The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  Poor Charlotte.

  The needles clicked away. “How will your marriage affect your work for the Crown? Will you tell your new bride, or will you keep it from her?”

  Aunt Dolly had a way of getting right to the heart of the matter and ringing it like a bell.

  He shrugged. “Being married won’t change anything. I’m told it will help with my cover. Sir Noel insists that the Duke of Haverly needs a wife, and Lady Charlotte fits the requirements. Beyond that, she will not interfere with the rest of my work and life. In fact, she will help because once I am safely married, much of the curiosity and attention I draw at social events will diminish. No more anxious mamas, including my own, pushing their daughters at me with hopeful faces and doe eyes. Lady Charlotte will be my safeguard, and I can continue to do my work.”

  “You believe that a wife will not ‘interfere’ with your life?” Aunt Dolly snorted. “Is she a simpleton or a dullard? If so, she will not make you happy. You need someone to challenge you, to make you think, and to keep your wits sharp. Tell me she is not some fresh-faced child barely out of the schoolroom?”

  The speed with which he leapt to Charlotte’s defense surprised him. “No, in point of fact, she is not. She must be all of twenty-one or two, and she’s quite well read, with a keen mind. She plays cards like a professional gambler, has a good memory, and enjoys history. Perhaps a bit on the plain side by society’s standards, but that doesn’t signify. She will fill a role, suit a purpose. She can appear on my arm for a few social functions. My movements and work for the Crown here in London won’t be hampered.”

  The knitting needles fell still, and Aunt Dolly looked at him over the top of her half-moon glasses. “If she is as intelligent as you say, she will not be content to be relegated to the margins of your life. What woman worth her salt would be? Do you contend that you can so neatly box her in that you can keep her separate from the rest of your life forever?” Her eyes said he had dried peas where his brains should be. “You will marry her and exclude her from the most important parts of your life? You’ll use her when it suits you and ignore her the rest of the time? What kind of woman would be content with that? And for how long? Surely she will want to be more than a placeholder and fashion accessory. I thought better of you. Marrying a woman for appearance’s sake. What about the getting of an heir? Will you go about that in the same cold-blooded way?”

  He wanted to squirm, something that rarely happened to him. How did he come to be speaking of marital intimacies with a reformed prostitute? This was what happened when you blurred the lines between business and your private life. “Those details can wait a bit. I’m busy. I’ve an investigation to run. I can’t be bothered with domestic issues. I want to keep all my roles both simple and separate. How many men in this city are married but behave as if they are not? Not that I intend to betray any marriage vows I make, but men don’t involve their wives in matters of business. I doubt many wives could even articulate the sources of their husband’s income or amusements, or the extent of their estates or what it takes to run them. I’m sure Charlotte will be content to oversee the estate house and do whatever it is that females do and leave the rest to me.”

  “If she is, she’s not the right woman for you.” Aunt Dolly pointed her knitting needle at him. “You would be better off marrying one of those bits of fluff coming out of the finishing schools these days, who have to ask permission before having an intelligent thought, but they know how to host a tea party and count linen.”

  Again, guilt rolled through him like a boulder. “In my defense, I’ve known her less than a week.” The excuse sounded as barmy to him as it did to her. The glasses came off, and she blinked at him.

  “Less than a week?”

  He shrugged. “There will be plenty of time to get to know her better later. It’s done all the time in society. For now it is enough that I’ve found someone to fill the role of my duchess so I can stop thinking about that part of my life and focus on what’s important.”

  “If you think your choice of wife isn’t important, you’re sadly uninformed. I’ve heard you speak time and again about keeping all the parts of your life separate and tidy, even having the boldness to claim that you can confine God to only a portion of your life, but what you’re attempting with a wife is just as impossible. Especially if you want to receive any joy from your relationship with your bride.” The rocking stopped, and her brows rose as her chin fell. “But you’ll have to find out on your own since you’re clearly not in a frame of mind to take my advice. I shall pray that God somehow hits you on the head with a bit of wisdom. If you treat your fiancée as you have been treating God, I suspect you’ll get the same results. You can’t put God in a box, and you can’t put a wife there either. Both will spill over, and both deserve more from you. You’re missing out on life’s greatest joys, and you don’t even know it.”

