The Hunger Read Online Free PDF Page B

hiding, Beatrix recognized secrecy, even when it masqueraded as disdain. What did he hide besides a wound?
    She wanted to know more about Langley.
    As she pulled the heavy draperies tightly over the window, it occurred to her that she really could not invite Langley for Tuesday’s drawing room after she had so pointedly snubbed him. Of course he had snubbed her in return by assuming that she would not have a card for the Duchess of Bessborough’s ball on Saturday. Which meant he was likely to be there. She crawled into the great bed and under the duvet. She didn’t have a card, of course. But that could be remedied.
    At Number Six, Albany House, Withering opened the door, having clearly disobeyed John’s order not to wait up. He took one look at his master and gripped his arm.
    “Don’t be an old woman, Withering,” John protested. “Footpads, that’s all.”
    “You’ve started your wound bleeding, my lord, haven’t you?” The man was fiftyish, mouth drawn down in a perpetual frown, his dress simple and impeccable. He had been with John through thick and thin. “I did, if you recall, my lord, indicate that this was a distinct possibility if you insisted on going out this evening.”
    “I acknowledge your moral superiority without reservation,” John muttered as Withering guided him firmly to the bedroom. The room swayed ominously.
    Realizing, apparently, that victory over an opponent who was very near to fainting was easy sport, Withering relented. “Let us just examine your wound, my lord.”
    After the painful process of extricating him from his coat, John lay back on the bed and gave himself over toWithering’s ministrations. To avoid hearing Withering’s predictions of permanent disability, John let his mind wander back to the countess. He could see why she had the town in thrall. She was exquisite, of course, but London had her equals in beauty. No, there was something about her . . . a weariness, the subtle air of having seen everything and of knowing the danger in that. He shook himself. Of course a courtesan had seen everything. But there was more. She teetered on some edge and the town held its breath.
    He grunted in pain as Withering tightened a fresh bandage about his shoulder.
    “You should have the doctor in, my lord.” That was a familiar refrain from his valet.
    “I can’t afford speculation.” Or at least more speculation than his reputation provided. Let the ton think him bad. Let mothers and their daughters cross the street as he passed. But they must not guess his double life. Only Withering knew about John’s other calling, except for Barlow and one or two others in the government. Of course, his valet never knew the particulars of John’s missions, or anything about Barlow. Still, it was almost a comfort to have one person aside from Barlow with whom there was no need to dissemble. John was no fool. Barlow cared only for his usefulness. John was useful, the best the underdog British had against Napoleon in a war that had grown frighteningly one-sided. When Barlow ordered him to ferret out what was going on in France, he would do it.
    Something was going on, that was certain. Four British agents dead, all in the same grisly and unlikely manner. Barlow hardly credited John’s report that the bodies were drained of blood. The French intelligence service had grown strangely effective. Rumor had it there was a new head man. But he and Barlow would put a stop to these atrocities. He set his jaw.
    That was it! That was what was so intriguing about the countess! She had secrets, just as he did, and he would bet they were pips. Withering poured some laudanum, but John shook his head. He liked to have his wits about him. Wits. What wits? Here he was mooning over a woman who was like all the other women he had known in his life, not a shred of virtue, no honor . . .
    The secret that disturbed him most was that he wanted to see the countess again.

Three
    Withering’s dire predictions may