The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  General Eddington, on the other hand, had been cagier, gruff to the point of rudeness. Almost as if Marcus had offended him, though he had no idea how. He’d excused himself fairly quickly from the conversation. Did that mean he had something to hide?

  “Congratulations, Your Grace.” Sir Noel inclined his head as he joined Marcus. “I appreciate your report.” He lowered his voice. “Most informative.”

  When Marcus had received orders to travel first to Dover and then to Portsmouth to trace the movements of those suspected in the recent stock fraud case, he’d been thrilled. And torn. Which frustrated him. It was his first field assignment since taking over the title, the first work with any danger attached to it he’d had in months. But also his first assignment since his betrothal. How to explain his absence to his bride? In the end he hadn’t explained at all, merely telling Charlotte he had to be away on business but that he would return in time for the wedding.

  And in spite of his best intentions, he had missed his fiancée, wondering how she was getting on and whether she missed him. He’d given strict orders to Partridge to watch over her whenever he was away, paying particular attention to whether her father was overstepping and causing her worry. Partridge, though he didn’t work in the Tiptree home, wouldn’t have found it difficult to get the information out of the staff. He never did.

  “I wouldn’t have sent you if there had been anyone else, but with that report you brought back, you’ve reminded me that you’re one of my best agents and how much I’ve missed having you in the field.” Sir Noel looked like the cat who had just dined on domesticated songbird. “The case for the Crown against Lord Cochrane will move ahead rapidly now. I foresee the trial beginning sometime in early summer, once the charges are officially brought before the court. I’m glad you made it back in time for the wedding.”

  “Only just. And I’m one of your best agents? Hmph.” Marcus put his hand to his heart and gave a mocking bow. “I am your best agent. Full stop.”

  “Why is it that every one of you who works for me thinks that?” Sir Noel asked in a light tone.

  Their investigation into the stock fraud had gone very well, a relief since they could not seem to find the answers they sought in the assassination attempt. Succeeding in one area gave them hope for the other.

  His mother approached in full sail, and Sir Noel bowed. “Congratulations again, Your Grace. I wish you every happiness.” He slipped away into the crowd in that way he had that Marcus always admired.

  He truly believed his boss had been one of the best spies during the early days of the French Revolution. He’d taught Marcus his craft and his craftiness, enhancing and growing Marcus’s talents, giving Marcus a sense of purpose and value that he’d never experienced before being taken in by the intelligence service.

  “I’m doing my best, but it isn’t easy.”

  His mother had comported herself as martyred as a monk this past month. He was surprised she wasn’t clothed in a hair shirt and carrying around a branch to flog herself with. At least she hadn’t worn unrelieved black to his wedding.

  “Madam?”

  “I’m keeping my chin up, but this has been a trying day.” She flicked open her fan and fluttered it, her mouth petulant. “Not a single person has mentioned your father or brother all day, and that catty Mrs. Plimpton addressed me as ‘the dowager duchess’ so many times I wanted to smack her. Insufferable woman. Why did you have to marry that Tiptree girl?”

  Marcus said a quick prayer for patience. “You do realize that you would have become the dowager even if I had married a bride of your choosing?”

  “Of course I do. I’m not a simpleton. It was that woman’s gloating that set my jaw.”

  He kept his eyes on his bride across the ballroom. She stood with Diana and the Pemberton girl, smiling and chatting. Was it just him, or did she seem to light up the space around her?

  “At least Lady Whitelock was able to bring that dreadful wardrobe and hairstyle up to scratch. I was certainly not pleased that Charlotte cut me out of the process. She needs a guiding hand. Clearly her mother is too cowed by her husband to know good taste from bad.” His mother continued to flap her fan, stirring a breeze that warred with the hot words coming from her mouth. “But Lady Whitelock is known for her eye for design. I’m glad Charlotte had the sense to bow to her advice, though I suppose it cost you a packet. I don’t know another bride of the ton whose father has done less to launch his daughter. You’ve had to pick up the bills every step of the way.”

