in a firm grip. He had just come from the scene of Lord Johnston’s suicide. His mind flashed back to Johnston’s daughter Emily. She had been the one to discover her father’s bloody body sprawled across his desk. She had been in shock when he had arrived and he wasn’t sure she was even aware of him. Many of the servants who had been given the evening off were nearly hysterical. Lord Johnston was well liked by his staff. Blake decided his father couldn’t have heard about Johnston’s death this quickly. Was something wrong with his mother, his sisters?

Mother is well? he asked anxiously.

Your mother is fine. I just wanted to have you read this, he said handing Blake a folded slip of paper. It’s from my friend Horace Johnston—

Johnston?! Blake exclaimed unbelievingly. When did you get this?

Last evening, the duke said. One of Horace’s footmen brought it around 10:00 o’clock. It was rather late so I didn’t make a reply. I was not sure what to make of it.

Blake unfolded the paper and quickly read the words:

"John, if anything should happen to me, I would ask that you look after Lady Catherine and Emily. I rely upon our deep friendship as I put this favor to you, and I know you will honor my request. If given time I will explain all of this to you.

Your friend, Horace."

Father, I think you had better sit down, Blake said motioning to a set of matching chairs upholstered in silk tapestry facing the fireplace at an angle.

What is it, Blake? his father asked warily.

Father, Blake began after his father had taken one of the seats. Horace Johnston shot himself in the head last night.

The color left the duke’s face. He stared unmoving for a long moment. I don’t believe it. Not for a minute, he growled. I know Horace well. We attended Eton and Oxford together and have been friends ever since. The man I know would not have taken his own life.

One can never know what goes on in another man’s mind. Blake cautioned. People can do strange things when under great duress. I haven’t had time to check. Lord Johnston may have hidden debts we know nothing about.

His father leaped to his feet and began to pace. That’s true, I confess. But I refuse to believe it of Horace Johnston.

Blake glanced down at the note still clasped in his hand. Hmm, he murmured. I admit this missive doesn’t sound like a man who was about to blow his brains out.

Knowing that whoever arranged that carriage accident wanted Lord Johnston dead, why had he jumped so quickly to agree with Constable Wilkson theory that Johnston had shot himself? He knew better than that.

Where are Catherine and Emily? They must be devastated. And the scandal—suicide! Society will devour them, his father growled angrily.

I’m not sure you’re aware, father, but the carriage accident that injured Lord Johnston, was not an accident. The front axle had been sawed nearly all the way through. I believe whoever’s responsible meant to kill Lord Johnston, but he survived. It seems the killer didn’t give up.

His father shook his head in revulsion. Yes. Horace was afraid of someone. It’s apparent by the note he sent. I wish he would have told me more. Son, we’ve got to find this murderer and bring him to justice and Lord Johnston’s reputation restored.

Yes, Blake said.

Blake shook his father’s hand and let himself out of his father’s study. He had much to do, but he needed to see his mother before he departed. He found her seated on an overstuffed chair in the drawing room her tambour frame in hand. She wore an amber gown with short puffed sleeves; a patterned shawl draped loosely about her elbows. She glanced up as he entered the room.

Blakely, she cried tossing her needlework aside, and tilting her cheek up for his kiss. What a lovely surprise. You look well, dear.

As do you, mother, he smiled.

What brings your visit, dear? she asked.

A business venture father wanted to discuss, he said easily. I need to get busy. There is a matter I must attend to. I just wanted to assure myself that you are well. He didn’t have the heart to tell his mother about Lord Johnston’s tragic death. He would let his father do that.

Pooh, she said frowning. I worry about you, dear. I prayed that I would never be a nag, but here I find myself doing just that. Blakely, you must give up that desolate life. Your sister is staying with you for the season. I do hope you don’t ruin Audrey’s prospects—

I will behave properly, mother, he said hiding his hurt. You don’t have to worry about me causing a scandal.

Promise? she sighed, her shrewd blue eyes on his.

I promise, mother.

I believe you, she said her smile turned softer and her look less calculating. Blakely dearest, if you find the right young lady it would make so much difference.

Oh? Blake murmured barely avoiding rolling his eyes.

Don’t give me that look, she admonished before smiling at her husband who entered the room at that moment. I just want you to have what your father and I have.

Blake glanced at his father as he and his wife exchanged a look.

You should have a love match. A partnership built on mutual understanding and respect, his mother continued.

Blake watched his father take a seat next to his wife peering into her eyes for a moment before taking her hand. One could not help observing their union, their thoughtfulness, and even the way they anticipated each other’s movements, actions he had been aware of without conscious thought all his life. Blake’s mother had great faith in her husband and supported him with love and respect. Would that he could enjoy such a marriage. His parents gave him hope. It was a rarity; a marriage with such mutual admiration and devotion. He had yet to find such a lady. He rose and leaned and kissed his mother’s cheek.

I have to be off, he said glancing at his father. The older man gave a subtle nod of his head.

Blakely, you know what the day after tomorrow is, don’t you? his mother asked, her blue eyes searching his moss green ones.

Of course; it’s Tuesday—

Blakely, be serious. It’s Audrey’s birthday. She’ll be eighteen.

Yes, I know, I was just teasing you, he lied. He had completely forgotten.

Well, I do hope you won’t forget to buy her a gift, she said arching an eyebrow pointedly. Remember, I’m having a dinner party for your sister this Friday evening at eight. I expect to see you then.

