The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  “Touché. Actually, I frequent Hatchards bookshop quite often. I can never resist browsing the books. Quillington here can vouch.” He indicated the clerk, who brushed his moustache with thumb and forefinger while nodding. “My account alone probably keeps Hatchards in the black.”

  “His Grace can always be talked into purchasing the latest publications.” The clerk’s eyes twinkled.

  Lady Charlotte gave Marcus a searching look. “And do you read them, or are they merely to fill your shelves in order to impress your guests?”

  The question was refreshingly impertinent, but he found he didn’t mind. “If you were to ask my mother, my reading habits are one of my many faults. Not that I purchase books I don’t intend to read, but that I am always reading and not paying enough attention to other responsibilities she considers more pressing.” He guided her away from the door as another patron entered. “Are you book shopping as well, hoping to add to your library, or did you duck in to warm up?”

  Her face grew sad. “I am merely looking today.” Her gaze strayed to the books. “And seeking information.”

  “In which direction do your interests lie?” He didn’t know why he was prolonging their encounter. He had plenty still to accomplish today, many responsibilities to tend to in several of his personas. Yet he found himself wanting to linger with Lady Charlotte, discussing one of his favorite topics.

  “I have so many interests. I was almost finished reading a translation of Rosini’s History of Ancient Rome, but …” Her voice trailed off, and her lower lip disappeared for an instant. “… I no longer have access to that book. In fact, that’s part of the reason I came in today.”

  She raised her reticule, tugging open the pouch and withdrawing a slip of paper. The movement caused her cloak to open slightly, and a glint of gold caught his attention against the dark brown of her dress. She was wearing the locket she’d won last evening. Without much thought he’d turned the matching ring over to his valet last night when he’d returned home. Now he wished he had worn it today, though he wasn’t much for jewelry.

  Handing the paper to Quillington behind the counter, she asked, “Could you please tell me what the replacement costs for these volumes would be?” She gave a slight shrug, tilting her head. “They don’t have to be new. Used would be fine.” She turned back to Marcus.

  “You’re reading about Roman history?” he asked. “And Rosini no less?”

  She straightened, and her eyes became intense. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those men who think women should confine their reading to the latest housekeeping methods or the fashion broadsheets?”

  He backed away a step, putting up his hands, a chuckle starting up his throat. “I meant no offense. I’ve never met a young woman who was interested in reading history.” He leaned over and looked at the paper on the counter as Quillington made notations beside each item. “Memoir, biography … oh, good, a novel or two. I’m partial to novels myself.” He paused. “Did I understand you to be asking the replacement cost for these books? Have you misplaced so many volumes?” There were a dozen or so on the list.

  She bit her lower lip, and a flush developed on her cheeks. She studied her hands, the bookshelf over his shoulder, and finally the floor. Her only response to his teasing was a small shake of her head. He sought to change the topic, sorry that he’d caused her discomfort.

  A man emerged from the back of the shop, edging past them, his face turned away, and Marcus was careful not to notice any details about him. The man’s appearance was his signal that Sir Noel was now alone and he could go up.

  “My lady.” Quillington spoke up. “I cannot be exact, not with used books, but here is what I feel would be a reasonable price for each title. I’m sorry to hear you need replacements. I was so happy to sell you each of these the first time.” He handed across the paper.

  Lady Charlotte scanned the list, and she pressed her lips together. Her shoulders drooped. “Thank you, Mr. Quillington.”

  “I have that Greek history you were asking after last week. Would you like to see it?”

  She shook her head. “Not today, thank you. I have another errand to run.” Consulting the eight-day clock behind the counter, she all but jumped. “I must fly. It won’t do to be late. Good day to you, Your Grace.”

  He winced, wishing she could just call him Mr. Haverly, or Marcus even, but knowing it couldn’t be.

  “And thank you, Mr. Quillington.” She waved the list and slipped out the door, leaving Marcus looking after her.

