The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  “Still properly chastened. He and his father have secluded themselves in the country for months. When one is out of favor with the Prince Regent, London can be an uncomfortable place.”

  “Too true. So the Seaton connection proved to be a blind alley. However, my trip to France wasn’t without its rewards. I learned something about Fitzroy and his possible motivation.” A canary-whisker grin split St. Clair’s face.

  “What?” Hope sparked in Marcus’s chest.

  “His mother was French.”

  Marcus slid to the edge of his seat. “No, that can’t be. I’ve met his mother. Lady Eliza Bracken. She’s as English as St. George himself, eldest sister of the Earl of Rothwell. Though now with her son’s treason and death, she’s left England for the Caribbean. The Bracken family has a sugar plantation there, I believe.”

  “Ah, but Lady Eliza is not Fitzroy’s mother. She’s his stepmother. The woman who gave birth to him was French. Fitzroy’s family came from Brittany with William the Conqueror, and they still have deep ties there. When Fiztroy’s father, Sir Nathaniel Bracken, was sent as an attaché on a diplomatic mission to France in seventy-four, he met a distant cousin and secretly married her. She died in childbirth in Normandy, and Bracken brought his infant son home, married Lady Eliza quietly, and no one here was the wiser. Lady Eliza was a proper English lady, and they were able to pass Arthur Bracken, Viscount Fiztroy, off as their son. I postulate that Viscount Fitzroy never forgot his French ties and that perhaps he thought of accepting the mission to kill the prince as some sort of homage to her.”

  Marcus thought for a long moment. “Perhaps, but how does this knowledge further our investigation?”

  “I believe it narrows the suspect pool. Who else knew about Fitzroy’s mother? I didn’t, not until a fortnight ago. I only discovered it by accident, and that was while I was in France. So who here in Britain might have known about it and used it as leverage to either persuade Fitzroy or to coerce him into the assassination attempt?”

  “You think someone blackmailed him into it? To keep his French birth a secret?” They’d gone at the problem before but could find nothing Fitzroy might have done to warrant blackmail. He was no saint. He wasn’t even a nice man. His treatment of women was appalling, but none of it seemed serious enough for that level of blackmail pressure. Not even his seducing and disgracing the daughter of a duke two seasons ago. The woman’s family hadn’t wanted revenge. They’d chosen to bury the incident, a task made easier when the woman died in childbirth. Marcus was godfather to the resulting child, the adopted son of his good friends the Whitelocks.

  St. Clair pulled open the belly drawer on his desk and removed a folder. Leaning his hip on the corner of the desk, he perused it quickly before setting it on the blotter atop the other papers. “I believe the first place we should look is Fitzroy’s father’s associates on that trip to France. He was stationed in Paris at the embassy for more than a year, and he made many forays into Normandy, which is where he met his first wife. Someone there must’ve known about the marriage and the child.”

  “Government House should have the records of his assignments in France.” Marcus had a clerk there in his employ who could get him the information. He’d send Partridge with a message this afternoon.

  “I have those records here.” St. Clair stabbed the folder on his desk with his index finger. “You’re not the only one with contacts, you know.” He grinned and moved to the coal stove to fill a copper grog mug—relic of his days as a Royal marine. Marcus grimaced. He’d tried St. Clair’s coffee before. It was strong enough to dissolve a horseshoe. The pot had probably been simmering there all morning.

  “Did the records give us a suspect?”

  “Not a suspect. Five possibles.”

  “Five? Are they all viable?” Real leads at last? He could scarce hope. Marcus’s hunting instincts sharpened. Perhaps they were finally getting somewhere.

  “Each one viable to varying degrees, and each one delicate. These are men high up in both diplomatic and societal circles. Peers, members of the House of Lords, wealthy, and powerful. We shall have to tread lightly.”

  St. Clair lifted the folder and passed it to Marcus, sipping on his coffee.

  Marcus opened the flap and perused the names.

