The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

Even if he was just being kind by dancing with her, she intended to enjoy herself. After all, when might she get another chance to dance with the duke?

  Her laughter caught him off guard. Winking was considered vulgar, and while many sins would be forgiven by the ton, vulgarity never was, but she had enough of the rebel in her to not mind, it seemed.

  Refreshing.

  Matching her steps, they made their way up the row until they were the top couple, and he clasped her hands in his, dancing between the lines, as lighthearted as he could remember being in a while. She moved competently but self-consciously, as if counting the steps so as not to make a mistake.

  A movement caught his eye, and he saw his mother, pinch mouthed with disapproval, staring at him. On either side of her, two young chits in white stood, one biting her lip, one standing so straight she might have a stair rod down her back.

  More debutantes, more sweet young things for his mother to cram down his throat. She’d actually brought a list with her this evening, and when he’d arrived, she’d accosted him with it, wanting to discuss the pros and cons of each name. Brick by brick his mother was trying to close him in. And St. Clair wasn’t helping, telling him to act like a duke, to do all the expected things, such as get married and set up his nursery.

  What about what he wanted? If he had his druthers, he’d be on a ship bound for France on yet another mission for Sir Noel. He’d be using his wits and abilities to remain undetected while gathering information vital to the Crown and his nation’s security.

  He separated from Lady Charlotte, on time to the music, tendering her into the care of another dancer while he took that man’s partner.

  Oh, help him, it was young Felicity Pemberton. Another child barely out of the cradle that his mother had suggested he offer for. She flushed, not unbecomingly, and ducked her chin.

  “Good evening again, Miss Pemberton,” he said over the music. “Congratulations on making your debut.”

  She blinked, nodded, and said nary a word.

  How could his mother think he could marry Felicity? She couldn’t even look him in the eye much less carry on an intelligent conversation. In a few years maybe, when she’d had some time to mature, but not now. He felt nothing for her, or any of her kind, beyond brotherly concern.

  They all reminded him of his younger sister, Sophie. Though she’d probably take him to task for still thinking of her as a child. She was a betrothed woman, after all. Living at her fiancé’s house, caring for his elderly mother until he should return from the war and they could wed.

  The music increased in tempo, and he was able to relinquish Felicity to her partner and reclaim Charlotte. She took his hand, allowing him to swing her in the quick circle that signaled the end of the reel. Color rode her cheeks, and a curl had escaped the severe knot at the back of her head, caressing her temple.

  Without thinking, he reached out and brushed it back, admiring the sparkle in those green eyes that looked into his without guile or timidity.

  She froze at his touch, and he let his hand fall. Around them polite applause from the dancers filled the room, and the orchestra began another tune.

  Marcus took a deep breath and offered his arm. “I know I should return you to your mother’s care, but there is someone I would like to introduce to you.”

  She took his elbow, her cheeks and eyes bright. The room was warm, what with all these candles and people. Didn’t she have a fan? Perhaps he should offer her some refreshment.

  “Good evening, Haverly. Or, should I say, ‘Your Grace’?”

  Marcus stopped, turning toward the voice. Ratcliffe … what was his first name? John. That was it.

  “Good evening, Lord Ratcliffe.” He went through a mental catalog of what he knew of the man. A favorite of the Prince Regent, a professional courtier and adviser. And a good shot. He’d attended the house party at Whitelock’s last spring and taken part in the target shoot that had immediately preceded the assassination attempt. Came in second. “Do you know Lady Charlotte Tiptree?”

  “A pleasure, Lady Charlotte.” With perfect grace he bowed over her hand. His dress and silver-laced dark hair were impeccable, his features as if sculpted from marble. He released her hand, his eyes alert but cold as he turned his attention back to Marcus. “Now that you’ve come into your title, perhaps we’ll see you at court more often?” Ratcliffe asked.

  “Perhaps. The duties are many, I am finding.” Though he knew of no reason to be wary, something about Ratcliffe didn’t sit well with him. Maybe it was his punctilious manners or the fact that he had the ear of the Prince Regent, who was easily swayed and given to caprices of temperament.

