The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

by Virginia Heath

  ‘Splendid. You can begin explaining yourself the moment we reach the floor.’

  Seb held out his arm and she laid hers upon it, the odd sensation her touch created joined all the other unwelcome and swirling emotions currently cluttering his mind and putting him off his game. Fear, awkwardness, determination, sprinkled with a touch of jealousy and a generous pinch of wholly inappropriate lust. How the hell was he supposed to do his job with all that going on? She twirled gracefully to face him and curtsied and he just about remembered to bow, then he slid his farmer’s hand around her waist and instantly felt hot.

  All at sea.

  Her significantly smaller palm slipped into his and she gazed up at him, smiling. Or at least her mouth was smiling. Those fine eyes of hers were shooting poison darts. Even so, his poor heart began to race and his mouth became dry, so dry he feared he’d be unable to speak should he attempt to. He began to silently count the beat in his head—one, two, three...one, two three—as they began to move in the hope that it would calm him.

  ‘Which are you—a Leatham or a Millcroft?’ Straight to the point. No nonsense. No time to pause and think. Seb missed a step as he considered lying, then thought better of it. Gem was a sharp one and because she knew some of the truth, he would undoubtedly make a huge hash of it.

  ‘Leatham. You know I am a Leatham. But for the foreseeable future I must be Millcroft.’ Whispering and counting was a challenge, too. There was absolutely no chance of achieving anything vaguely resembling calm within. He was simultaneously hot and cold. Terrified and overwhelmed. All the people, petticoats and the oppressive heat of the dance floor seemed to be closing in on him. Fennimore should never have put him in this position. Less than half an hour in and the stench of failure hung putrid in the air. He could barely dance and the scant bit of socialising he had done already, combined with the presence of the distracting woman in his arms, was giving him palpitations.

  ‘I am not in the mood for mysterious! What is going on?’

  ‘Trust me when I tell you it’s probably best if you don’t know.’

  ‘Yet you expect me to allow you to perpetrate this falsehood in front of my friends! To what end?’

  ‘It is a matter of national importance.’

  ‘Really? Do I look as though I was born yesterday?’

  She looked beautiful. Smelled beautiful. If he’d known how to flirt Seb would have told her so. Instead he manoeuvred them clumsily towards an alcove, then dragged her by the arm behind a potted palm. For several long moments she stood waiting, her arms crossed bossily over her chest and her scarlet-shod foot tapping impatiently while Seb breathed deeply, considering all his options.

  Pretty soon he realised they all boiled down to one. Either she trusted him or she didn’t. If she didn’t, he was doomed anyway. If by some miracle she did, then it would only come about with the truth—or at least as much of the truth as he dared tell her without compromising the rest of the investigation.

  ‘I work for his Majesty’s government. With both the Home and Foreign Office. I am covertly investigating a dangerous smuggling ring which has infiltrated the highest echelons of society. They are a dangerous gang, with significant resources. Many men have died already trying to infiltrate their ranks, so I must insist that you cannot breathe a word of what I am telling you to anyone.’

  ‘Covert?’ She blinked and moved her face closer to his. ‘Are you telling me you are a spy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘Why do you think I got shot saving that school mistress? Do you think such things happen in everyday life? The man who fired the bullet was one of the smugglers!’

  Her mouth opened, then promptly closed again as she considered the validity of his claim. ‘You’re a spy?’ This time she sounded less dismissive, her gaze boring into his searching for the truth.

  ‘I am one of the King’s Elite.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of such an organisation!’

  ‘Precisely. That’s because we operate under the utmost secrecy. But I can assure you we exist. Lord Upminster works at the Foreign Office—he can corroborate my story should you require it—but I am begging you to keep my true identity a secret from your friends. It really is a matter of national importance.’

  Forgetting her usually impeccable posture, she leaned her back against the enormous mock-Grecian pot and shook her head. ‘I really can’t take it in. You are suddenly a spy, as well as a duke’s son and a poultry farmer?’