  He knew three of these men personally, and knew of all of them. They were men of great influence. And they had all been in France at some point while Nathaniel Bracken had been stationed there.

  His eyes met St. Clair’s. “What is our plan?”

  “I’m glad you asked, Your Grace.”

  Marcus lowered the folder, wariness stealing over him. “Sir?” For a brief period, he’d been able to forget about the dukedom and that part of his life. He’d been free of the burdensome yoke of the peerage and been a simple Crown agent. He didn’t like bringing that part of his life into this office.

  “Your inheriting the title couldn’t have come at a better time. All these men, these suspects, are in the highest echelons of society and power. As a mere second son, you wouldn’t command their respect, but as a peer with wealth and power, and a new duke at that, they will be eager to make friends and to secure your loyalty to their causes.”

  Distaste rose in Marcus’s chest. Those men who would not have stopped for him in the street a year ago would now fawn and flatter him, offer friendship and favors.

  “As a duke, you’re in a very select club. No door in London will be closed to you. We’ve never had an agent so highly placed before. We haven’t had one we felt we could trust to recruit.” St. Clair resumed his seat, the leather and springs creaking. “Which brings me to my next proposal … or rather yours.”

  “What is that?” Marcus’s eyes narrowed at the calculation in his boss’s expression.

  “I believe your mother has the right of it. As the Duke of Haverly, you should behave as any titled unmarried man, establishing himself in society, searching for and securing a bride and setting up your nursery.” He held up his hand to stop Marcus’s protest. “Think of it. You’ve been invaluable as a largely mobile asset with access to the ton, but not a power broker. You moved easily in London society, but no one even noticed when you would disappear on an assignment for a few days or weeks even. However, your status has changed significantly. You now have influence, privilege, and prestige. You’ll be expected to wield it. If you do less, if you continue to act as before, people will notice and wonder. But if you do exactly as expected, assume your role, your responsibilities, your place in the House of Lords, et cetera, no one will think you’re anything other than what you are. And we can use that to our advantage.”

  “But, sir. Marriage? Isn’t that a bit extreme? I’ve barely accustomed my mind to being a duke. A bride would be a distraction from my work.” And his work was everything. It was him. Who he was, his very identity. A title was a mere name. It had no substance in and of itself. He’d proven himself over the years, as a soldier and as an intelligence agent. In spite of his mother’s estimation of his worth, he had known he was doing good, important work, and that had satisfied him. If he had to change, if he had to be what everyone expected him to be, nothing more than a high-ranking peer who passed along the occasional tidbit of information to the men doing the real spy work, would he lose that part of himself that had any value? Could he still be a good agent if he had to spend all his time being a duke? How could he keep his work life and his family life—the title and all that went with it—separate, especially if St. Clair was encouraging the blending of the two? He felt as if rats were gnawing at his mooring lines. How could he deflect St. Clair from this path?

  His boss swirled the coffee in his mug. “Perhaps a wife would be a bit of a distraction, but if chosen correctly, a pleasant one for all that. It would be a great cover, a smokescreen if you will. Think of all the social engagements you could host as a married man, events to which you could invite our quarry. Gather intelligence on them under the guise of newlywed celebrations?”

  Newlywed
. Him? The thought made him wince. Was he supposed to pluck some innocent from the Marriage Mart, parade her around London as his bride for a Season, use her to disguise his real intentions? And what then? What if they apprehended their quarry and closed the case? Their mission would be accomplished, but he would still be married.

  “Don’t leave the search too late. Find someone and get spliced. Then we can begin our campaign looking into the lives of these men from an entirely different angle.” St. Clair pointed to the folder in Marcus’s hand. “I’ll continue to do what I can, but meeting them as social equals, being brought into their confidences, will show us who they really are. Who knows? Perhaps you will get close enough to make someone nervous, and he’ll make an attempt to remove you from his path. That would narrow down the suspect list rather quickly.” He flashed a rare smile. “Begin your courting, find a bride, and attend society events. Insert yourself into these men’s social circle, start shaking the bushes, and see what you can flush out.”

