The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  The Duchess of Haverly practically drew aside her skirts as Charlotte passed. What had Charlotte done to displease the woman? Surely beating her at whist wasn’t cause enough for such antipathy? Or was it that she blamed Charlotte or thought she was somehow tainted because of the Frost Festival encounter with Amelia Cashel? Charlotte shrugged. Why should she care? Likely she would never have anything to do with the woman beyond surface politeness.

  The card room was only partially full, but the minute she entered, her senses went into a heightened state. The duke was here. Standing with an older man, heads bent, serious expressions. She didn’t know the other man, but he had a kindly, intelligent look about him, and he tapped his chin with his pipe stem, as if considering carefully everything the duke said.

  Then the older man left, and the duke spied her.

  She suddenly felt awkward. Did he think she was pursuing him? She looked for an open seat at a table and plopped down in the first chair she saw.

  And found herself seated across from General Eddington.

  Oh, Lord, help me. What have I done?

  The general harrumphed, his florid face going even redder, and he swelled up like a rooster. Without a word, he pushed back from the table, stood, and pivoted on his heel, marching away with his chin up.

  The other two at the table blinked, questions screaming from their expressions, but too well bred to inquire outright.

  “Pardon me.” She rose. “I’m so sorry.” Heat scorched her face. Why must she lurch from one social disaster to another?

  Slipping from the room, she ran smack into Dudley Bosworth.

  He gripped her upper arms to keep her from falling, and she felt as if he’d burned her. “Let go of me.” She could only see him eagerly trotting up the steps to the brothel. That he would show up here properly attired and pretending to be the soul of respectability made her skin crawl.

  “Upon my word, but you’re acting uppity, aren’t you?” He had a too-bright look in his eyes, and she smelled the suspected alcohol on his breath. “For a spinster with a slattern for a sister, you’re sure putting on airs.” His words slurred. “You’ve always acted like you were too good for me, too smart. But we both know the truth now, don’t we? Maybe you’re like your sister, eh? All touch-me-not on the surface but a tiger underneath?” His grip tightened, and he drew her toward him. “Perhaps one sister is much like the other?” His lips puckered, and his eyelids drew down.

  She struggled, and freeing one hand, she swung hard, landing an open-palmed smack on his cheekbone. He staggered back, cupping his jaw and glowering. Charlotte could only be glad they were alone in the hallway.

  “I wouldn’t think a dolly-mop’s sister with no prospects could afford to be so choosy. So breeding does come out,” he spat.

  “Yours certainly did.” The duke’s voice cut between them. “Bosworth, you’re drunk. Go home. And if you ever lay a hand on Lady Charlotte again, I shall call you out.” There was no mistaking the cold threat in his voice. No, not a threat. From the fierceness of his tone and eyes, it was plainly not a threat but a promise. Dudley seemed to sense the same, because he backed away, eyes wide.

  The duke took Charlotte’s arm and turned her away. “Come, my dear.”

  Her brain had frozen, her voice too, and all she could do was allow herself to be led away. Shame wrapped her tight, shame that she should be involved in such an altercation and shame that the duke should have seen it and been forced to intervene.

  Before they had taken half a dozen steps toward the ballroom, her father, her mother, and the Duchess of Haverly stood before them, each in a state of displeasure.

  “Charlotte, what have you been doing? Are you making a spectacle of yourself yet again?” Her father’s voice hissed and flicked her like a whiplash, his eyes going to Dudley’s face and then back to her.

  “You haven’t been inconveniencing His Grace, have you?” her mother asked. “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace.” She reached for Charlotte as if to draw her away and out of sight, but the duke firmed his grip on her arm.

  “Marcus, must you vex me so? The minute my back is turned, you scamper off. Now say good evening to the Tiptrees, and come along. There is someone I want you to meet.” She sent a disapproving glare at Charlotte, who frowned back with tears burning her eyes.

  They were treating her like a badly behaved child, when she had done nothing wrong. And the duchess was acting as if she were a herding dog and her son a mindless sheep.

