The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  He squeezed her hands, and to her surprise, he bent and kissed her cheek.

  Hours later, she could still feel the soft warmth of his lips on her skin.

  Charlotte followed the duke into the lobby of the opera house. People crowded the well-lit space, all talking, all jostling, all looking one another over.

  It was her first time here, because her father thought the opera an ostentatious waste of money.

  Considering the lavish gowns and abundant jewelry on display, Charlotte thought he might be correct. And though she had vowed not to do it, she couldn’t help but compare her own unadorned, iron-gray gown to the duchess’s and Lady Sophia’s beautiful dresses. Sophia’s blue eyes shone like candle flames, and she appeared to be enjoying herself immensely, and they hadn’t even been seated yet.

  The duchess looked as if she had just taken a mouthful of vinegar. Was the woman ever pleased?

  But Cilla outshone them all, with her pale golden hair and porcelain skin. She moved with such grace, and her navy dress with black beaded trim showed off her alabaster complexion. She had a sapphire-and-diamond necklace at her throat that winked and shone. The duke’s widowed sister-in-law had been quiet on the ride over, but she smiled kindly whenever her eyes met Charlotte’s.

  Amidst all that finery, Charlotte felt dowdy and awkward. As they moved through the crowd, following the duke, they were stopped again and again by people she knew, and many she didn’t, offering their best wishes.

  Their eyes slid over her face and form, and questions lit their eyes.

  Why her? She isn’t much to look at, is she? Did she manage to trap him somehow? He’ll regret that soon enough.

  Charlotte kept her chin up, but it wasn’t easy.

  Theirs was a large party. How large, she didn’t realize until they were all in the lavishly appointed Haverly box in the second-tier balcony. The enclosed space was close to the stage, which meant they could see into almost every other box in the opera house. And which meant almost every other could see into theirs.

  “Would you care to sit in front?” The duke, wearing the controversial, newish trend of evening black, looked so polished and handsome she had to force herself not to stare. His linens were pristine white, and the cut of his coat showed off his broad shoulders. She still couldn’t quite believe he meant to marry her. He had said he would explain his reasons when he took her to his library, but he hadn’t, not really. And she had been reluctant to ask, lest he realize his mistake and bow out of the engagement.

  “Could we sit farther back, please? I’ve no head for heights.” Which was true, but beyond that, she didn’t want to be right by the rail where everyone could stare and make judgments about her.

  The duchess had no such qualms, parking herself in the center of the front row and encouraging Lady Trelawney and Lady Farring to join her.

  Charlotte took her seat in the back row, running her hand over the velvet upholstery. The Haverly box seated twelve in three rows of four, and she found herself between Marcus and Lady Whitelock.

  The earl leaned forward. “Evening. Congratulations on your engagement. Marcus is a fast mover. I thought there was more going on last night than met the eye. When are you getting spliced?”

  She laughed at his common speech, remembering that up until a year or so ago, he’d been a soldier. “The banns are to be read tomorrow for the first time, and we’ll wed in a month.” Everything was happening so quickly, she could hardly believe any of it was real. The duchess had pleaded for a long engagement—a year, perhaps two?—but the duke had been firm, not even asking Charlotte’s opinion, just stating his timeline and maintaining it in the face of his mother’s protests.

  Lady Whitelock clapped softly. “That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you. Marcus is a dear friend, and I hope you’ll both be very happy together.” She smoothed the skirt of her pale-yellow gown. A Greek key design had been embroidered in gold thread around the neckline and hem, and she flicked open a matching fan, stirring a breeze in the close air. “At least you have a month to prepare. Evan gave me much less time. I suppose you will be assembling your trousseau? Or will the dresses planned for your Season substitute?”

  Her trousseau. Another detail they, or rather the duchess in this instance, had decided earlier in the day.

  “She’ll need a complete new wardrobe, Marcus.” The duchess had actually walked around Charlotte to study her from all angles, frowning. “I suggest you give us carte blanche to outfit her. After all, she’ll be a Haverly and a duchess, and she’ll need to dress appropriately to her station. I can see I shall have to take her in hand if we’re to bring her up to standards in only a month’s time.”

