The man shuffled the items on top of the desk when a beautifully carved sterling silver letter opener caught his eye. He grabbed it, shoving it in his pocket as payment for teaching the homely chit how to please a man.
His attention turned to the desk drawers, but he only found references to supply ships’ schedules and ship cargo capacity.
"Damn," he said through clenched teeth, knowing he would be paid, but not well, for such information.
He needed to provide troop movements and locations if he wanted to become a rich man. The admiral had proved most disappointing as a source of information.
He poured himself an expensive scotch and contemplated how to end his association with the Admiral’s wife without having the cow blubbering about their relationship to all of her foppish friends.
Thus far, he had simply threatened not to meet with her if she whispered a word about him to anyone. The girl had been so eager to have him in her bed that she dare not even look at him if they were attending the same functions. However, if he were to end their dalliance she would undoubtedly seek him out, perhaps in public.
That he could not allow.
He really had but two options. Invent an excuse for the end of the affair that the girl would except or…kill the stupid bitch.
Chapter Eight
"You’re not having another one?" the Duchess of Glenbroke asked, appalled.
"I bloody well am," Lady Juliet Pervill nodded, raising her hand to order her second lemon icy at Gunter’s.
"Juliet, I wish you would stop using such language," Lady Felicity Appleton admonished. "And if you don’t stopping eating like this, you will become as big as a house and never secure an offer."
"Another lemon icy please," Juliet asked the waiter, completely ignoring her cousin. When the man had left, she turned to Felicity, saying, "You know I can eat anything and not gain an ounce, and as for a husband. . ." Juliet snorted. "No man has ever looked at me so perhaps becoming as large as a house will gain me some attention?"
"Juliet, you are quite attractive, as well you know," the duchess said.
Lady Pervill rolled her eyes. "I am, at best, average, Sarah, and when I stand next to Felicity I become absolutely drab. You need not sugar coat the situation. So, unless small busted, freckled faced, mathematicians have become all the rage with the ton…I shall count myself lucky that I am rich."
"Oh, Juliet," Lady Appleton said, defeated.
"Some men adore freckles."
"Yes, Sarah, but more men prefer beautiful blondes with spectacular figures and soulful brown eyes." They turned in unison to look at Felicity. "Any offers this week, cousin? Or was that Greek God the last."
Lady Appleton blushed, embarrassed. "You know Lord Summers was the last man to honor me, Juliet. Might we forego the browbeating and discuss something else."
"Delighted." Juliet injected more sarcasm in the one word than most men used in a lifetime. She turned toward Sarah. "I heard that the Earl of Wessex is back in town. I can only assume that Aidan is recovered? You must be relieved."
Sarah’s eyes narrowed and the ever-sensitive Felicity saw it. "You’re still worried about him." It was a statement. "Why? I thought the physician said he would recover."
"He has, physically. It’s just…"
"What?" Juliet prodded.
Sarah sighed. "My brother is not the same man that left England. You know Aidan--elegant, meticulous, generous, controlled." She shook her head, knowing she was not making any sense. "But now, he is temperamental, agitated…I don’t know—unhappy." Felicity stroked her arm and tears welled in Sarah’s eyes. "He has lost a stone of weight, if not more." She covered her mouth with her napkin and swallowed a sob.
"Have you spoken with him," Juliet asked, always the pragmatist.
"Yes, but all he says is that he is well, and he won’t speak with Gilbert because he knows Gilbert will relay the information to me."
"What about Christian?" Felicity asked. "I’m sure that Lord St. John would be more than happy to help."
Juliet clicked her tongue. "Christian is not capable of handling a serious situation such as this." She turned to Sarah. "No, better to talk to Daniel. I spoke with his brother Monday last and he said that Viscount DunDonell is due back from Scotland any day."
"Yes," Sarah smiled as she thought thinking of her childhood companion. "Daniel would deal with Aidan’s melancholy. The viscount is quite determined when he wishes to be."
"Determined!" Juliet blurted. "The man is the most stubborn Scot to wander the highlands in the last century!"