  Or maybe Marcus was being fanciful and skittish when there was no need. He knew nothing ill of the man, and not everyone was a villain.

  Then he saw his friends. “Ah, there they are. Good evening again, Ratcliffe.” He led Charlotte away. In the past he would’ve waited for Ratcliffe to end the conversation since Lord Ratcliffe would’ve outranked him, but now he was the one to determine when an encounter was finished. “Whitelock, Diana. So good to see you back in town. You’re looking ravishing as always, Diana, and no worse the wear for your confinement.” He kissed her cheek. “May I present Lady Charlotte Tiptree. Lady Charlotte, this is the Earl of Whitelock and his lovely countess.”

  Charlotte dipped her head, offering her hand to Evan and then to Diana. “A pleasure.” She flashed a tremulous smile, eyeing Diana’s hair and dress and jewelry.

  In comparison, Charlotte’s dress was plain, no lace, no trim, no ornament. Marcus scanned the room. He hadn’t really noticed before, but Charlotte’s dress looked almost nothing like those of the other ladies. Some women had ruffles, and tiny sleeves, and gauzy material overlaying their skirts. Shiny silks, fabrics that seemed to throw back the light with interest. In contrast, Charlotte’s dress of dove gray seemed … understated? No … drab? Yes, it seemed drab and a bit dowdy. And very concealing. Not that he was particularly fond of the way some women flaunted their charms, but even the matrons of the ton wore more flattering gowns.

  Clearly Charlotte had noticed the chasm between her garb and Diana’s, because she edged back a bit, as if not to stand too close and make the differences more apparent. It was the first time he’d seen her lack confidence since first spying her in the Hog’s Head Tavern in St. Giles. Even then she’d tried to bluff her way through, pretending she wasn’t scared.

  But now he felt for her. Surprising himself, he put his hand on her lower back, drawing her forward, hoping to instill confidence. She drew in a quick breath, her eyes going to his face, questions in their jade-green depths. He realized he’d broken protocol, touching her so familiarly, and he let his hand fall. What had come over him that he cared what a near spinster thought of her dress? He was losing his mind.

  Whitelock noticed the touch and shot Marcus a look, but Marcus shook his head.

  “How is the new heir?” he asked Diana. She’d given birth to a son just before Christmas at their estate, White Haven, and Marcus had yet to make the young viscount’s acquaintance, though he had been asked to be the child’s godfather.

  Diana beamed. “He’s just perfect. And Cian doesn’t seem jealous in the least. He’s too busy destroying the nursery. I’ve never seen a child so bent on climbing into, onto, and over every obstacle. And all with such an engaging smile. I’m thankful that little William isn’t mobile just yet.” She must’ve realized she was going on a bit, and she blushed, swatting Marcus’s arm. “You don’t want to hear about our domestic bliss. How have you been? It’s been far too long since we saw you.”

  Evan nodded. “We heard about your niece’s birth. Tough luck, old man.”

  Marcus gave a rueful smile. “I’m trying to get over my disappointment. Honora Mary is thriving, and she’s quite the comfort to Cilla.”

  A puzzled look crossed Charlotte’s face, and Evan laughed. “I know it seems barmy, but Marcus was hoping his sister-in-law would produce a son and relieve him of
the pressures of being the Duke of Haverly. He’d rather while away his time in the clubs and racetracks and theaters during the Season instead of sitting Lords and overseeing estates and the like. I know just how he feels. Not that long ago, I was a mere soldier, taking the King’s shilling and following orders. Now I own property, a title, and have a family.” He put his arm around his wife’s waist, drawing her into his side, giving her a fond look.

  Diana leaned into her husband, her smile communicating how cherished she felt.

  A pang hit Marcus’s heart, and for a moment he didn’t recognize it for what it was … envy. He thrust that notion aside. He wasn’t envious of his friends’ relationship. He was happy for them. He didn’t want to be entangled and encumbered. Anyway, even if he was looking for a bride, he would never let those kinds of emotions into his life. It would cloud his judgment and dull his abilities. An agent needed his wits about him at all times, or it could cost him his life. If he married, he would have to maintain clear boundaries emotionally and mentally.