  Marcus mulled this over. Sir Noel wanted him to be his birddog. Which wasn’t anything unusual. Marcus had been doing such for years. But this was on a different level. And with different responsibilities and consequences.

  He could see the possibilities, but really, it was a bit much to ask a man to sacrifice, wasn’t it? Marriage was forever. And this would blur the lines in his orderly existence to an uncomfortable degree. He liked to keep his life compartmentalized. Family separate from work, private life separate from his public persona. Even his faith was kept separate from his work and his family. It was as if he had a container for each part of his life, and he worked hard to keep the contents from overlapping. Son, soldier, agent, friend, worshipper. He had been forced to add duke. But did he want to add husband? And if so, would he be able to keep a wife confined to just part of his life?

  Probably. He was good at it. But it would take careful vigilance. From his limited experience, women seemed capable of invading every aspect of a man’s life. He’d have to choose someone he could relegate to the sidelines when he needed to and who would be content to be treated thus.

  A pinch of sadness trickled through him. He’d observed the relationship between his good friend Evan, Earl of Whitelock, and his countess, Diana. They were a devoted couple, and from what he had seen, they kept nothing back from each other. They made decisions jointly, ran the estate in tandem, parented their two small boys in harmony. They were better together than they were apart.

  Of course, they were the exception that proved the rule. As a duke, he would be a prize to be caught on the Marriage Mart. The debutantes—and their mothers—would be attracted to his title and his wealth, not him. Not the real him.

  They would be using him to advance their ambitions.

  But if he married one of them for the reasons St. Clair brought up, wouldn’t he be doing the same?

  Charlotte didn’t know if she could stand it any longer. She had kept her own counsel with supreme effort, waiting for her mother to act, for her father to acknowledge what had happened.

  For someone to say something.

  But neither chose to broach the subject, at least not in Charlotte’s hearing. Had her mother even mentioned the incident to her father? Had he issued an apology? Had he demanded her silence?

  There had been too much secrecy though. Two decades of secrecy.

  But now Charlotte and her mother knew what her father had kept hidden for so long. How could Mother not confront her husband about his perfidy? Charlotte certainly couldn’t have held her tongue. The fire of indignation burned too hotly in her belly. Indignation and humiliation. The news was probably all over London by now. Tiptrees’ dirty laundry, hung out for all to see and gossip over.

  She set the hairbrush on the washstand and checked her reflection in the small mirror, scrunching her nose. Her hair was drawn back severely from her face, as her father required. Her gray dress was better suited to a dowager in mourning than to a young woman of the ton in search of a husband. Long sleeves, high collar. As man bait, it was a nonstarter.

  For many years, Charlotte thought her father’s narrow-minded ways were a result of his faith, but since returning home from boarding school, she’d come to realize it was merely his miserliness meeting his desire for control. Keeping Charlotte and her mother plainly attired satisfied his petty dictatorship ways while also allowing him to claim both piety and frugality. He was a man of “religion,” but only when others were looking. It had nothing to do with his heart.

  Charlotte pinched her hands on her waist, scowling. Why couldn’t she be willowy and waiflike? She was much too curvy to be fashionable, with rounded hips and a generous bosom her mother insisted she flatten as much as possible with restricting stays. Her figure was more mature than the seventeen-and eighteen-year-olds who would debut this Season, making her feel more matronly than ever. Who would choose her over the sweet young things who would be her competition this year?

  The entire exercise of hunting down a husband was distasteful. No one was going to prefer dowdy, outspoken her. It seemed an exercise in foolishness for her to even pretend she was marriage material.

  Her eyes peered into their reflection. They were nice eyes, as eyes went. A peculiar shade of pale green, like a piece of New Zealand greenstone she’d seen once in a collection of items brought back to Britain by Captain James Cook. Her nose turned up just the slightest bit at the tip, a characteristic that her old nurse had always said gave her a look of mischief.