"Juliet, don’t be unkind. Persistence can be a virtue." Felicity pointed out.
"Well, when next I see DunDonell I shall have to tell him that he is the most virtuous man that I have met."
"Oh, that reminds me," Sarah said, looking at Juliet as she dabbed at her red nose. "I’m having a dinner party Saturday evening, and you are both invited."
"That sounds lovely," Juliet turned to her cousin. "Doesn’t it, Felicity?"
"Yes, it does. However, I am afraid I have accepted an invitation to a Soiree that---"
"Oh, Felicity, no one will notice if you are not there." Juliet turned to Sarah for assistance.
"Please, Felicity. Aidan will be coming to dinner and I want to surround my brother with friends that will support him during this difficult time."
Felicity’s eyes softened to the color of chocolate mixed with a generous amount of cream. She leaned forward. "Of course I shall come, Sarah. It is my honor to dine with such a distinguished hero of the Peninsular campaign."
"Eight?" Juliet asked, smiling in satisfaction but trying to conceal it behind her lemon icy.
"Yes, eight." Sarah glanced at the cousins, thankful for such loyal friends.
***
Viscount DunDonell, Daniel McCurren, had been in town for no more than two hours when he received a visit from his lifelong friend, the Duchess of Glenbroke. The beautiful duchess conveyed her concern for her brother’s well-being and begged Daniel to speak with him to discover the cause of Aidan’s distress.
Alarmed, Daniel dashed off a note to his closest friend, informing Aidan of his return from Scotland and requesting his company at their club later that evening.
So, here he sat with a brandy in one hand as he stared with apprehension at the black lacquered doors, mulling over the disturbing information Sarah had confided in him.
"Another," he said a passing footman, holding up his now-empty glass.
Aidan Duhearst was by far the strongest of them all; he had always been a voice of reason for both Christian and himself. But Sarah had said the war had affected his friend, hardened the once-sanguine Earl of Wessex.
Even the loss of their father, and Sarah’s tumultuous relationship with the Duke of Glenbroke had not affected him like this, had not changed him as war had. Lord DunDonell sighed, hoping that the blithe Aidan he had once known was not lost to them.
Daniel was absorbed with his own thoughts when the door opened on a small gust of wind. He saw the familiar dimpled grin of Aidan Duhearst, and for a moment everything was as it had been. They clasped hands and pounded each other on the back in a masculine embrace.
"Where ya been, ya bastard. I’m the one that’s always late," Daniel’s thick brogue was deliberately light as he took in the dark circle under Aidan’s green eyes.
"Well, ‘bout time you know what it feels like," Aidan teased, flopping on the leather chair opposite him. "How are your parents?"
"Grand, although my mother is determined to have me suitably arranged with an heir suckling the breast of my undetermined wife precisely nine months later." Daniel chuckled, adding, "I think I’ll have to do a bit of research whilst I’m in town. Would na want the lad to go hungry."
"Perish the thought!" Aidan said, smiling.
Daniel chuckled and settled back in his chair, placing his right ankle on his left knee. "So, what about you, Aidan? You’ve been home, what? Six weeks?"
"Seven." Wessex r
equested a scotch and when it was delivered said, "Thank you," to the young servant.
"Ya been to Blackmore Hall?" Daniel asked when they were alone once again.
Aidan gave a curt nod. "I recuperated there."
They held each other’s eyes and Daniel was not sure what to said, but never being one to let that stop him, he asked, "What happened on the peninsula, Aidan?"
His gaunt companion stiffened in his chair. "It was war, Daniel. What do you think happened?" He paused. "Men died." Aidan swallowed half his scotch. "My men died."
Daniel’s brows furrowed and he ached for his oldest friend, but knowing Aidan would never speak unless pushed, he pushed. "What happened, Aidan?"
"Leave it DunDonell," Aidan warned, but Daniel saw the pain beneath the hard emptiness of his gaze.
"No." He shook his head. "I dinna think I will leave it, Aidan. Your sister is worried sick about ya, and you’ve lost a stone since last we met." Daniel took a deep breath and started again. Gently. "Tell me what happened on the Peninsula?"