  A knock on the door had Marcus feeling like a fish who had wriggled off the hook. He wanted to call down a blessing on whoever had interrupted at that moment. Aunt Dolly had poked plenty of holes in his philosophy, and he was a bit raw, but he could and would keep his public, his secret, and his private lives separate. He’d been successful about it until now. After all, his mother hadn’t the merest notion that he was a spy. Charlotte wouldn’t tumble to it either.

  He rose, wrapped his muffler about his face, and donned his cloak, making sure to pull up the hood to complete his disguise before opening the door. May’s sleepy face peered in. She blinked when she saw him but then shrugged. “Aunt Dolly, there’s some stitching needed, and Belinda’s got her hands full with two others that just came in.”

  “I’ll be there directly. Make sure there is water on the boil. Hawk, perhaps you could lend a hand?” She always used Hawk rather than Marcus when others were present.

  Gratefully, he followed them down the stairs, and in the front hall, a woman sat on a chair, holding a bloodstained cloth to her brow.

  “Ah, Ginny, back again?” Aunt Dolly put her arm around the woman. “Here, let us help you. We’ll go down to the kitchen. Hawk?”

  He helped her get Ginny to her feet, but halfway down the hall, he gently removed Dolly’s hand, scooping the woman up into his arms. She was too weak and wobbly, and the stairs too narrow, to get her down safely between them. He kept his face turned away from her, but she didn’t even seem to notice. Ginny was no weightier than a bit of thistledown, and he had no trouble depositing her with care into a chair beside the worktable. Without speaking, he moved to the corner of the room to observe, waiting to see if they needed someone to fetch a physician.

  Two other women sat at the table, bent over steaming bowls of soup, one with a bruise on her left cheek, the other with eyes bright and face flushed as if she had a fever. She paused in her eating to cough into a handkerchief, her face reddening until the spasm passed.

  “You’ll finish that soup and then it’s bed for you, my dear.” Aunt Dolly went to a cupboard and removed a roll of cloth. She opened it on the table, revealing a small selection of medical equipment, cotton tufts, and linen bandages.

  “Now, Ginny, let me take a look at you. May, give me some more light. What happened?”

  “He wouldn’t pay, and when I insisted, he knocked me into a wall.” Ginny muttered her confession, and Marcus took a grip on his temper, knowing it would be disastrous to show it here. How awful men were, using and abusing women simply because they could. In the more expensive bordellos there were guards on the payroll to ensure the protection of the girls and that each man paid what he owed, but these women who walked the streets alone, without anyone to look after them, were at the mercy of their customers’ whims and tempers.

  Ginny had been roughly treated, but it didn’t appear they would need a doctor tonight.

  Marcus touched Aunt Dolly’s arm. “I’ll take my leave.”

  She nodded, not looking at him. “Be safe, Hawk. And remember what I said.”

  He nodded and slipped through the back door.
Once outside in the dark, he inhaled the cold night air through his muffler.

  Hawk. His code name. His alter-identity.

  Except that to him, it wasn’t an alter-identity. He was Hawk. It was the Duke of Haverly that felt like the facade.

  A facade he would have to wear for the rest of his life.

  CHAPTER 7

  CHARLOTTE PACED THE morning room, barely aware of her mother’s prattling. Pages and lists decorated the writing desk, and her mother repeatedly dipped pen into ink and wrote. She had started talking the minute they had entered the carriage the night before, and except for a brief interval of sleep, hadn’t stopped.

  “It’s the date that needs to be settled first. Once we have that, all the other plans will fall into place. There’s so much to do.” Mother held up one paper. “We’ve so much shopping to accomplish. I wonder how much money your father will part with for the wedding and your bridal clothes. After all, we can’t be seen to be skimping when our daughter is marrying a duke. The stationer’s first, I think, to have invitations printed. Then there is the church. St. George’s is the only place that will do for a duke’s wedding. Perhaps we should secure the church first, before we see the stationer. But then again, we can’t secure the church until we have a date settled.”