  “I was at your investiture, Lord Whitelock,” Charlotte offered. “I’m not certain who was more surprised, you or the guests at the Queen’s Drawing Room.” She smiled to soften her words. “I am glad it all worked out satisfactorily.”

  “Have you known Lady Charlotte long?” Evan asked Marcus, a string of questions in his innocent tone.

  Before Marcus could answer, his mother marched up, eyes snapping. “Marcus, you’ve kept me waiting. There are people I want you to meet.” She nodded briskly toward the Whitelocks but spared not a glance for Charlotte.

  “People” meant marriageable women. He had underestimated his mother in this. While he had thought merely to distract her from her grief through a casual bride search, she had the bit between her teeth and was running rampant through his life. If she wasn’t cramming Cilla down his throat, she was listing eligible females with what she considered correct breeding and standards.

  “Your pardon, Lady Charlotte. I shall escort you back to your parents. Whitelock, Diana, I hope I’ll see you soon?” He tried to keep the resignation from his voice. “I’ll be by to admire that godson of mine.”

  “Yes, yes.” Mother tapped her fan into her palm and her toe on the floor. “Hurry up.”

  “Yes, madam.” He offered his arm to Charlotte and returned her to her mother’s side with a bow. “Thank you for partnering me.”

  “Thank you.” Charlotte fingered the locket at her throat. “It was most kind of you to ask me.”

  Regretfully, he turned away, and when he looked back, she had disappeared in the throng.

  An hour later, he gritted his teeth so hard, he thought he might break a molar. The third “sweet young thing” his mother had found partnered him for a dance, fear coating her face as she strove for some sophistication.

  Did the girl have two thoughts to rub together? While he might be doing her an injustice, she was so awkward and shy, he gave up trying to converse with her. He stared over her head, and relief crashed through him. Sir Noel St. Clair, resplendent in evening dress, stood in the doorway, and when their eyes met, he inclined his head toward the card room.

  Ah, reprieve.

  “Excuse me.” He led the girl off the floor, though the dance hadn’t quite ended. Bewildered, the slim-as-a-willow-wand daughter of Lord Platford followed him to where her chaperone waited.

  His mother’s mouth set in a firm line, but he escaped her demanding eyes, smothering a laugh as he joined his boss, feeling like a boy escaping his stern governess.

  It wasn’t unusual for Sir Noel to attend society functions, though a debutante ball was rare. What was unusual was for him to be seen talking to one of his agents so openly.

  “Good evening, Sir Noel.”

  “Your Grace.” Sir Noel observed the proper protocol. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  They passed pleasantries as they crossed the card room—only half filled at the moment, though it would grow more crowded as the evening wore on and men grew bored with the dancing and found a quiet corner.

  “Has something happened?” Marcus asked.

  “Not yet, though I am hopeful. No, but now that you are a duke, it will be unremarkable for us to be seen talking together at social functions from time to time.” Sir Noel took his pipe from his coat pocket, holding it to his lips but not lighting it. “How is the bride search going? Who was that you were dancing with just now? A prospect?”

  “No. I was appeasing my mother, if you must know.” Marcus shifted his weight. The entire thing was becoming such a bore.

  “That’s too bad, because I have an idea brewing.” Sir Noel tapped his chin with his pipe stem. “However, that’s not why I’m here. The flag telegraph system from Dover has indicated that an envoy is on the way with word from France. Rumor says he’s an aide come with news that Napoleon has been defeated and the Bourbons restored to the throne.” Doubt laced his tone. “He’s expected in London by morning.”

  Marcus shrugged. “Is there any substance to the rumor? How many such tales have we had to refute before?”

  Sir Noel nodded. “I know. But this one seems to be gaining some momentum. A post boy tumbled into the Admiralty not an hour ago, disheveled and breathless, describing a man he called Colonel de Bourg, aide-de-camp to Lord Cathcart. This aide had sent the boy on before him. From the boy’s description, the man had the proper clothes and demeanor of someone sent across the Channel in great haste. I interrogated the child myself. I’ve sent out men to make inquiries. Partridge for one. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll get some reports during the night, but most likely it will be tomorrow at best before we get anything solid.”