His friend looked at the wall, the fireplace, the ceiling, anywhere but Daniel while he made his decision. Finally Aidan leaned forward, his black hair shielding his eyes from view as he stared at the carpet.
"Beresford…Beresford called the charge on Albuera," he began and then closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and opened them again. "My regiment was ordered to hold the road to the village. It should have been a simple task as the French troops were on the far side. But…" Aidan paused. "They flanked us, cutting my regiment in half. I turned my mount and headed for the men trapped by the river, but the fighting was fierce, and I didn’t get there in time." Daniel felt his friend’s guilt, it was that thick. "I watched those men get cut down, surrounded by twice their number of French troops, heard their cries. . ." He stared at the carpet.
Daniel gave his friend a moment. "It was war, Aidan. You said yourself: men die in battle."
"Not my men!" Aidan snapped, pushing himself upright. "Not without me."
Daniel sat back, suddenly comprehending. He had never realized how much the death of Aidan’s father had affected his friend, never realized the burden of following such a heroic man. But he saw it now. "Is that how you were injured?"
His friend held his tongue and Daniel knew that Aidan had tried to defend his men, tried to die with them as his father had done.
"The next thing I remember, I was sitting in a room being interrogated by Napoleon’s mistress."
"A woman?"
"Yes, she English, Daniel, and she’s here."
"In London?" Aidan must have heard the skepticism in his voice.
"Yes, in London! And stop looking at me as though I belong in a madhouse. I saw her at Lord Reynolds’ ball."
"Perhaps you were mistaken?"
"Really, old man, the woman intended to hang me. I hardly think I would forget what she looked like," he said with a tone of exasperated tolerance that Daniel remembered all too well.
The viscount chuckled, "No, I suppose not." Amusement lightened Aidan continence. "So, what are ya plannin’ to do about it?"
"I don’t know, but I do know this." He sat forward again, determined this time. "She’s the reason I survived Albuera."
"I thought she tried to kill you?" Daniel asked, decidedly confounded.
"Yes, yes, yes, she did." Aidan waved off his confusion. "What I meant to convey was, God allowed me to survive Albuera, allowed me to be taken captive, allowed me to escape for the sole purpose of stopping this woman." He waited for Daniel to understand, but when he didn’t Aidan added, "Don’t you see, I’m the only one that knows what she looks like, what she is."
"Is that why ya look like hell? You been lookin’ for the woman?"
Aidan nodded, "She’s in London, Daniel. I know it. Glenbroke is making inquiries, while I continue to search for her."
Daniel looked at his exhausted friend and said the only thing that would help. "You won’t capture her if you’re tired and weak. You’ve got to eat, Aidan."
"I suppose you’re right." Aidan wrinkled his nose at the distasteful fit of his impeccable midnight blue jacket. "If I don’t regain my weight, I shall be forced to purchase an entirely new wardrobe. It’ll cost a fortune."
Viscount DunDonell grinned at Wessex’s unwavering practicality. The man’s was able to go about his day without creasing his breeches; whereas Daniel’s garments were as wrinkled as a whore’s bed sheets.
"Surely, it will not come to that," Daniel gasped with feigned horror.
Aidan did not miss his sarcasm and gave him a once over and with a smile said, "Really, old man, you are not in a position to criticize."
Daniel glanced down at his rumbled buckskins and favorite black Hessians, "And what the bloody hell does that mean?"
"It means, Lord DunDonell," Aidan said with a nefarious grin. "That you are slovenly."
The viscount’s jaw dropped, and his brows furrowed with indignation. "Slovenly! You bloody bastard, I should throttle ya fer that, but bein’ the dandy that ya are, I would na want to disturb cravat."
"Dandy!"
Daniel chuckled, truly enjoying himself. "Hit too close to the mark, did I?"
"Your verbal aim is about as accurate as your marksmanship." Aidan raised a superior brow, knowing exactly what Daniel’s response to the jest would be.
"Care to wager?"
Wessex’s eyes positively sparkled as he said, "A thousand pound?"
Damn!