  With a short nod to the clerk, he turned toward the back of the shop and the “storage cupboard” door, a smile lingering on his face. Talking with Lady Charlotte had a decidedly cheerful effect on his outlook.

  The moment he stepped into Sir Noel’s office, he put thoughts of Lady Charlotte aside. The room smelled of scorched coffee, but also of pipe smoke. His chief only smoked his pipe when troubled. From the fug of soot in the air, he had been smoking for some time.

  “Problems?” Marcus dropped into the chair, wishing once again for a window in the small space. At least sitting down he was below the thickest layer.

  “Yes.” St. Clair pointed at him with the pipe stem. “And I’m blaming you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Or at least your circumstances. If it wasn’t for your title, you’d be on a mission to France right now.”

  “New developments in the Fitzroy case?” Marcus mentally packed his bag.

  “No, another matter. I’ve had to send someone else, someone with not nearly your experience. I only hope he’s up to the task.”

  The news that someone had been sent in his place was like a bucket of cold water to the face. “Who?” Who replaced him?

  “You know I’m not going to tell you that. The identities of agents are confidential. The less you know, the less you can reveal.”

  Which had worked fine in the past. Each agent worked alone or had his own team of subordinates. But Marcus burned to know who Sir Noel had trusted with a secret mission to France that should’ve been his.

  “Why did you send someone else? I could’ve gone.”

  St. Clair raised one impressive white brow. “Really? And how would you explain your absence? You’re expected at the Pemberton girl’s debut ball tonight. And dinner with Trelawney next week. As well as half a dozen other events in the upcoming days. Not to mention you’re being sponsored to take your seat in Lords.” He lifted a newspaper. “You’re in print this morning as having attended the Washburn party last night. People are noticing your every move. The Duke of Haverly can hardly disappear to France for a fortnight or month in the middle of the Season without someone commenting upon it. Especially because you’re unmarried. Matchmaking mamas and determined debutantes are no doubt hunting you with dedication and desperation. If you were married and off the market, so to speak, we might possibly be able to ease you back into field work abroad. But until then, you stay in London.”

  Marcus fisted his hands on his thighs. His mother and his boss, for different reasons, firing arrows at the same target.

  Matrimony.

  As if getting married would solve everyone’s problems. Except his.

  Gratefully, the topic turned, and he and St. Clair spoke of their strategies for the upcoming days, and Marcus received his orders.

  “So you’ll attend St. George’s on Sunday? And contrive a meeting with General Eddington? He’s a faithful parishioner, and that will be a good place to continue your acquaintance.” St. Clair knocked the dottle out of his meerschaum into a dish. His agitation must be subsiding, because he hung the pipe from the rack on the corner of his desk.

  “That is my plan.” A trickle of guilt ran through him. His attendance at church since returning to town had been … patchy. He’d been neglectful of that particular compartment of his life. Some time spent in worship would do him good. He could check that box and do a little sleuthing at the same time this Sunday.

  Charlotte’s cheeks warmed as s
he stopped to ask directions to King’s Place. At least this time she was in an outwardly respectable neighborhood in the afternoon sunlight, instead of creeping along in the dark, headed to a rookery, but both destinations would scandalize every person of her acquaintance.

  The cider-seller’s breath hung in the air as he exhaled, puffing out his cheeks. “King’s Place? Whatcha want there? Lookin’ for work, are ye?” He eyed her from bonnet to boots, wetting his lips. “You might find a place there, if ya put on a bit of flash, some lace, and bright colors.” He pointed. “Two more cross streets, and then go right. Good luck to ye. Can’t afford to ‘shop’ there myself, but I can dream.”

  Mortified, Charlotte ducked her head and hurried away, the man’s laughter following her.

  She finally found the street. But which of these houses was the right one?

  A man bumped into her as she stopped to study the front doors of the residences nearest her. “Your pardon, miss.” He continued on several steps before stopping. “You appear to be lost. May I be of assistance?”