  Frustration crept up Marcus’s backbone. In days past it would have been him riding out from London in search of information. Now he was hamstrung at this infernal dance, playing the duke instead.

  “What would you like me to do?” he asked.

  Sir Noel pursed his lips, his side-whiskers standing out. “Nothing. There’s nothing for you to do at the moment. But I wanted you to be aware, in case any of your contacts turn up something. For now, follow through with your plans to meet Lord Trelawney, and foster your relationship with General Eddington. Stay on task with the assassination case. If you discover anything new, report to my office.”

  Quelling a sigh, Marcus nodded. “What other idea do you have brewing, and what does it have to do with me finding a prospective bride?”

  His boss shook his head. “It’s not fully fleshed out yet. Find the girl first, and then I’ll share.”

  Marcus shook Sir Noel’s hand and turned away. Speaking to him for a short time in a social setting was acceptable, but a longer conversation would create questions.

  At least here in the card room he would be free of his mother’s traps.

  Society’s expectations of a duke were a trap in and of themselves. He was hampered every way he turned. Perhaps he needed to expand the boundaries of this particular compartment of his life and bend to St. Clair’s wishes. Not regarding marriage, necessarily, but blending his role as a duke with that of an agent for the Crown.

  CHAPTER 6

  CHARLOTTE WISHED SHE could find a place to hide until the evening was over. For a moment or two, she’d allowed herself a brief fantasy while looking into his eyes, but reality had set in soon enough. The Duke of Haverly had partnered her for one dance—out of duty or pity, she wasn’t sure—and then gone on his merry way, partnering three young girls in succession.

  Gossip swirled around her as she watched dance after dance, unasked by any gentleman. She perched on the edge of a settee, dowagers and duennas all around her.

  “He’s definitely on the hunt for a bride.”

  “The most eligible bachelor of the Season. Whoever snaffles him will have a real prize.”

  “The duchess is practically pushing girls at him one after the other. It’s unseemly, if you ask me.”

  On and on, with the duke always as the topic, one busybody posing a possible match for him an
d the others rating the unsuspecting girl for flaws and attributes.

  It was enough to turn Charlotte’s stomach. She would hate to hear what they had said about her when she had danced with the duke. Scathing and derogatory wouldn’t even begin to describe it if the comments they were making on worthy young ladies was any indication.

  When she had been forced to watch the duke, so tall and masculine, escort yet another pretty young thing through the intricate steps of a quadrille, her heart had turned to lead, cold and heavy in her chest.

  Now she couldn’t see him anywhere. Perhaps he was in the refreshment room, charming some pretty girl over punch and petit fours.

  Stop it, Charlotte Tiptree. You’re acting like a jealous ninny. Be grateful for the crumbs thrown your way. You have no reason to aspire higher. He would never seriously look your way, and you’re a fool if you continue to hope.

  From her father’s piercing stare across the room, she gathered that a reckoning would come regarding General Eddington’s proposal, but she couldn’t make herself care any longer. She was weary of the entire charade. Everyone here seemed to be pretending to be someone they weren’t or hiding some deep secret.

  Dudley Bosworth went by with a young woman on his arm, and Charlotte wanted to put herself between them, to shield the girl from his duplicitous ways. She had met him that very day on the steps of a brothel, and here he was pretending to be a faithful swain in search of love. Though he wasn’t looking altogether steady, and his cheeks were flushed. Perhaps he’d been imbibing a bit of what some wags called “Dutch courage” to get him through the dance.

  Even her mother pretended. Pretended her husband hadn’t been unfaithful. Pretended her marriage was all that it should be. Pretended she hadn’t been accosted by her husband’s mistress and that all of London hadn’t heard about it by now.

  She realized she was throttling her fingers and mangling her gloves, and she forced herself to relax.

  So many masks.

  Well, she wasn’t going to wear one. Not tonight. If no one was going to ask her to dance, she wasn’t going to sit out here and watch, buried in unwanted gossip, pretending it didn’t bother her. She would find amusement elsewhere. She excused herself and headed for the card room.