  “Madam, you know I don’t mind. It pleases me to provide for my wife.” And it did. Mostly because she seemed to expect so little and take such joy in the process.

  “Take care she doesn’t put all of us into the poorhouse. You should give her an allowance and see that she sticks to it, just as your father did for me.” Flick, flap, flutter. Her curls stirred beside her cheeks.

  “Perhaps you would care to have some cake? Get off your feet for a while? It’s been a long day.” How Marcus missed Sophie. If his sister hadn’t been called back to Oxfordshire to attend Mrs. Richardson, she could have taken their mother off his hands. He motioned to one of the footmen who stood around the perimeter of the room, ready to serve. “Please see that Her Grace has some refreshments and a quiet place to sit.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  She moved away, still rumpled in spirit, and Marcus tugged his lower lip. Sometimes the commandment to honor his parent was the one he found most challenging.

  “She’s not going to disappear, you know.” Evan handed him a glass of champagne.

  “What?” Marcus took the glass, but he didn’t drink it. He didn’t like champagne. He knew his mother wasn’t going to disappear, though sometimes he wished she would. No, that wasn’t true. He didn’t want her to disappear. He wanted her to let him have some peace.

  “Charlotte. You’re staring at her like a starving man. She’s not going to evaporate. She’ll still be here when all the guests leave.” Evan grinned. “Not that I blame you. I highly recommend the married state. It does a man good. You’ll see.”

  Ah, not his mother. Charlotte.

  “You’re still so besotted by your own wife, you think every married man should feel the same.” He turned to give Evan his attention, just to prove he wasn’t obsessing about his new bride.

  Evan’s eyes found Diana, and his features softened. “Every man should be as blessed as me when it comes to his bride. She really is my better half, and much more than I deserve. I only hope you and Charlotte are half as happy.”

  Marcus shrugged, his jacket feeling tight. “We’ll get along all right together. There’s no need to get sentimental or soft headed about it. I’ll look after her, provide for her needs and her comforts, and she’ll run my household and provide me with an heir or two somewhere down the road. Otherwise, we’ll keep to ourselves. I won’t interfere with her duties, and she won’t interfere with mine.”

  His friend frowned. “What about love? Didn’t you promise to love your wife today?”

  Spelling it out patiently, so Evan would understand, he said, “Yes, of course. But not a daft, sentimental sort of love that makes a man weak and unfocused. The love I promised today is the kind that protects and provides for a woman. It’s rational. Charlotte understands this. She’s neither sentimental nor moonstruck. I don’t expect that marriage will affect my life all that much. I will have my position, the estates, and other work to keep me occupied, and Charlotte will have the running of the house and eventually children, if God should bless us with any, to keep her busy. I assure you I will not lose my head or allow it to be filled with romantic thoughts and fancies. I will have a settled, controlled, tidy life.” My life and the lives of others depend upon my ability to separate emotion from reality.

  “I wonder if you realize how idiotic you sound right now. Especially after that kiss in the church today. I thought I was going to have to call the fire brigade. If that is you not really caring, when you fall well and
truly in love, you might burn the house down. I pray that someday you realize the folly of your thoughts. If not, you’ll miss out on the best of life. And you’ll cause Charlotte to miss it too.” Evan stared into his glass, face sad. “You speak as if romantic love turns a man into a milksop.”

  Sentiment and distraction have no place in a spy’s life. But he couldn’t exactly tell Evan that. Why couldn’t his friend see that a logical approach was the best? That he had to keep things separate and orderly in his life? He had too many responsibilities to let emotions bleed over and blur the lines. “I have the best of life—as much as I want, anyway—and I like to keep things tidy. A wife is only one aspect of a man’s life, and he can and should keep it separate from the rest. I can be a married man and still maintain my freedom in other aspects. Charlotte will suit me fine. There when I need her and capable of being autonomous when I don’t.” Such as if his boss needed him to pick up and go on a mission at a moment’s notice. He couldn’t be entangled with thoughts of hearth and home and still maintain a clear head for his work. How many fellow soldiers had he seen eating their hearts out for their wives and sweethearts, losing focus and paying a terrible price for that lack of concentration during a battle? “A man shouldn’t let himself be shackled in mind and body just because he’s married.”