  What should she say? I’m looking for my sister? She works in a brothel—perhaps you know her?

  He smiled at her hesitation. “Just ask. If I can, I will help. I will not think less of you.”

  “I’m looking for someone. Her name is Pippa Cashel.”

  His smile broadened. “Then you are in luck. I know where that young woman lives. In fact, I am heading to that establishment now.”

  Uncomfortable shock hit Charlotte. Was he a … customer? And he knew her sister? Heat charged into her cheeks, and she didn’t know where to look.

  “This is the place. Allow me.” He preceded her up the stairs of the house to their right, opening the bright yellow-painted door and holding it for her.

  Her shoes seemed rooted to the pavement. He stood there, doorknob in hand, a curious but not impertinent look in his eyes.

  Lord, give me courage. She breathed the prayer, even though she didn’t know if this was a situation of which God would approve, visiting a brothel. But she was hoping to offer some sort of help to her sister and her sister’s mother.

  If she could help them, perhaps she could scour some of the stain off her father’s actions, redeem at least a bit of the family reputation. Perhaps she could look at herself in the mirror without feeling shame.

  Lifting her hem, she hurried up the steps. The man didn’t knock, merely holding the door open for her.

  Inside, a blast of warm air hit her. She tried not to gawp, but she couldn’t deny her curiosity. After all, how many women of her acquaintance had ever been inside a “disorderly house”? A maid hurried into the entryway, clearly recognizing the man, who shrugged out of his cape and removed his hat.

  “Good afternoon, Sarah.” He handed her his garments and turned to Charlotte. “I met this delightful young lady out front. She’s looking for Pippa. Is she awake?”

  Awake? It was past midafternoon. Then realization hit Charlotte, and she knew she blushed again. Why couldn’t she have an olive complexion that would hide her gaucheness? If the women of the house were expected to be up all night entertaining callers, they would need to sleep late the following day.

  “They’re stirring, but nobody’s come downstairs yet.” The maid, Sarah, motioned toward Charlotte’s cloak. “Can I take that, miss?” The girl couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen, freckle-faced and slight, her black dress hanging on her frame but her cap and apron pristine. In spite of her place of employment, she had an air of innocence about her that Charlotte liked.

  Reluctantly, Charlotte surrendered her cloak and followed the man into the withdrawing room.

  It could be a replica of any Mayfair home she’d ever been in. Beautifully furnished, thick rugs, pretty wallpaper, interesting landscapes in gilt frames, mirrors. And lots of light from the tall front windows and the many wall sconces. Charlotte didn’t know if she should be disappointed or not.

  Sarah came in after them, and bobbing a curtsy, asked, “Would you like some tea or coffee, miss? I’ll run upstairs and see if Miss Pippa is receiving yet, but you can have something to warm you while you wait.”

  “No, thank you.” Though she would dearly love a hot drink, Charlotte didn’t know if she could get it down. She was sitting in the front room of a brothel, waiting to meet a sister that until quite recently she didn’t know she had. Tea could wait.

  The man moved through the room with ease, and he seated himself at the pianoforte, blowing on his fingers and then trilling a scale. “That’s correct.” He grinned at her over the music rack. “I am the musician. I play here six evenings a week.”

  So he wasn’t a customer, but an employee. Charlotte readjusted her thinking. Tea, music, a respectable-looking parlor. Nothing was as she had imagined.

  Sarah came into the room. “I’m sorry, miss. I forgot to get your name. Miss Pippa wants to know who’s calling on her and what you want.”

  “Lady Charlotte Tiptree.” She almost whispered the name, aware that the musician was listening. “She will hopefully know why I’m here.”

  The maid disappeared in a swirl of black skirts and white apron.

  For what seemed a very long time, Charlotte waited, trying not to fidget. Piano music filled the room, gentle and light, and she was grateful she didn’t have to make small talk with the man.

