The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  Her heart lifted, holding his gaze. He was nice to look at, and his face had an air of intelligence too. As if he was more than a fancy suit and a title. He was university educated, if Mrs. Bosworth was to be believed, though she had met men who had been to Oxford or Cambridge before, and one wouldn’t know it. Perhaps it was his military service that had broadened his mind?

  Or was she being fanciful? He might be the same as many of the other men of her acquaintance.

  Charlotte did a quick inventory of her place setting. Clearly Mrs. Washburn had embraced the new style of service à la russe rather than the old custom of service à la française. Rather than bring out all the food at once in a massive display, each course would be served individually by the footmen.

  Carefully rehearsing the lessons in deportment and utensil usage Miss Hitchin had attempted to drill into Charlotte, she cannily waited until Mrs. Washburn picked up her soup spoon before doing likewise, just to make sure she didn’t perform some solecism. The rules of dinner etiquette had always seemed such a waste of time to learn, especially when there were more interesting subjects waiting between book covers.

  For the next half hour, she nodded, agreed with, and “oh really, isn’t that something-ed” the comments of the gentlemen on either side of her. The elderly baronet poked at his food.

  “Never did like this fancy stuff. And the older I get, the less I need. Twelve courses is beyond me.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “But you have to toss the food about the plate a bit to make it look like you ate some, or the hostess might think you didn’t like it.”

  The gentleman on her left was a portly man with impressive side-whiskers. “General Eddington, retired.” He was quite dedicated to his meal, finishing each course completely and quickly.

  Soup, fish, game, fowl, meat, vegetables, salads, crèmes, and trifles. The courses appeared one after the other. Father kept the attention of the ladies on either side with ease. How could he be so charming in public and so cold in private? Mother watched her as if waiting for her to say something inappropriate.

  Charlotte let the conversation flow around her, still heartsick about her books, and realizing that aside from Dudley Bosworth and the Duke of Haverly, there were no eligible men present. So much for her prospects this evening.

  “I heard Whitelock had turned his country estate into a sort of poor farm for wounded veterans.” General Eddington let his fork scrape on his china, sending a shiver through Charlotte as he spoke to someone down the table. “He’s made it a bit of a crusade, I believe. I applaud him. The country needs to do more for its veterans. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if Whitelock didn’t make it the subject of his first address when he takes his place in the House of Lords.”

  “This war has created many unforeseen issues.” The Duke of Haverly spoke over the sound of the diners, and voices stilled. “What to do with wounded veterans is one of them. I’ve been to White Haven several times, and I can confirm that the earl and countess have hired many veterans to help run the estate. I would quibble with you on the term ‘poor farm,’ however.” He smiled slightly to indicate no offense. “The tenants of White Haven earn their keep and more. Whitelock is providing skills and education in agriculture and animal husbandry while benefitting from the military training and discipline these former soldiers already possess. I have plans to implement some of the same procedures on my own property in the future.”

  His mother jerked as if she’d been jabbed with a hatpin. She coughed, raising her napkin to her lips. “Really, Marcus.” She gasped and coughed once more. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re fully staffed at Haverly Manor.”

  A patient-but-unmoved expression came over the duke’s face, and he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “As I said, this war has created several issues that we should be dealing with now.”

  “Such as?” Mrs. Washburn asked.

  “Wounded veterans, war orphans, war widows. We’ve thousands of military dependents who have been made destitute when their husbands or fathers were killed or severely wounded in action. The pensions and compensations from the Crown are not sufficient. The rookeries are full of men whose only crime was taking the King’s shilling and getting wounded for their trouble. Their children become ragpickers or cutpurses, and their daughters and wives become streetwalkers, just to put bread on the table.” He cast a jaded eye upon the heavily laden plates of pigeon and duck and grouse, the aspic and calf’s-foot jelly, the roasted vegetables and plentiful fruit. “How many prostitutes and pickpockets would this repast feed?”