  It had been the same merry-go-round all morning, and Charlotte was heartily sick of it. Mother would be so disappointed when the duke called in to say it was all a hoax.

  Charlotte had barely slept, mulling the evening in her mind, going over every moment, dissecting and holding it up to scrutiny. Somewhere between the moment he had asked her to dance that first reel—out of courtesy or pity, to be sure—and the mischievous way he had bowed over her hand and helped her up into her father’s carriage just after midnight, they had become engaged.

  But in the cold light of morning, she knew it wasn’t real. It couldn’t last. Things like that didn’t happen to girls like Charlotte. He had whispered that they would sort it all out later, which must mean he was only playing a trick, that he wasn’t sincere and that she wasn’t to take him seriously. Any minute now he would arrive with apologies and rueful laughter, inviting her to enjoy the ruse they had played, and even the stubborn flicker of hope in her heart that she couldn’t quite quell would blow out.

  Father entered, a newspaper under his arm, eyes piercing. “I’ll say this for him, he doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet.” He popped the paper open and jabbed his finger at the center of the page.

  “Joseph? What are you talking about?” Mother wiped her pen on the inkwell and laid it down, turning sideways in her chair.

  “I’m talking about Haverly. Look.”

  Charlotte and her mother read where he pointed.

  The Duke of Haverly to Wed Lady Charlotte Tiptree.

  His Grace the Duke of Haverly and Lady Charlotte,

  daughter of the Earl and Countess of Tiptree,

  entered into a betrothal last evening

  at the debut ball of Felicity Pemberton.

  The article went on to remind readers that Marcus Haverly had inherited the title upon the death of his father and elder brother in a carriage accident this past summer, to proclaim the suitability of the match, and to wish the new couple well in their coming nuptials.

  Father snapped the page over on itself, practically purring with satisfaction. “You’ve certainly done better for yourself than I thought you would, girl. I was so furious when you refused Eddington, but I had no idea you had aimed so much higher. Whatever you’ve done, you’ve clearly besotted the duke. Your intended seems eager to make everything official, else why would he have rushed the news into print?”

  Charlotte wanted to snatch the paper from him and read it again just to make sure the words hadn’t evaporated. He had announced it in the daily? Did that mean he was sincere?

  Or was this another joke? She didn’t know the duke that well, but surely an announcement in the papers was taking things too far to be humorous. When he called the engagement off now, everyone would know. Everyone would whisper and speculate that he had discovered something undesirable in his fiancée.

  Would her father be forced to sue the duke for breach of promise in order to salvage her reputation? Would he even bother, or would he prefer to shunt her off to Yorkshire and forget about her and the way she had humiliated him yet again?

  Charlotte’s hands shook as her mind raced. Lack of sleep had caused a headache to form behind her eyes. She wanted to escape to her room until it was all over.

  Mother wore a look of supreme … innocence? She toyed with the quill, running the barbs through her fingers and not looking at Charlotte or her husband. Suspicion leaked into Charlotte’s mind. Surely not. Oh please, no.

  “Mother?”

  “Yes, dear?” A spring lamb couldn’t have contrived to look more blameless.

  “Please tell me that you are not behind this. Please tell me that you didn’t send someone around to the newspaper first thing this morning with this information.” She fisted her hands at her sides, dread stiffening every muscle.

  Mother flinched and set the quill on the desk with a slight tremor in her hand. “Well … It was just that …”

  “Verona.” Father’s voice didn’t have the edge to it that Charlotte had expected. Instead, he patted her on the shoulder—a rare moment of approval or affection that startled Charlotte. “Well done. He can’t renege now. His bow is drawn, and he must loose the arrow.”

  Charlotte tried to swallow, but her throat was too tight. So her parents had both been afraid that the duke would rescind his proposal, and in order to forestall this, her mother had rushed the news into the paper.