  Heat burned up Charlotte’s cheeks, remembering. She knew her clothing was plain and unstylish, but to have the Duchess of Haverly speak about her as if she were a simpleton, and as if she needed a minder, galled her. Charlotte could not imagine a worse outing than to have the Duchess of Haverly shopping for her.

  “Actually, I was hoping to speak with you about that, Lady Whitelock.” She smiled tentatively. “You dress so elegantly. I was wondering if you might consider helping me choose some new things.”

  The earl grinned. “You won’t find better than Diana when it comes to picking out beautiful things. She’s got a great eye for design, whether it’s a ball gown or a ballroom. She completely redid the Whitelock estate, house, and grounds to the point where the Prince Regent has asked her advice for some of the work on Carlton House.” His pride in his wife shone in his words, and he put his arm around her, hugging her into his side.

  Charlotte smothered a smile at how besotted he was. Didn’t he know that it wasn’t the done thing to be so obviously attracted to and proud of your spouse before the ton?

  How long would it last? Would they go the way of her parents and most couples, descending into indifference and finally to infidelity, or would their love stay strong?

  “I’d very much enjoy helping you, Lady Charlotte. Are you free to go shopping on Monday? With only a month until the big day, you’ll have to hurry to have everything ready.” Lady Whitelock leaned into her husband as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Perhaps we can prepare some lists of things you’ll need?”

  “Ah, Diana, you and your lists.” The earl squeezed his wife’s hand, smiling contentedly.

  The duke finished seating all his guests and took the chair beside Charlotte. His shoulder brushed hers, and every nerve signaled the touch to her heart. He smelled of soap and winter air, and he seemed to take up a lot of room in the box. He was a tall, well-muscled man, but it was more than that. Perhaps it was his commanding personality, or maybe it was that he was her betrothed and she knew so little about him that all her senses were on alert to gather information.

  Or perhaps she was just a ninnyhammer, gauche and green and not sure how to behave around a man whose opinion she valued.

  In the row before them, Lord Trelawney and Lord Farring sat with Lady Sophia and General Eddington.

  The duke couldn’t have known about the general’s proposal to her at the ball, or he wouldn’t have invited the gentleman tonight. As it was, his greeting to Charlotte had been stiff and pompous. Poor man. It had to be much more awkward for him than for her. Rebuffed only to find her engaged to another man less than two hours later.

  With a lithe, twisting movement, the duke reached for a velvet-covered folder in a rack on the wall and handed it to Charlotte.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  He whispered against her ear. “You don’t have to call me ‘Your Grace,’ you know. I’d much prefer if you used my name. It’s Marcus. Very few people call me by my name anymore. And my mother only uses it when she’s exasperated with me, though come to think of it, that’s most of the time.”

  Her skin all but vibrated as his breath brushed her temple, and she turned to look into his eyes, mesmerized at how close he was. What was it about a whisper that intensified even the most innocuous statement? Their gazes he
ld for a long moment, broken only when Evan laughed at something Diana said.

  Charlotte turned to face the stage once more and opened the folder the duke … Marcus … had given her. Inside she found a program of the evening’s events.

  An Italian opera.

  The Earl of Whitelock leaned forward. “Diana’s promised to help me understand what’s going on. I’ve never been to the opera before.”

  “She’ll have to help me too.” Charlotte closed the book. “I’m a novice as well.” She neither spoke nor understood Italian, and she was grateful for the brief synopsis in the program explaining what they would see.

  Marcus glanced at her. “You’ve had several Seasons in London and haven’t been to the opera?”

  She blushed at the reminder that she was no longer a debutante, and studied the gilded dolphins and tridents and mermaids adorning the walls and woodwork of the box.

  He leaned close. “Would it be terrible of me to hope you do not enjoy the experience tonight?” His breath brushed her temple again, and she shivered. “I’ll confess, I’ve not yet been to an opera I enjoyed. If my mother didn’t insist upon keeping this box, I’d let it go to someone else. I enjoy going to the theater, but opera is just so much noise to me. Like a chorus of scorched cats. If you don’t care for it, I won’t have to go in the future.”