  A soft gasp behind him had him turning.

  He looked into Charlotte’s eyes, seeing at once the confusion and … hurt there.

  I can be a married man and still maintain my freedom in other aspects. Charlotte will suit me fine. There when I need her and capable of being autonomous when I don’t. Charlotte sat before an honest-to-goodness dressing table in her new bedchamber, studying her reflection in the candlelight.

  She wore a beautiful nightgown and wrapper, all lace and white muslin, bridal and virginal. She was supposed to be anticipatory and hopeful.

  But she wasn’t.

  She didn’t know if she was sad or angry. She wasn’t mourning the loss of a great love. Theirs wasn’t a love match. But it hurt to know Marcus thought of her so … coldly. She ticked a box, filled a requirement, nothing more. He would go forward without becoming entangled emotionally. She was only one aspect of his life, a necessity of his position. But he had made it clear to his friend that he intended to maintain his freedom. Freedom to do what?

  Had her mother been right all along? That men couldn’t form lasting attachments, be true to their wives?

  Would he even come to her room tonight? She glanced at the door, the first of three that separated her sleeping chamber from his.

  Did she want him to?

  If he felt that she, or any wife, could be relegated to the margins of his life, why would he bother consummating their marriage? Or bring any emotion to the union? Would his cold-blooded approach continue into the consummation of their vows?

  A man shouldn’t let himself be shackled in mind and body just because he’s married.

  Was that really how he saw marriage? As being shackled, mind and body?

  Of course there was one more requirement. The getting of an heir.

  Would the act of love be just another job for him?

  Rain pinged against the windowpanes, and she shivered.

  What did you expect? By now you should know better than to think that anything good would come your way or last more than a moment. God may be the giver of good gifts for some, but not for you.

  She glanced once more at her reflection. She had been playing a part today, though she hadn’t known it. And so had he. She was his duchess for a day. Tomorrow, she would be … his obligation to provide for and protect. The vessel for producing an heir. The showpiece when he needed to appear in public with a wife. Nothing more.

  Charlotte had not expected to feel so lonely in her marriage. She had thought that getting married would put an end to her solitude.

  With a scowl, she blew out the candles on the dressing table, slipped from her wrapper, and climbed the small set of stairs to the bed. She immediately sank into a foot of feathers, head cradled by lush pillows such as she’d never experienced before. Struggling upright, she punched and poked the mattress. Was it pure eiderdown? Nothing like her Spartan bedroom in her father’s house.

  At least if she was going to be a footnote in her husband’s life, she would be a pampered one.

  Reaching for her Greek history on the bedside table, she arranged the pillows against the upholstered headboard. She held the book to her nose, inhaling the scents of paper and ink and leather, hoping to comfort herself and drop into the pages to forget the rest of the world. She still marveled that Marcus would have paid such attention and given her a gift she would treasure above jewelry or flowers or chocolates, yet be so obtuse when it came to her expectations of their relationship. Though she’d never voiced her expectations for their relationship. Was it right for her to be upset that his didn’t align with hers?

  “You really shouldn’t be sad. It isn’t as if you’re surprised, or that you’re in love with him, or even wanting to be in love with him. Stop being so silly. Accept the way things are, the way he wants them, the way you want them, and read your book.”

  Still, it was one thing to tell yourself you didn’t want a grand romance and another thing altogether to know that it wasn’t even within the realm of possibility.

  She opened the book to the flyleaf, and her eyes fell on an inscription.