  There was no graceful way for her to release the duke that wouldn’t now involve a breach of promise suit or damage to both their reputations.

  The entire enterprise reeked of a desperation that was no compliment to Charlotte … or her parents.

  Lord, what do I do now? Mother has trapped him as effectively as if she’d contrived to catch us in a scandalous embrace and demanded that he make an honest woman of me. Now I have to make an honest man of him. This can’t have been Your will. It smacks of Sarah and Hagar. Mother manipulating like Sarah to make sure she gets what she wants. Why couldn’t You have arranged something simple, an engagement to a humble baronet or second son, something to provide me just a little happiness? Is that too much to ask?

  But she feared her prayers went unheeded. Clearly God did not intend for her path to be easy. She wondered if He even cared about one lonely young woman in London or if she had somehow been left out of His plans.

  “My lord.” A small sound from the doorway. “His Grace, the Duke of Haverly, has arrived.” The butler stood at attention, an anxious look on his face. Tiptree servants often wore that expression, as if waiting for the next explosion from the earl.

  “Well, don’t leave him cooling his heels in the hall. Show him in.” Charlotte’s father rubbed his hands, brisk and embarrassingly eager.

  The duke looked splendid in a forest-green coat, dull-gold waistcoat, and deerskin breeches. His tall boots bore a high gloss that must’ve taken his valet hours to accomplish. He’d gathered his hair at his nape, fastened with a brown strip of cloth the same color as his hair.

  And under his arm he carried a newspaper.

  Mortification heated Charlotte from her core to her fingertips, a prickle raced across her skin, and a hollow feeling opened in the pit of her stomach. She was so ashamed, she wanted to cry.

  “Your Grace, welcome to our home.” Mother rose and advanced on him. Her eyes flicked to the newspaper, and her steps faltered.

  The duke barely gave Mother a glance, instead focusing his blue eyes on Charlotte. “Good morning, Lady Charlotte.”

  “Your Grace.” The words came out a raspy whisper, forced past the rock lodged in her throat.

  An awkward silence stretched out, broken when her father, with far too much bonhomie in his voice, said, “Perhaps we should leave the lad
ies here and step into my office to discuss the particulars?”

  Reaching into his inner pocket, the duke withdrew a long envelope. “No need. My terms are here. I believe you will find them fair.” Without looking at Father, he passed the envelope across.

  She had an otherworldly feeling, as if she were watching things happen to someone else. He’d prepared marriage documents? When? It was barely midmorning. The entire enterprise seemed to swing from impulsive to cold-blooded and back again. How was a girl to make sense of it? Things were moving so quickly, the end to the joke had to come soon, didn’t it?

  If she was dreaming, she didn’t know if this was a nightmare or if she would awaken soon, disappointed that it wasn’t real.

  “Lady Charlotte, my mother is most anxious to entertain you at Haverly House, and I hope you will accompany me there this morning.”

  His mother wanted to see her? What about the newspaper article? What about him calling everything off?

  Not a single page of any book Charlotte had ever read had prepared her for this situation.

  “Oh yes.” Mother clapped lightly. “I’m sure we have much to discuss with the duchess. I’ll send for our wraps. There are so many details to settle.”

  The duke bowed slightly. “Do forgive me. I am sure an invitation from my mother to you will be forthcoming, but for this morning, she would prefer to meet Charlotte on her own.”

  Abashed, Mother subsided into the writing-desk chair. Without trying to draw attention to herself, she organized the lists and papers and evidence of her planning into a stack, sliding them into a drawer.

  Meanwhile, her father had opened the envelope and drawn out the pages, scanning them like a man skinning a flea for its hide and tallow. His eyes gleamed like gimlets, and his narrow throat lurched. Charlotte wanted to sink through the floor.

  “Yes, yes, most agreeable. You’ve been most generous, Your Grace.” He cast about as if looking for a quill in order to sign the papers right there and then. “You’re sure you don’t want a dowry?”