  A muffled gasp went up from the other end of the table, but Charlotte couldn’t take her eyes off the duke. For the first time since the soup course, her interest was piqued. The duchess looked as if she might choke—or choke her son. How often had Charlotte’s own mother looked at her like that? But for once it wasn’t Charlotte dropping conversational spanners all over the place. To even say the word “prostitute” at the dinner table? The duke seemed unaffected by the tension he’d created, shaking his head when the footman offered him another dish.

  Charlotte cut a glance at her father, whose chin was lifted slightly, his nostrils thinned with disapproval and piety. Mother’s eyes were round, and her knuckles showed white on her fork. No one spoke for a long moment.

  “I say, did you hear that Gravensby sold that promising young colt of his to Lord Smythe?” Mr. Washburn asked. “He’s been tipped to win the Derby this year. I wouldn’t have thought Gravensby would’ve entertained any offers, but there you have it.”

  Shoulders relaxed and eating resumed as the guests fell back to observing proper dinner conversation.

  A pity. It was the only interesting thing said the entire meal.

  Charlotte caught the duke looking at her, and for an instant she thought he might have winked at her. She dropped her gaze to her plate. No, surely not. He wouldn’t be so vulgar. It was a trick of the candlelight.

  In that instant, she’d had a fleeting sense of recognition.

  Odd, since she’d never even been introduced to him before. It must be a recognition of a kindred rebel spirit. He’d embarrassed his mother by speaking inappropriately at a social function. Charlotte could sympathize. She did the same with almost tedious regularity.

  Too bad he was out of her reach as a potential husband.

  He shouldn’t have winked at her. It really wasn’t the done thing. She might get the wrong idea or assume he had nothing but bad manners at his disposal. However, she appeared to be the only one not scandalized by his words at this infernal dinner party.

  Of course, he was the only one at the table who knew she’d been out wandering the rookeries at night trying to do a good thing for someone in need. She had a bit of a rebellious streak that he admired because it was so unusual in society girls.

  His mother’s eyes were hard as glass marbles as she glared down the table at him. He’d hear about tonight’s doings sooner rather than later if he read the weather gauge correctly.

  Another verse of the same old hymn. He was a disappointment to her and didn’t know how to comport himself in proper company.

  By the time the ladies had retired and left the dining room to the men, Marcus was heartily sick of it all. The pretense and now the odd deference. He wasn’t used to being the highest-ranking peer in the room. He wasn’t used to being a titled peer at all. Why had he agreed to this dinner party in the first place?

  Because it was the first social activity his mother had shown any interest in. And because of who would be attending.

  Lord Trelawney and General Eddington. Two of the men on St. Clair’s list. Both had been in France when Viscount Fitzroy’s father had been there. Both were known for their political aspirations and aggressiveness.

  He couldn’t be too obvious. Not wanting to make them uneasy or suspicious, nor to reveal his own status, he’d have to go slowly and cultivate friendships.

  The general shouldn’t be too difficult. He was a gregarious man, and they were both army veteran
s. There would be plenty of common ground.

  Trelawney would be more difficult. More than thirty years Marcus’s senior, he was a “club man” with memberships at Whites, Boodles, and a scattering of others in the city. Not that he was particularly social. Whenever Marcus had encountered him in the past, he seemed to always be speaking politics and policy. He largely ignored Marcus as someone with no sway or power in the political area and therefore not worthy of notice.

  With the King suffering from a fractured mind and the Prince Regent stepping into the role of acting monarch, the country’s politics had split into two main factions, the King’s old guard and the prince’s new men.

  Trelawney was a King’s man, and he was holding on to his beliefs and his power with everything he had. Marcus would have to let himself be cultivated now that he was a duke.

  Thankfully, the port and cigar stage of the evening resolved itself quickly, and they rejoined the ladies in the withdrawing room.

  His mother sat in a winged-back chair as if it were a throne, and Mrs. Washburn and Countess Tiptree attended her.