  Yet she felt like a fusty frump twice her age.

  What wouldn’t she give for a pretty pastel gown with lace trim? Or to allow her curly hair to fall in ringlets from a loose knot to soften her facial lines? Or a necklace or velvet ribbon choker to make her feel feminine and pretty? Perhaps a fan to hold at social gatherings so she would have something to do with her hands? Would any of those things make her more appealing to a suitor?

  Her mouth was too wide, her chin too pointed, and her neck too long. It would take more than a bit of lace trim or a piece of jewelry to make her feel pretty.

  Charlotte reminded herself that she had long ago stopped hoping for nice things. Good things went to other people. Or if a good thing did fall her way, it wasn’t hers for long. It was snatched away, or it somehow turned out not to be a good thing after all. It certainly put her faith in God to the test, didn’t it? She could well believe He was the stern Father of many a sermon she’d sat through. Harder to believe He was the giver of good gifts, especially if you were never on the receiving end of any of them.

  Hmph. Much too theological and philosophical for before-dinner thoughts. But something to mull over later perhaps, when she was tucked up into bed for the night.

  She turned from the small mirror over the bowl and pitcher. Her boudoir boasted nothing as grand as a dressing table. Her father believed such things only increased a woman’s vanity. Her room would make a Spartan proud. Her father had spent some money on the areas of the house a guest might see, but the rest was as plain as a pencil.

  It was as if the house wore a mask, hiding its secrets.

  Picking up her shawl, she drew it around her shoulders. The house was cold. It was always cold unless they were entertaining. Coal was expensive, as they were often reminded. Wear a shawl, add an extra blanket to the bed, but do not put more coal on the fires than was absolutely necessary.

  The clock chimed in the hallway, and she hurried downstairs, not wanting to add tardiness to her shortcomings. Her father wanted dinner on the table at precisely eight o’clock, and not one second later. Almost jogging down the stairs, Charlotte arrived slightly out of breath as the butler pulled out her mother’s chair and her father snapped open his napkin.

  “Good evening.” Charlotte slipped into her chair.

  “Good evening.” Father looked stern, glancing at the clock. His mouth pursed, but he said nothing about her abrupt appearance.

  Mother gave her a quick nod. It had always saddened Charlotte that on her own, Mother could be
good fun and a good conversationalist, but in Father’s presence, she shrank into herself. She only talked when spoken to, and she never ventured her own opinion.

  If that wasn’t an advertisement against getting married, Charlotte didn’t know what was. At least if she had to go live with Aunt Philomena, she would speak her mind and air her opinions freely. After all, it couldn’t possibly make Philomena more cross-grained.

  The butler took their plates from the tray held by the cook and set them before Charlotte and her parents.

  Boiled potatoes, beans, and a sliver of beef.

  Father leaned back as his wineglass was filled, but Charlotte and her mother had water, which Charlotte much preferred anyway.

  They ate in silence, but as the meal progressed, Charlotte’s frustration mounted. Here they sat, dining properly, tended by servants, acting as if they had nothing of which to be ashamed.

  And all of it a sham. A pretense.

  “What are your plans for this week?” Father asked.

  Mother cleared her throat. “We’ve that dinner party tomorrow night at the Washburns’. And the next day there’s the ball for the Pembertons’ eldest. It’s her coming-out celebration. I’ve not accepted any invitations on Saturday, but there’s church on Sunday.”

  Father nodded. “The rector asked me to deliver the homily again this week.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes, fighting the indignation that sprang to life in her breast. That her father would have the gall to deliver a pious homily when he had betrayed his marriage vows, cast out women who were dependent upon him—

  She could be silent no longer.

  “So, Father, did Mother tell you anything about our day at the Frost Festival?”

  That she had spoken at all had her father scowling, but Charlotte ignored his glare and forged on. “We met the Boswells, of course. But we also met a woman named Amelia Cashel. I believe you know her?”