  One glance at the duke told her he was as fed up as she.

  “Actually, it’s fortuitous that we’ve all met up like this.” The duke’s voice was as smooth as oil. “Perhaps I should have spoken to you first, Tiptree, but I’m afraid my feelings quite ran away with me. I’ve just asked your daughter to marry me, and she has made me most happy by agreeing to my proposal.” He clamped his hand over hers in the crook of his elbow and leaned down to whisper in her ear, so softly she could barely hear. “Don’t argue or contradict. We’ll sort it out later.”

  His warm breath on her temple, stirring her hair, sent a vibration across her skin. She couldn’t have argued with him at that moment, because she couldn’t speak. What game was he playing?

  Silence stretched out for what seemed forever but must’ve only been a few seconds. In that time, several expressions crossed the faces of their parents, and Charlotte felt each one like a blow to her already reeling mind.

  The only one who looked happy was her mother, who clasped her hands beneath her chin and beamed.

  “Madam, aren’t you going to congratulate us?” the duke asked his mother.

  The duchess looked as if she’d swallowed a goose egg and it had gotten stuck halfway down. Charlotte had to resist the urge to slap her between the shoulder blades. It really was awful of the duke to startle his mother so with this fabrication. Her expression was so comical, a giggle threatened to burst from Charlotte’s throat.

  Her father glared, but second by second his face changed from angry as a thundercloud to … calculating as a weasel? He was no doubt trying to assess the duke’s monetary value and influence, while not breaking into a dance at having someone to take Charlotte off his hands.

  And all this time, her mind whirled. This was a hoax, some sort of terrible joke, wasn’t it? Any moment now the duke would throw his head back and laugh, inform them all he hadn’t been serious, and walk away.

  Except he didn’t.

  “Marcus Edward Daniel Haverly, have you lost your wits? Are you in a high fever?” his mother finally demanded.

  “Really, madam. All of my names? Is the situation so dire? I assure you, I have not lost my senses. I find Lady Charlotte’s company most diverting. We have much in common, and I am sure she will do well as my duchess.”

  His duchess? She couldn’t breathe. He really was being too awful, stringing out the foolery this way.

  He inclined his head. “Tiptree, I shall be by in the morning to settle the details, but for now I wish to dance with my fiancée.”

  The duke led her onto the dance floor just as a waltz started up. She barely had time to register that it was a waltz before they were whirling, her hand in his, his other at her back. Was it the dance that made her dizzy or the ridiculousness of the past five minutes?

  She dared a look up at him, and he laughed. “If you could but see your face. I must say, it’s not exactly flattering to me. I know I’ve shocked you, but could you at least pretend the mere thought of marrying me isn’t the most outrageous thing you’ve ever heard?”

  But it was outrageous. And she wasn’t fool enough to believe he had any intention of going through with it. He’d wanted to shock his mother, and perhaps he’d been feeling a bit chivalrous, rescuing her from Dudley Bosworth’s unwanted attention, but by morning he would realize his mistake.

  She would try not to hold his foolhardiness against him. She would release him from this sham engagement when he called in the morning.

  For now, she would cherish this wal
tz. It would have to suffice for romance in her life, because once she let him go, she’d be on a one-way mail coach to Yorkshire.

  It had all happened in a flash, but the longer he mulled over the situation, the more he thought it would work. To say he had shocked his mother was a bit of an understatement, not to mention Charlotte and her parents, but Lady Charlotte had one thing that none of the young misses his mother had thrust under his nose all night did not.

  Lady Charlotte did not bore him.

  Proposing to her had been a moment of madness, one that he might yet come to regret. He barely knew the woman, after all. But being coddled and relegated to tame, domestic sleuthing by Sir Noel, having his mother parade one unsuitable potential bride after another before him like fillies at Tattersall’s, and then seeing that cretin Bosworth with his hands all over Charlotte had caused recklessness to flare.