  She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing as the orchestra began to play. The audience stilled, from the upper boxes to the pit, and the footlights blazed as the performers came onto the stage.

  Movement across the way caught Charlotte’s attention. Heads swiveled, and a murmur rippled through the crowd, swelling as hands went up to direct gossip into eager ears. Even the music seemed dampened as people buzzed. Someone was entering the Royal Box. Had the Prince Regent or one of the royal dukes decided to attend this evening?

  The velvet curtains at the back of the box stirred, and a woman entered, followed by a man. Recognition hit Charlotte at the same time it must have hit the crowd.

  Pippa Cashel took a seat in the front row of the Royal Box directly opposite. Gracefully, she removed her lacy shawl to expose her bare shoulders and low-cut gown. Lamplight winked off her jewels and the metallic threads embroidering her neckline. Her dark hair curled luxuriously, threaded through with a golden ribbon. A half smile touched her lips, as if she weren’t aware that every eye in the place was on her.

  Those same curious eyes then swerved Charlotte’s way. Word must have indeed spread about the confrontation at the Frost Festival. People must know that Pippa Cashel, the most sought-after courtesan in London, was the natural child of the Earl of Tiptree.

  And Charlotte’s half sister.

  Or if they didn’t before tonight, the buzz and murmurs from below were now informing anyone who would listen. Their faces glowed with curiosity. How would each woman react? Would there be a confrontation? The performers on the stage might as well have not existed. The real drama was in the boxes.

  Pippa couldn’t have looked more serene and uncaring. Her chin was tilted at a regal angle, and she was breathtakingly beautiful.

  A handsome man with silver at his temples took the chair next to her and patted her hand, smirking like she was his possession. She gave him an intimate smile, as if they were the only two people in the room, and another buzz went through the crowd.

  It was that man Marcus had introduced to her at Pemberton’s. Lord Ratcliffe. She’d been impressed with his manners and dress at the time, but now she wanted to march into that box and yank his hand off her sister’s shoulder and spirit her away.

  Charlotte didn’t realize she was clenching her fists in her lap until the duke reached for one of her hands.

  She glanced up at him, but there was no curiosity or even sympathy in his eyes. Just understanding. Her husband-to-be knew about Pippa, about her father’s infidelity.

  He squeezed her fingers lightly, rubbing his thumb on her knuckles. The contact gave her courage. If she can appear so unconcerned, so can you.

  Charlotte straightened her posture, and she put a pleasant, interested expression on her face. The mask that society required and that most seemed to hope she would let slip.

  “Good girl,” Marcus murmured, continuing to hold her hand.

  The comfort his touch gave puzzled her. She wasn’t used to being touched. Neither of her parents was particularly affectionate, and Charlotte had grown up without hugs or handclasps. Having met the duchess, Charlotte wouldn’t have thought Marcus would be given to such things either, but then she remembered his greeting of his sister, Sophie. The hug, the pat, the indulgent smiles. A pang hit Charlotte’s heart. If she and Pippa had grown up together as real sisters—not that such a thing would have been possible—would they have hugged and giggled and teased?

  Pippa kept her eyes on the stage and the performers, and Charlotte, after one last look at her regal sister, followed suit. She only glanced away from the stage once, to encounter the fierce gaze of the duchess as the woman glared at her over her shoulder for a long moment before turning forward again.

  No doubt she was finding some way of blaming Charlotte for the situation.

  The music rose and fell, soloists, choruses, the orchestra, but Charlotte heard none of it. She could only think of her sister and how she longed to help her. But how? Not only did Charlotte have no resources of her own, but her sister had refused any overture of help.

  Would anything change when Charlotte was married? Would her new husband be appalled at her desire to help a prostitute? To even acknowledge her half sister, the paramour?

  He shifted his hold on her hand, lacing their fingers together and resting their entwined hands on his thigh. Their palms pressed together, as intimate a contact as she had had in … forever?