  There were no bookshelves in the room, not a single bit of printed material to be found. Which wasn’t unusual in London drawing rooms, but a few book spines to read would have been a welcome distraction.

  Instead, she rehearsed what she wanted to say. Ever since she’d discovered Pippa’s existence, she’d held imaginary conversations with her. She’d wondered what she looked like, whether they had any similarities, whether they had any of the same likes and dislikes.

  What her relationship with their father had been like.

  When Charlotte began to think she’d been forgotten about, a young woman entered the room.

  Charlotte found herself on her feet. The music stopped.

  Brown curls, big brown eyes, rosy lips. A reserved manner, and no expression on her face, not curiosity, not welcome, nothing. As if she was frozen inside.

  “Are you Pippa Cashel?” She searched the woman’s face for any sign of Tiptree features.

  “Miss Cashel. You’re a Tiptree? His daughter?” She trod heavily on the pronoun, as if to separate herself from the situation and Charlotte. “No mistaking you’re his, not with that skinny nose and mousy hair.”

  Charlotte flinched. The woman might as well have slapped her. Her fingers lifted toward her hair before she caught herself and let her hand drop. Pippa had reason to be put out with the Tiptrees, so a little reserve—or even a bit of pique—was to be expected. Charlotte would just have to convince her that she was nothing like her father. “I’m Charlotte. I’m …” She was aware of the pianist and the maid who had followed Pippa into the room. “I’m your sister.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I … I wanted to meet you.”

  Pippa crossed the room to a plush chair and seated herself, so elegant and so beautifully attired that she made Charlotte feel plain and awkward. Light raced along the folds of Pippa’s peacock-blue silk dress and glinted off the silvery trim. Charlotte perched on the edge of her chair again, throttling her reticule and trying to work some moisture into her mouth.

  “Come to gloat, have you?” Pippa raised her chin. “Come to see the poor castoff? You must really be curious to show up here. Daughter of an earl and all that. Though you look more like someone’s poor relation, forced to be a governess or something. And pious as a priest.”

  This wasn’t going at all like Charlotte had planned. She tried again. “No, I’m not gloating. I …”

  “What? What could you hope to do here except satisfy your curiosity? Admit it—you wanted to see what your father’s by-blow looked like.” Pippa studied the fingernails of her left hand, as bored as any society debutante, ennui dripping from her voice. “Well, no
w you know.”

  Consternation and embarrassment clashed inside Charlotte. “Please. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”

  “Sorry?” Pippa straightened, her hand dropping to grip the arm of the chair. “Sorry for what?”

  “About how my father … our father …”

  A forced laugh came from Pippa’s throat. “You’re the one I feel sorry for. Sitting up there so high on your white throne, thinking you’re so much better than I am and so much better off, but look at you. Plain dress, plain bonnet, plain features. He keeps you in as much poverty and prison as he kept my mother. I got out.” She waved her hand about the room. “I have beautiful clothes, excellent food, and more money than you’ve ever had. I’m sought after by the richest men in the city, and they can’t help but bring me extravagant gifts, lavishing me with attention. Can you say the same? Has any man ever wanted you? Given you a present, sought your company?” Pippa sent Charlotte a pitying look.

  No. No man had ever wanted her. Not really. Not even being an earl’s daughter had garnered her any interest.

  A fleeting yearning coupled with, of all things, the Duke of Haverly’s face, flashed through her heart.

  Don’t be a goose. He doesn’t want you either. The duke might be friendly, cordial even, but that meant nothing. He could have any woman in the city, in the country. He would never choose someone as plain and unsuitable as Charlotte.

  Pippa twined one glossy curl around her finger, swinging her crossed leg as she studied Charlotte from hem to bonnet. “You came to gloat, or worse, to offer charity, to offer to ‘rescue’ me? I can see it in your do-gooding face. But, sister dear.” Scorn dripped from her words. “You’re the one to be pitied. You’re still under his control. Don’t come back here. You don’t belong. I never want to have anything to do with a Tiptree again.”