  ‘Hardly suddenly. I’ve been one for several years.’ Seven to be precise. ‘And it was my grandfather who was the poultry farmer. I was recruited straight out of Cambridge because my superior noticed I had a talent for blending in.’

  ‘Blending in. Here?’ Her eyes travelled the length of him, taking in the fine clothes, the diamond cravat pin, then focused on his face. They both knew the exterior was merely window dressing and that the blood that pumped through his veins was more red than blue. ‘But you professed to be shy.’

  There was no point in denying it, not since he had already confessed as much, although he was still horrified that he had also drunkenly enlightened her to the sad truth of his sporadic and dismal love life coupled with his inability to flirt! What a prize-winning, pathetic fool he must have sounded. ‘Normally I work in the background, but with Jake on his honeymoon I’ve been drafted very much into the fore. Against my will, I might add.’ Why Seb felt the need to add that he wasn’t certain, but for some reason his mind kept wandering back to the girl in the multicoloured hair rags and jam stains on her nightdress that he had been happily confessing all to. Perhaps because he found that incarnation less intimidating than the sophisticated society lady in front of him. Or perhaps it was because Gem was the closest thing to a safe harbour he had in the uncharted waters of society and he was grateful he had a friend. Not that he knew she was a friend yet.

  ‘Jake Warriner? Brother to my sister’s husband? He’s a spy, too?’ Before he answered she shook her head again. ‘I suppose it makes sense. You were both there that day—and it was his bullet that killed your assailant... Good gracious. It never occurred to me.’ The expression of awe and wonder swiftly changed to a frown as the cogs in her clever mind began to turn. ‘The highest echelons? You suspect someone here of being part of this dangerous gang? Who?’

  Your paramour’s old schoolfriend—not that Seb could tell her that part if he wanted her silence. ‘At this time, I have no certain idea of his identity. As Lord Millcroft, I hope to find out—although I’m hardly lord material. Why my superior sent me on this mission is a mystery. This is not my world...’ What had possessed him to admit to that? And to her? ‘I can never find the right words at the best of times. Here I fear I am doomed.’ Good grief—why did the damning words suddenly keep coming? Yet more seemed to be lining up behind, condemning him to further cloddishness in front of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And all apparently without the excuse of bullet wounds and brandy because in his mind was the girl in rags, the one he miraculously felt like himself with. ‘I shall say the wrong thing or, worse, not say anything at all. As usual. And everyone here will realise I am a fraud just as you do. I should be guarding something or sneaking around somewhere. Listening and watching. Two things I am exceedingly good at. What I am not good at is...this!’ He gestured to his evening clothes and then the whole ballroom. ‘But my purpose here genuinely is a matter of national importance, a mission I was entrusted with and I am single-handedly about to ruin it with my woeful social skills. Months of hard work, the lives of many good men, all wasted while I fail abysmally at being a lord. I have never felt so out of my depth before.’ Seb’s stupid heart was racing again and a cold trickle of sweat was making its way down his spine. Less than one hour in, his plan was shot to pieces and for the first time in his long and successful career with the King’s Elite, failure seemed inevitable.

&
nbsp; Her face softened and she touched his arm. Seb felt the affectionate gesture all the way down to his toes. ‘Don’t worry. You didn’t seem out of your depth in the slightest. Truth be told, had I not known you were the shy Mr Leatham from Norfolk, I would have been none the wiser. You seemed supremely confident and added just the right splash of aloofness to give the intriguing Millcroft exciting gravitas. You also look the part. Very debonair and handsome. Dashing even. For a fraud, you play a lord very well.’

  Dashing? Handsome? Him? ‘Hardly. Have you not seen the scar?’

  ‘I have.’ He stiffened as she reached out her hand and traced one finger down its ugly length. ‘It gives you an air of the dangerous. The ladies love a dangerous fellow. Didn’t you see them all watching you? Wondering in what exciting and adventurous circumstances you acquired it?’ Her hand dropped and she smiled. ‘How did you get it, by the way? Seeing as we both know you’ve never set foot in the Antipodes.’