Daniel bit his lower lip, knowing Aidan was the better marksman, always had been able to back up that bloody arrogance. They stared at one another and he opened his mouth to decline the challenge, but heard himself say, "Manton’s, best of ten."
"Done," Aidan agreed, rising to his feet with a grin that made him look for a moment like the boy who had joined Daniel in a fight against four older boys on the first day at Eton.
***
The old man leaned heavily on his cane for support as he lowered himself into the crushed velvet chair. He dropped the last few inches onto the cushion with a small grunt and readjusted himself to an acceptable comfort. His gray-black hair had disappeared with the years, leaving brown spots on the shiny scalp where hair had once been.
The Duke of Glenbroke smiled politely at the gentleman, noting that he was the type of man who would never be noticed, much less remarked upon. His dreary clothing and lack of ornamentation led one to believe him nothing more than on befuddled old man of meager income.
However, Gilbert knew better than to be fooled by the mundane facade. Eyes the color of warm brandy held the sharpness of keen intelligence, although Gilbert had seen them deliberately dulled on more than one occasion. The men were both members of the club in which they now sat, waiting to begin their meeting.
"Evening, Glenbroke, haven’t seen you here in quite some time. Must be that stunning wife of yours that keeps you at home at night, what?" He said a bit loudly, adding a wink as two gentlemen passed their secluded corner of the great room.
When the men had moved out of hearing range, the old man’s jovial tone changed to an authoritative tenor accustomed to making decisions. "What is this about, Your Grace? I am not fond of meetings, as you know."
"Quite. However, it cannot be avoided. The prime minister would like a report on your progress in identifying our traitor. Perceval was not pleased with the loss of The Minerva. As you know, the supplies she was carrying were sorely needed on the peninsula."
"Yes, Your Grace. I am well aware of the urgency of the situation." The old man nodded then continued, "We know that the traitor is going by the name of Lion. He has sold information to the French, information that cost us dearly at Corunna and Saragossa. My assistant, Lord Cunningham, has recently intercepted a missive with the Lion’s seal. The information contained in the document was only available to five men holding sensitive committee positions within Whitehall. Lords Reynolds, Cantor, Elkin, Ferrell and Hambury."
"A peer?" Gilbert could not hide his shock.
"How do you intend to prove which of these men is a traitor?"
The old man stared and then smiled politely. "You may assure the prime minister that the matter is being addressed."
Gilbert smiled, knowing that he would get no more details of the operation. "Excellent. Now, if I may impose on you concerning another matter?"
"Certainly, Your Grace."
"The Earl of Wessex has just informed me of the presence of a French intelligence officer on British soil."
The man’s left brow lifted with skepticism and a touch of conceit. "Indeed? An operative that I am unaware of?"
"Lady Rivenhall, blonde, blue green eyes, five foot six, twenty or so years of age? The lady was searching Lord Reynolds’s bedchamber when she was discovered by Wessex."
The man showed no emotion. "How did Wessex happen to find her in Lord Reynolds’s bedchamber?"
"He recognized her in the ballroom and followed her upstairs."
"How did he recognize her?" The old man inquired evenly.
"Do you recall his escape after having been captured at Albuera? Lady Rivenhall was the woman from whose troops he escaped."
The duke waited patiently, knowing the old man would speak when ready. Gilbert lifted his scotch to his lips and lingered several more minutes before the old man decided to talk.
"If you will forgive me, Your Grace, but your brother-in-law was injured at Albuera, was he not?"
"Yes, he suffered many injuries at Albuera."
"But the most severe was a blow to the head?"
"Yes, however--"
"Often times," the old man ignored him. "War affects men…afterward."
"Are you suggesting, sir, that my brother-in-law is delusional."
"Of course not, Your Grace, merely mistaken. You see, Lady Rivenhall has already been thoroughly investigated by my office, as her mother was a French noblewoman."
"And the results of your investigation."
"Lady Rivenhall is exactly what she seems, an English Lady displaced, like so many others, by the French revolution."
Gilbert took air into his lungs as he tried to take the information into his mind. "But Wessex was quite certain--"
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