  Lady Charlotte wasn’t with the other ladies. Instead, she stood before a bookcase, studying the titles behind the glass doors. If he approached her, would she recognize him? He’d been careful to keep his face covered the other night. And it had been dark. Yet in the current circumstances, he couldn’t just walk up to her. He would have to find someone to introduce him.

  Mrs. Washburn seemed to read his mind, excusing herself from his mother and approaching. “Your Grace, allow me.” She escorted him across the room.

  “Your Grace, may I present Lady Charlotte Tiptree? You know her parents, the earl and countess?”

  He didn’t, other than by name, but he nodded. Charlotte had turned from the books, and a bit of color entered her cheeks as she held out her hand for him to clasp briefly.

  “Lady Charlotte.”

  “Your Grace.”

  Her hand was light in his, and she removed it from his fingers without lingering. How had he not noticed her unusual eyes before now? Of course, their only other meeting had been in the smoky dark of a pub and the nighttime streets of London, and he had been more concerned with her safety than her appearance, but now that he saw her up close, he was intrigued.

  How to describe those eyes? They reminded him of the regimental pennant of the Irish brigades after they’d been in the field for a few months and the banner had been lightened by the sun.

  He was getting much too fanciful.

  Her eyes were green, though, and he’d long been an enthusiast of green eyes.

  “I hope you are enjoying your evening,” he said. What banal talk. He actually hoped she wasn’t enjoying it, that she thought it as blasé and interminable as he did. For if she enjoyed such stultifying company, she must be boring too.

  And he hoped she wasn’t boring. He couldn’t reconcile boring with the woman who had put together a mission-of-mercy bundle and ventured into the slums at night to deliver it.

  Especially not to her father’s cast-off mistress.

  Marcus had satisfied his curiosity on that front as well, delivering her basket of goods to one Amelia Cashel and investigating the relationship between Lady Charlotte and a kept woman.

  Lady Charlotte appeared to be considering his question. She glanced at Mrs. Washburn, their hostess, and she nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. Very much. The food was excellent, and the company as well.”

  Mrs. Washburn exhaled, clearly relieved, and if he didn’t miss his guess, so did Countess Tiptree, who had inclined her ear and moved to the edge of her seat when he’d approached her daughter.

  “Your Grace,” Mrs. Washburn said. “If you like, we’ve set up some tables in the next room for cards. Perhaps you and Lady Charlotte would care to partner for some whist?”

  Of course a dinner party as staid as this one would be playing such a sober game. Still, it was better than sitting on stiff settees listening to someone talk about their gout or rheumatism.

  “It would be my pleasure.” He held his arm out, and Charlotte took it.

  His mother sent him a severe glare as they joined the guests in the exodus to the card room. Mrs. Washburn somehow cajoled even his mother into joining in, claiming she had something special planned.

  With a bit of adroit maneuvering, he managed to get them seated at the same table as Lord Trelawney. Charlotte sat across from him, and a Mrs. Pruitt partnered Trelawney.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, in order to keep things lively”—Mrs. Washburn raised her voice to get their attention—“each team will remain partnered for the entire evening, and each winning team will move to the next table. At the end of the evening, we’ll tally the scores, and the winning team will be presented with prizes.” She held up two wrapped boxes.

  Marcus inclined his head to Lady Charlotte. “What say you? Shall we try to win it?”

  She smiled, and he was struck by the change in her face. Though dressed in a way that was almost … dowdy, with her hair scraped back as if it were being punished, when she smiled, she looked much younger, and sort of pretty.

  “Can you hold up your end of the bargain, Your Grace?”

  He almost laughed at the saucy challenge. “I shall endeavor to not disgrace myself.” He was an excellent cardplayer, having perfected his skills while in the army. None of his regimental mates would play him after a while.

  Any notion that he would have to carry his partner through the evening’s tournament vanished after the first match.