  ‘An accident.’ Seb had accidentally assumed his half-brother had a heart and a conscience, but like his father before him and all persons of his ilk he considered the low-born disposable. ‘Caused by my own stupidity. Nothing exciting or adventurous in the slightest.’

  ‘Well, I like it. You wouldn’t be half as handsome without it.’

  Lost for an appropriate response which wouldn’t start him blushing, Seb avoided her eyes and, in doing so, in his peripheral vision he saw her Duke skirting the edge of the dance floor, clearly searching for her now that the waltz was done. He tugged her further into the alcove. ‘Westbridge is looking for you.’

  ‘He is?’ The information seemed to please her, but royally ruined the tender moment they had just shared, cruelly reminding him that for all her compliments she had her eyes on another man. One in possession of a real and grand title, whose blood ran as blue as the Nile. She glanced over Seb’s shoulder with a calculated smile. ‘I can’t see him. How can you be sure?’

  ‘Because I’m a spy. We all have eyes in the back of our heads.’

  She giggled without her usual practised artifice, the intimate and earthy sound doing unmentionable things to his unmentionables. ‘Then I shall let him miss me for a few minutes. I dare say a bit of jealousy will do him good.’ She could now see the Duke and watched his frantic search with amusement for several long moments. She was still smiling smugly when her gaze returned triumphantly to Seb. It grated. ‘Mr Leatham, I have suddenly had a positively brilliant idea...’

  Chapter Six

  Clarissa was still patting herself on the back two days later. Proposing she and Seb should team up had been a masterstroke of pure genius because it served two purposes. Firstly, with her on his arm in the crowded ballroom she consoled herself that his short crisis of confidence was banished away. He was immediately accepted by a great many there because they all knew Clarissa had exceptional taste in people as well as everything else. Next to her, he practised the ever-so-slightly aloof bemusement which suited him down to the ground. Where his society manner faltered, usually when surrounded by a great many curious ladies, she blithely filled in the silent void and openly confided to those eager women what a delicious and intriguing new gentleman he was.

  Her talent for story-telling meant his stark, fictional past was now brilliantly embellished with scintillating details. How he once accepted a challenge to race around the streets of Sydney in a cart because he was bored, outrunning a racing curricle with his superior driving skills. How he once sailed to the savage wilds of Tasmania on the hunt for the legendary ‘tiger’, travelled miles inland until he found a whole pack of them and then left them all gloriously alive because he only wanted to pet one. And her personal favourite, because on the first telling his cheeks had pinkened, how he was the most sought-after bachelor in the whole of New South Wales on account of both his impressive fortune and his scandalous reputation as a ladies’ man. Although, she had cautioned, giggling behind her fan as the women cast him questioning and flirtatious glances, to be bestowed with his favour was a very rare honour because he had grown quite particular. Well, it didn’t hurt to reinforce her own attractiveness whilst painting him the charming catch. That mysterious Lord Millcroft was a very discerning gentleman after all.

  For over an hour she had remained his companion, until he had been invited to join Penhurst in the card room. Watching him emerge near the end of the evening, standing tall and proud and quietly pleased with himself, gave Clarissa a huge sense of achievement. Aside from helping the British government in its quest to rid England of a gang of dangerous smugglers, which she couldn’t deny held tremendous appeal, it was warming to see him in his element. The casual way he had ensconced himself with the men of her circle, the subtle techniques he used to draw information out of them and the way he not only melded to become one of them, but also provided a stark yardstick for comparison, was fascinating. Against him, his raw physicality, excellent features and both his real and fictional achievements, Seb quite outshone all the other men. On more than one occasion, Clarissa had had to remind herself to glance at Westbridge, whom she had quite forgotten in Seb’s significantly more impressive shadow.