  But he must put Charlotte Tiptree, his mother, and the reckoning yet to come on the morrow from his mind. He had work to do.

  Marcus emerged from the back of Haverly House just as a night watchman called the time as three o’clock. Stepping into the shadows, Marcus wrapped his black cloak around him, shedding the Haverly persona and donning Hawk. His worn boots made no sound on the cobbles as he moved through the alleys and mews of Mayfair. Every few steps his breath released in an icy puff. Spring would be welcomed with more joy this year than ever, it having been such a cold winter.

  He needed information, and even at this time of night, there was one prime source he could always count on.

  As it always did, his heart saddened upon entering King’s Place. Light spilled from many windows, and the sound of piano music, some off-key singing, and laughter drifted into the street. Men in evening dress, opera cloaks, fancy walking sticks, and twinkling watch fobs went up and down the entrance steps. Carriages with crests on the doors waited at the curbs.

  There was never a night off in King’s Place.

  All those women in their gilded cages.

  He shook his head, entering the mews behind the brothels and slipping through the shadows, counting the back gates until he reached the one he sought.

  The rear door was never locked, and he slipped noiselessly inside. The hall, which bisected the house, was dark, but he kept his hood up anyway. No one appeared, though a low lamp burned on a small table just inside the front room to his right. The smell of perfume lingered in the house. Portieres hung in the doorways, and the woodwork had been painted pristine white. Rugs carpeted the floors, and paintings and gilded mirrors hung on the walls, covering portions of the ruby-red flocked wallpaper. From the outside, the house fit in well with her neighbors. However, the furnishings were plain and sparse. On a threadbare fainting couch in the drawing room, a young woman in a dark cotton dress lay asleep, her hair escaping her cap, a flush riding her cheeks. The blanket had slipped from her shoulders, and he eased it up to cover her once more. She couldn’t be more than seventeen.

  Grasping the ornately carved newel post, he turned and headed to the next floor up. This time he tapped on the door at the head of the stairs and let himself in.

  Golden candlelight and the warm glow of the fire chased darkness to the corners of the room, and he slid the hood off his head, running his fingers through his hair.

  “You’re later than usual.” Aunt Dolly’s knitting needles clicked softly, making yet another stocking. “I expected you hours ago, if you were coming at all.” The lace of her cap fluttered in the breeze she created as she rocked.

  He closed the door behind himself and flicked open the clasp on his cape, removing it as he crossed the room. “I was delayed, but I knew you would still be awake. You never sleep.”

  “’Tis the time of night when we receive most of our callers.”

  “May is sound asleep downstairs. Will she hear the door?”

  “Never you worry. She’ll wake when she is needed. And Belinda is in the kitchen if May needs help.” Aunt Dolly’s face, surprisingly unlined considering her age and the life she had led, showed satisfaction. One would never assume she had been the most notorious madam in all of Covent Garden only a few years ago. “What have you for me?”

  “It’s what you might have for me that I’m interested in, though there are a few things to pass along.” Marcus leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. “I’ve two names.”

  She pulled another length of yarn from the basket beside her chair.

  “Lord Trelawney and General Eddington.”

  Aunt Dolly had a mind like an index file, and her eyes narrowed as she searched for any point of reference. “I don’t believe either has made a practice of visiting King’s Place. I’ve heard of Trelawney. A politician. He’s definitely on the side of the prime minister, especially when it comes to Catholic emancipation.”

  He wasn’t even surprised any longer at the extent of her knowledge, and had in fact come to rely upon it. Sir Noel no longer bothered to ask him where he got his information, but he’d trusted it, and Aunt Dolly had never steered them wrong. “He’s perhaps more staunch on it than Liverpool himself,” Marcus agreed. “It seems as if Liverpool is willing to cede a few things just to get the issue off his plate. Do you know anything about Trelawney from way back? He went to France in a diplomatic capacity more than twenty-five years ago. He knew Nathaniel Bracken, father of Viscount Fitzroy, while he was there.”