Of course, mother, he said managing to keep the resignation out of his voice. He was anxious to get started on the Johnston case, as well as keeping the Home Office appeased by looking into the Russia intrigue. He needed to keep Whethall off his back for a while at any rate.

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A soft drizzle fell. Blake Hansford stood just back from the rest of the crowd encircling the open grave. From his place he allowed his eyes to scan the mourners. Was the murderer among them? Lady Catherine Johnston stood next to her daughter. She appeared small and broken in her black gown, her gaze beneath the dark veil locked upon the rain-slick coffin that contained the body of her husband, murdered in his own study. Blake’s gaze found its way to Johnston’s daughter, Emily. She wore a gown of black bombazine with a black satin waistband and matching satin-trimmed bonnet. A heavy black veil hid her expression. But he was well acquainted with the lovely face beneath the covering.

All that black made her look wraithlike, and as he stared, he was again reminded that she was tall for a woman, almost willowy. He knew her hair was a honey-blond color, though it was totally concealed under her poke bonnet. And he knew, even though he couldn’t see them, her eyes were of a remarkable blue—like the sky on a summer’s day. Even though their families were close through the years; Blake’s father and Lord Johnston had gone to Eton and to university together and were longtime friends, Blake had kept his distance from Emily. She unsettled him, and he knew why.

Blake’s eyes briefly met those of his father the Duke of Warwick before moving to his mother. She stood stiffly erect her arm entwined with her husband’s. It was a sad day for both of them, especially his father. Their longtime friendship with the Johnstons was one of the reasons Blake was in attendance, but not the only one. The carriage accident that injured Lord Johnston had not been an accident. Someone had tampered with the front axle sawing it nearly completely through. One large rut in the road was all it took for the axle to break. Lord Johnston had barely survived only to be murdered a few days later by someone who attempted to make his death look like a suicide. Someone wanted him dead and had taken no chances.

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Emily Johnston held on to her mother’s arm, more to balance her than to steady herself. Lady Catherine had been devastated by her husband’s death. Secure behind her veil Emily made note of the number of people gathered to give their final respects to her father. Her father’s longtime friends the Duke and Duchess of Warwick approached greeting her and her mother. She listened quietly as they offered their condolences. She studied the tall young man standing somewhat apart from his parents, the Duke and Duchess.

Needless to say, although their family’s friendship had been close, Blakely Hansford had never paid her more than polite attention. He had been present for her first Season as she and his sister Mary Margaret had come out together, but he’d never asked her to dance but once at Lady Pennergast’s ball. It had amounted to having seen him, mostly from a distance, at a few family and haute ton events. He was older than her by nearly eight years, so she was surprised that he remembered her, but she had never forgotten him, despite, or perhaps because of, his wicked reputation.

Blake Hansford was handsome, tall, broad-shouldered—everything a man should be. But it had been his eyes that continued to thoroughly capture her attention. Their depths contained secrets that tugged at her. They were a deep moss green, much like the woodland scene by Girtin that her mother proudly displayed in the drawing room. To say she hadn’t been aware of his tall striking figure, his cherub smile and arresting eyes would have been a sham. But she had known, too, that there was nothing angelic about the man. This tall and particularly attractive man, with his impressive build and dark features, and dancing moss green eyes, was apparently a total philanderer. He probably had tons of affairs with beautiful ladies, and she was not one of them. He was more than a rogue. Scandal followed him around London like a light skirt’s heady perfume. Or so she was told, and she hadn’t asked for details.

Your graces, Emily said curtsying, we are having a small gathering at the Brook Street house following the service. My mother and I would dearly love to have you join us.

Indeed. It would be our pleasure, the duchess said.

Lord Blake, you are invited also, she smiled encouragingly, but realized he couldn’t see her face because of the blasted veil.

Blake nodded bowing slightly, knowing he had no other choice but to accept the invitation. He needed to keep a watchful eye on the Johnston’s. The killer had not acted capriciously. It seemed the first attempt to make Lord Johnston’s death look like an accident had not succeeded—as far as he knew he and Constable Henry Wilkson were the only ones, save for the blacksmith who called it to their attention that the carriage axle had been tampered with. And so the murderer had taken drastic action by shooting Lord Johnson in the head and arranging things so it looked like a suicide. At the moment he had no suspects. Who would want to kill Lord Johnston, and go to that great an effort to do so?

The truth was, Blake could easily put the last few years behind him, find himself a wife and seek out his country estate at Chiltern Manor, which incidentally, was running beautifully, and step away from the Home Office and all his involvement with it. Nobody knew what he actually did, and it seemed nobody really cared.

The Home Office was not concerned with a carriage accident even if there was a murder involved. It was their great distrust of Russia at the moment that had their attention, and that’s where Blake’s attention should be focused, too, not on investigating a murder. For the Home Office, the larger problem was the growing concern that Russia would destabilize Eastern Europe by its attacks on the faltering Ottoman Empire. The fear was that Russia was especially interested in getting a warm water port that would enable its navy access out of the Black Sea into the Mediterranean through the Straits controlled by the Ottomans. England had aligned itself with the Ottomans simply to thwart Russia. So, Blake, known in the organization as Eagle, would have to look into Lord Johnston’s murder on his own and still keep the Home Office satisfied.

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53160.jpg Chapter Two 53136.jpg

A footman carrying a large black umbrella hurried out to the carriage to escort the duke and duchess of Warwick up the steps into the Johnston townhouse on Brooks Street. Blake Hansford followed holding his beaver top hat