  “I will help her. Somehow.”

  She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud until his clasp tightened.

  Marcus was proud of the way Charlotte had responded. Looking at her serene profile, he would never have guessed that she’d been startled by the appearance of her sister, nor that she was aware that everyone in the place knew of the relationship and was delightedly scandalized about it.

  His mother had stared icy daggers at him for a moment and now sat as if a fireplace poker had replaced her backbone. Sophie sent an inquiring glance his way, but he shook his head and made an “I’ll tell you later” motion with his hand.

  Pippa was a bold one, true enough. She’d braved the public eye before, but never so brazenly as the front row of the Royal Box at the opera. And she looked like a queen. What was she trying to prove?

  More curious to him was Miss Cashel’s companion for the evening. Lord Ratcliffe, the Prince Regent’s closest adviser. That he was blatantly parading a courtesan about London wouldn’t earn him censure from the prince. More likely a nudge of the elbow, a wink, a slap on the back.

  He wasn’t surprised that Ratcliffe had run of the Royal Box, being one of the prince’s inner-circle courtiers, but he was surprised that no one but Pippa joined him there. Marcus hadn’t been aware that Ratcliffe frequented the brothels of King’s Place. Aunt Dolly had never mentioned him before.

  And neither had Pippa. Perhaps it was a recent acquaintance?

  He’d have to ask Sir Noel for a look at the man’s dossier. Anyone with that much influence over the prince would surely have a file.

  With Charlotte on Marcus’s left, it was easy to view her profile while appearing to watch the performers. Her cheek curved in a perfectly feminine way, and he’d been surprised at the softness when he’d kissed it earlier that day. He hadn’t noticed until now how long her lashes were. Perhaps he had been too distracted by the jade green of her eyes?

  Her hair drew his attention. What did it look like when it wasn’t skewered back tighter than a Puritan’s purse strings? The knot at her nape seemed too heavy for her slender neck and appeared to defy attempts to tame the curl out of it. Her hair must fall nearly to her waist. Would the weight of it pull out some of the curls? Were th
ose curls coarse or silky?

  What would it be like to bury his hands in those curls and draw her toward him for a lengthy kiss?

  When he realized his skin was heating and his collar tightening, he shook his head. Fanciful thoughts, and unusual for him. He wasn’t often so undisciplined. Anyway, perhaps she liked her hair styled the way it was. He was one to talk. His own preferred hairstyle had gone out of fashion years ago. Sophie had been trying to get him to cut it, but wearing it long meant he didn’t have to fuss with it. He could club it into a tie at his nape and forget about it.

  It also helped with various disguises. He could appear an unkempt gutter rat in a matter of moments if need be, just by releasing his hair and dousing it with some goose grease, letting it hang over his face. He’d done it often enough.

  A buxom woman stepped to center stage and let out with an ear-shattering high note. Scorched cats barely described it. Perhaps if they would sing in English he could follow the story, but as it was, he was lost and didn’t care to be found.

  Glancing down, he studied her hand entwined with his. Charlotte had long, tapering fingers, slender palms, delicate wrists. Though she wore long white gloves, he could feel the light bones, the warmth. Soon those hands would be handing him his morning tea, turning the pages of a book across the fireplace from him of an evening, writing letters with the Haverly crest on the stationery.

  He stirred, and she looked up at him, those green eyes catching the lamplight. He gave her a reassuring smile, and she faced the singer again.

  His hands were darker, larger, and blunter. They were changing too. For years he had wielded a rifle and saber, soldiering on the Peninsula. He had worked with his hands. Now, though he still tried to ride every morning, the most taxing part of his day was standing still to have his cravat tied by his valet. The calluses were fading.

  He was getting soft. And if he was going to continue to play the spy game, he couldn’t allow that to happen. Being fit and agile had saved his life on more than one occasion. He would have to do something about that. Perhaps he should visit Gentleman Jack’s for some sparring from time to time, or he should install a gymnasium at Haverly House to allow him room to box, fence, and practice his knife throwing.