  He could see the pieces falling into place, practically clicking in her mind as she made the connection between his inquiry into Trelawney and the man who had attempted to assassinate the Prince Regent last spring. “I will make inquiries. What about the other name?”

  “General Eddington? Retired. Also in France during Bracken’s stay there. I know it seems like a very long time ago, but perhaps you have some contacts? At one time you knew every courtesan and mistress in the city. If Eddington or Trelawney kept a woman in the past, she might know something of their time in France. Really, anything you can find out about either of them might prove helpful.”

  “I have some friends, retired from the life now, but they knew people who knew people in the diplomatic corps many moons ago. I will ask.”

  A noise sounded from below, and Marcus straightened.

  “Do not worry. May and Belinda will see to things. They will call me if needed.” The knitting needles never stopped. “What else is on your mind?”

  She could dig secrets like a Welshman could dig coal. “There is a rumor that by tomorrow the war may be over. A messenger is en route to London with the news that Napoleon is dead and the Bourbons restored to the throne.”

  She tilted her head. “Really?” Skepticism could be defined by her expression. “How many times have we heard that in the past months?”

  “That’s what I asked. This one seems to have some legs. Sir Noel is making inquiries.” And Marcus had been told to keep out of it. His hands fisted on his thighs. He should be out there at the sharp end of the stick, and here he was, relegated to sniffing for information nearly thirty years buried.

  “It will come to be nothing. The Peninsular Campaign has hardly resumed since they broke winter quarters. Wellington is busy in Spain, and the Sixth Coalition hasn’t marched on Paris yet, though I surmise that will be their objective this spring. What else is on your mind?” she asked again.

  “Still trying to find out who hired Fitzroy to kill the prince. To say the Prince Regent is less than impressed with our efforts thus far would be an underestimate of his true feelings. He wants the scoundrels found and punished, and soon.”

  “Percival Seaton has returned to London, and he has returned to some of his former haunts, including the establishments on this street. He’s causing no trouble, but you wanted to know his movements. It appears the Duke of Seaton has remained in the country.”

  Aunt Dolly had a network of informants that would shame the Home Office. “Very well. Keep me apprised. Is Percival up to anything I should know about?” Percival, who also happened to be Diana, Countess Whitelock’s broth
er, had been a close associate of Viscount Fiztroy before the assassination attempt, and Marcus kept a watch on his movements, though he had not been able to find anything to accuse Seaton of beyond being a wastrel and a bore.

  “He seems quite enamored of Pippa Cashel and has been to see her thrice this week, which must be draining his coffers, because she isn’t inexpensive. Beyond that, he hasn’t met anyone that I know of. What else is on your mind?” Aunt Dolly asked, her eyes assessing him with their usual directness.

  “Why do you keep asking?” He spread his hands.

  She said nothing, waiting with the patience of one of the china dogs that flanked the fireplace.

  “I became engaged tonight.” The admission was out before he could call it back, and he rolled his eyes. Perhaps they should put Aunt Dolly in charge of interrogating prisoners. They would soon have every secret France and Spain possessed. He had shocked himself, because he never spoke of personal things here. He never mixed his private life with business.

  “I see. To whom?”

  He rubbed his palm along the nape of his neck under the queue of hair bunched there. Frustrated with himself, wanting to unsay the information, he yanked at the tie holding his hair and let it fall about his shoulders. “Lady Charlotte Tiptree, daughter of the Earl of Tiptree.”

  Pursing her lips, she studied him. “You are aware …” Her voice trailed away, and her needles picked up their pace.

  “That her father has a by-blow daughter who resides only three houses away and that his former mistress is now a charlady in the same house? Yes, I’m aware.” He leaned back in his chair. “And so is Lady Charlotte.”

  Aunt Dolly nodded. “Are you aware that your new fiancée visited that same house earlier today and was sent away with a flea in her ear? Miss Pippa Cashel gave her a setdown and all but tossed her out. No further contact, and certainly no charity wanted.”