  To Charlotte Tiptree, from her friend Marcus Haverly, February 1814.

  Was that all they were destined to be? Friends, though married?

  She shrugged her shoulders deeper into the pillows and turned the page, ready to forget about the world for a while.

  Before she had read half a paragraph, there was a tap on her door and her husband entered her bedroom.

  Her skin tingled, and her heart thudded in her ears.

  He had come.

  He wore a dressing gown, and his hair hung loose about his shoulders. Effortlessly he held her gaze as he closed the door and crossed the room on silent feet. Without a word, he sat on the side of the bed, gently removed the book from her now icy fingers, and set it on the bedside table.

  Forcing herself to take slow breaths, she looked into his blue-gray eyes. His manner exuded calm.

  But his eyes were quite intense, belying everything he’d said to Lord Whitelock.

  And in an instant she was back at St. George’s in front of all the wedding guests, locked in his embrace, experiencing his kiss, his passion for her. That meant something. Didn’t it? Heat surged through her blood, and her mouth went dry.

  Where was her banter, her wit? She could think of nothing clever to say even if she could have formed the words.

  Slowly, his hand came up, and he trailed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. She remained perfectly still, though heat and flashes of lightning arced across her skin.

  “You did well today. I’m proud of you. I’ve never seen a more beautiful bride.” He found the end of the braid where it lay on her shoulder, and slowly he pulled the ribbon tie loose.

  He thought her beautiful. He was the second man in all her life to say so.

  If he thought her beautiful, if he was proud of her, then perhaps she’d misheard or misunderstood his words at the reception. Were they merely the banter of one man with another? Not meant to hurt, because they weren’t meant to be taken seriously? He’d sounded serious.

  He gently freed her hair, winding his fingers into her curls, all the while holding her gaze. When her hair lay unbound around her shoulders, he drew her into his embrace. She decided to leave her worries about what he might have meant until another time. She had other more important things to think about at the moment.

  CHAPTER 10

  THOUGH ONLY MARRIED a week, Charlotte felt the dowager duchess had been her mother-in-law for a prisoner’s lifetime. Nothing pleased the woman. In that respect, she was quite akin to Aunt Philomena. Charlotte had held her tongue, smiled, accommodated, and nearly done herself an injury keeping her t
houghts inside in an effort not to cause trouble so soon in her married life.

  Charlotte closed her eyes, holding on to her temper. “Lord, help me.” She whispered the prayer aloud.

  “What did you say? Stop mumbling. One would think you had no lessons in deportment.” The dowager duchess’s lips twitched, petulance distorting her features.

  Cilla, her new sister-in-law, made a face behind their mother-in-law’s back, and Charlotte burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. Cilla, the picture of deportment and the model of rectitude constantly being held up to Charlotte as the epitome of what she should aspire to be, had a roguish streak?

  “Really, you are so flighty, Charlotte.” The dowager shook her head, sorting through calling cards. “When will you learn to curb yourself? Now, here are the calls we are going to make today. And for the sake of my sanity and reputation, please do not open your mouth while we’re at Lady Covington’s. I nearly expired when she called here yesterday, and you said she would do well to allow—even to encourage—her daughters to read the newspaper and learn something of the world around them. Ridiculous. I’m surprised Marcus gives you the liberty. Why on earth you would even want access to his library and the dailies is beyond me. Nothing good will come of reading the newspaper. Salacious gossip, or worse, politics and mayhem. That’s all they report. So much of it is well beyond a woman’s ability to comprehend anyway, though you might like to pretend you grasp it.”

  “Madam.” Charlotte had taken to using Marcus’s term for addressing his mother. “I will not be making calls with you today. I have other errands to run. As for what they print in the paper, if you do not read them, how would you know what they contain? You’re quite intelligent enough to comprehend the articles if you cared to, and how can it be a bad thing for women to understand what is taking place in their city, their Parliament, and the war in which their country is currently engaged?”