  Which, of course, did wonders for the second benefit of aligning herself with the enigmatic, new Lord Millcroft. Poor Westbridge was beside himself with jealousy! Even when Lady Olivia and her ambitious mother encircled him like ravenous vultures, her Duke watched Clarissa and Seb like a hawk. Only once Seb was safely dispatched to the gaming tables did she return to the Duke, just in time for their waltz. He had been both aggrieved and relieved, dancing so stiffly he might as well have had broom handles inserted down his sleeves and trouser legs. To further vex her Duke, because frankly he deserved it, she danced with a faraway, wistful smile on her face. A smile meant solely for Lord Millcroft. Only part of which was truly forced. There was something about Seb that made her feel all warm inside.

  * * *

  The following morning, Clarissa had awoken to two bouquets. A huge and satisfying basket of crimson roses from Westbridge and a charming bunch of pale-pink peonies and forget-me-nots from Seb, whose posy she much preferred because he had taken the trouble to handwrite the note. Like the man, the words were brief, and blessedly Clarissa was able to read them in less than a minute—which certainly made a change, boosted her confidence and significantly buoyed her mood further.

  Dear Gem,

  Thank you.

  S.

  The fact that he had chosen simple in-season cottage flowers from his own garden over showy, forced, ostentation said a great deal about the man. His flowers were more personal. He could very well have picked them himself. A detail she had happily shared with all and sundry on Rotten Row that same afternoon. As an added bonus, the symbolism of the forget-me-nots was not lost on anyone, meaning the gossip that the illustrious Duke of Westbridge had a rival spread like wildfire.

  Tonight, there would be more than Westbridge’s eyes following them and Clarissa couldn’t wait to get to the ballroom. A few more weeks of this and she would safely be hiding behind the title of duchess before August—unless her Duke combusted with jealousy beforehand and procured a special licence.

  ‘The Penhurst carriage is here, my lady.’

  Clarissa stood and gave her appearance one last look in the mirror. The sky blue was a statement. It matched those forget-me-nots on her nightstand and the single stem woven in her hair. The colour brightened her eyes and the tight bodice displayed just enough cleavage to suggest that she possessed more bosom than she actually owned, while the translucent layers of contrasting pale-blue and cobalt silk chiffon draped around the skirt gave the gown a graceful movement which would look marvellous as she danced. It went without saying that she would grant Seb the first waltz, something she was rather looking forward to, making Westbridge jealously wait for the second from the wings.

  Dancing with Seb had been...well, rather memorable actually. Beneath her fingers his broad fr
ame was as solid and impressive as it had seemed when encased in just a bandage. The soft press of his hand above her waist, his other engulfing hers, had made her feel delicate. His shy glances and adorable, honest awkwardness when they were alone in the alcove had made her feel special. Knowing his background and his true purpose made him much more exciting than anyone else in the crowded ballroom. All in all, Seb was thoroughly delightful.

  With a start, she realised she had butterflies in her stomach and her hands went to her midriff to calm them. As a young debutante, such nerves had been commonplace, but now in her fourth Season, she couldn’t remember the last time she had been so excited about attending a ball. No doubt, these were because she was making progress with her Duke. It felt good giving him a taste of his own medicine. However, assisting a dashing spy held a different appeal, especially as only she really knew Seb. The real man. The mysterious Lord Millcroft was appealing—but the tips of his ears didn’t blush nor did his eyes shyly dip after holding hers for any length of time. These were tiny truths which he only shared with her. And which apparently made those butterflies dance a jig. They continued to flap until she was seated in the carriage.

  ‘Will Lord Millcroft be in attendance tonight?’

  Surprised that Penhurst had bothered to ask her a question when he usually ignored her and Penny as they travelled, Clarissa forgot to be nonchalant. ‘Yes, he is. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason, other than the fact that he seems to have made quite the impression on people in such a short space of time. I noticed you spent a great deal of time conversing with him the other evening.’

  ‘He is an interesting gentleman.’

  ‘Wealthy, if the talk about him is to be believed. Keen to invest it, too.’ Penhurst was examining his nails as he said this, attempting to pass off the comments as small talk—but as he never made small talk with her, something about it didn’t sit right.