  She could’ve held her own at White’s. Or possibly as a street magician with the three-card trick. When her turn to shuffle came round, she handled the deck like a seasoned gambler. And when she took the winning trick, she gave the corner of her card a little snap as she played it and sent him a triumphant smile, her green eyes alight.

  Lord Trelawney muttered and gathered the cards. “I had hoped to speak with you, Your Grace. Perhaps we’ll find a time soon? I understand the Prince Regent has recommended you to the prime minister to take your place in the House of Lords. Do you have your sponsors yet?”

  Marcus rounded the table to pull out Lady Charlotte’s chair. “Thank you, Trelawney. Perhaps we will meet up at one of the clubs? Boodles for dinner this next week? And I do thank you for your interest in my sponsorship. However, two of my father’s good friends have already stepped into that breach.”

  The next table found them paired with General Eddington and Mrs. Bosworth, and Marcus could hardly get a word into the conversation, not even squeezing it in on its edge. The general was an abysmal cardplayer, constantly reneging and forgetting the count. Mrs. Bosworth wasn’t much better, though she chided him to pay attention often. Their table talk was just short of scandalous, each hinting to the other the contents of their hands.

  “I say, you were a military man, were you not?” the general asked.

  “Yes, I was a major in the Fifty-Second Oxfordshire Light Infantry. The ‘Light Bobs.’ I served on the Peninsula under Moore and briefly under Colborne. I’ve been back in Britain for nearly two years now.”

  The general frowned, his whiskers jutting out like flags. “What brought you home? You only recently inherited your title.”

  “I was recalled. I was seconded to the Secretary at War and based out of the War Office. Though I have since resigned that post.” He inclined his head. “Other duties have been pressed upon me lately.” It was the cover story he had maintained since leaving the army.

  “Ah, I see. Perfectly sensible.” The general turned to Charlotte. “So many young men of the aristocracy buy commissions hoping to cover themselves in glory, and after their first taste of battle, finding out that war is not the glamorous adventure they had supposed, attempt to resign their commissions and run for the comforts of home. I’m glad to see His Grace was not among their number.”

  “As am I.” Charlotte raised her brows, the picture of innocence, as if she didn’t realize the general had been testing Marcus to see what caliber of man h
e was. Or that the general had been quite willing to upbraid him if he had answered the question differently.

  She was a lively one. Quick as a vixen. Without her here tonight, the evening would’ve been a dead bore.

  They steadily advanced, winning match after match, until they reached the top table. The Duchess of Haverly and the Earl of Tiptree had also advanced.

  “Congratulations, Mother.” Marcus kept the surprise out of his voice. His parent wasn’t known for her adeptness at whist … or was she? He’d never played with her before. Never seen her play. Had the earl carried her thus far?

  He felt a twinge of guilt. For years he had known his mother had little affection or interest to spare on him, but he now realized that cut both ways. While he was a dutiful son, he knew almost nothing of his mother’s preferences, hobbies, or abilities. In many ways, she was a stranger. Perhaps he had learned his skill at compartmentalizing his life from his mother. She had put him neatly into the “second-born spare” box of her life, relegating him to a lesser place in her estimation, and he’d done the same to her, elevating his Crown work above all else.

  The other guests now knocked out of the tournament gathered around the top table, encouraged by Mrs. Washburn. Several of the gentlemen made friendly wagers on the outcome.

  The Earl of Tiptree had a certain shrewdness about him that put Marcus on alert, as did the way Charlotte shrank into herself a bit as she took her seat. Her eyes grew tight at the outer corners, and she shuffled her hand of cards over and over, as if unable to find an order that suited her.

  Marcus needn’t have worried that his mother’s success was due solely to the earl’s prowess at whist. She was quite skilled.

  It was a hard-fought battle, with the final hand determining the winner.

  Charlotte displayed none of her previous joy as she slid the winning trick from the center of the table and butted the cards together. She glanced once at her father, to gauge his reaction, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. She put her hands into her lap.