The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

by Virginia Heath

  Seb kept half an ear on the goings on behind him, testing each door to see where it led as he moved methodically along the dim hallway. He made a mental note of what was behind each door, comparing them to the map in his hand. The first two were linen closets. The third opened on to a passageway leading to the already noisy drawing room, which in turn had French doors which led out to the garden, meaning it also sat directly under Gem’s room two floors above. Was she still in it? Was her maid using irons to curl her beautiful hair into submission before dinner? Unhelpful images of her lounging naked in a bathtub suddenly filled his mind and he banished them with a ruthless shake of his head. Not now. Later, when he was all alone on the dark Sussex Downs watching the water, he would allow those illicit, futile thoughts to creep back in to break the monotony. Until then, he had to remember his mission.

  The last door took him up a staircase to another dark corridor where every door led on to a bedchamber. Seb listened carefully for sounds of maids or valets before daring to crack each door open and take inventory of the room beyond to work out which guest was where. Gray had pencilled in a few names, but most were irritatingly blank.

  In one, he recognised the garish mustard waistcoat Regis had worn the night before, next to that in a similarly appointed room were a pair of tasselled Hessians exactly like the ones favoured by Lord Gaines. A significantly larger and sumptuous room a few doors down was Westbridge’s. Because of his elevated status, the windbag had been given the best room in the house. The opulent selection of waistcoats laid out in readiness on the enormous four-poster bed and ostentatious jewelled cravat pins tossed idly on the dressing table could only belong to Gem’s dandy. Because he couldn’t help himself, Seb slipped into that room and took a proper look round.

  Idly, he picked up the sleeve of a shirt and glared at the deep lace cuff. Seb had never worn lace—in fact, he had noisily drawn the line at lace when his new wardrobe had been delivered and consigned those offending garments to a heap on the floor, but now that he knew Gem liked a man in lace, then perhaps... With a groan he dropped the sleeve and shook his head. Prancing around like a fop was not his style, any more than illegitimate farmers from Norfolk were hers, and besides, he wouldn’t give Gray the satisfaction of seeing him relent on the lace. Not when his subordinate was already teasing him mercilessly about his lady love.

  Seb slipped silently out of the door and then spied into the next. This room was as grand as Westbridge’s although Seb could see no signs of occupancy. The bed was made. There were fresh flowers on the windowsill, but not a single personal belonging could be found. Then he noticed the open window where the maids must have opened it to air the bedchamber and realised that Penhurst must be expecting another high-ranking peer—or business associate—who had yet to materialise. For a moment he allowed himself to feel peeved at not being in a room in the same wing as the honoured guests, the true, blue-blooded aristocrats, then shook his head at the absurd turn his thoughts were taking. It was ridiculous to feel slighted when he had a job to do. Just as well. Thanks to Gem’s distinct lack of enthusiasm for his kiss, Seb was peeved enough already. Lying on his bed knowing she was nearby would send him mad with longing.

  He took the narrow stairs two at a time up to the third floor. Her floor. It was also the family floor. He could hear Penhurst’s valet moving around in his room, so tiptoed past to his wife’s which was as silent as the grave. Separate bedchambers. Formal and cold.

  A damning indictment on the way society marriages worked. Distant and depressing. In many ways it reminded him of his mother’s life before his father had died. She had occupied her time with needlework and novels, confined to the hunting lodge while she waited for the man who kept her to appear and make one of his rare and unannounced visits. The man she had loved, but who had not loved her back. She had come to life then, so pathetically grateful for the few crumbs he had thrown her, playing house with a man who only came to slake his lust. Obviously the life of the wives was no better than the mistresses. Both were merely chattels to great men like Penhurst. Insignificant.

  Why have a wife you didn’t want to wake up with? Having seen firsthand how being both used and ignored chipped away at a woman’s soul, Seb had always promised himself he would be a good husband if the time came. He wouldn’t settle for anything other than the sort of loving union his grandparents had enjoyed. Even in their dotage, his grandfather and grandmother had worked alongside one another, slept in the same bed, shared their meals, their laughter and even their demise together. The impersonal marriages of the aristocracy held no appeal to him. But they did to Gem, probably because she knew no different. Upbringing again. So very different from his lowly origins.

  Enough! Seb needed to stop conjuring futile images of them together. He sincerely doubted she suffered from the same misguided malaise and he would not be perennially hopeful like his mother or settle for crumbs.

  Yet still he paused outside her door and angrily shook his head at his body’s instant reaction to the lingering scent of her perfume. Like that perfume, Gem was nothing more than a transient waft of fragrance in his life. Soon he would move on to the next mission and she would have her own private rooms in her Duke’s fancy house. It wouldn’t make her happy. Westbridge would be as pompous and unfeeling a husband as he was a suitor and within a year or two of their marriage she would begin to resemble poor Penny.

  All very sad. But inevitable.

  Not that he would make her happier if fate miraculously made her his wife. Marrying so far beneath her would only serve to make Gem more miserable than being a duchess ever would. With him, she’d be ostracised from the society that adored her and doomed to living the rest of her days observing all she’d once had from the periphery...

  Damn and blast! Why did his thoughts keep wandering to the unattainable? Seb had eked out a good life for himself against all the odds. He worked for the Crown. He was respected by his peers. He was solvent and blessedly not beholden to anyone for anything. Instead of wanting more, he should be thankful. Going forward, he would be thankful and certainly wouldn’t entertain the pointless yearning any longer. It was just a kiss, for pity’s sake! One that she had already forgotten.

  The distant chime of the clock reminded him of time. Retracing his steps, he wearily accepted his fate, pasting on Lord Millcroft’s cocky aloofness as he strode into the hall once more only to see the woman who haunted his dreams stood anxiously outside the drawing room. Waiting.

  His stupid heart hoped it was for him.

  * * *

  ‘What have I missed?’

  The intimate whisper behind her caused goosebumps to erupt all over her body. And a blush. Because she had been thinking about him, alongside worrying and trying to decipher the crumbled missive in her hand. The relief at seeing him safe and sound was palpable. ‘Where have you been?’

  He motioned to one of the servants’ doors with his head. ‘In the bowels. Poking around.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Nothing incendiary. The cellars are guarded, but then I expected as much. I know my way around now though, which will make the coming days and nights much easier.’ He was staring off into the distance in that quiet, assessing way he had, mentally ticking off all those present in the busy drawing room. She watched his jaw harden as Westbridge turned and eyed them from his position in the room beyond. Seb met his glare dead on. It had the most splendid effect on her Duke. Immediately he went from indifferent to jealous, the persistent Lady Olivia completely forgotten. To see if steam might shoot from the Duke’s ears, and because she simply had to touch him, Clarissa threaded her arm possessively through Seb’s and led him further into the hallway out of sight.

  Once again her nerve endings came alive at the innocent contact. ‘I found this. It was delivered to Penhurst less than ten minutes ago.’ Although every minute had felt like an hour. ‘He threw it in the fire.’ She pressed the note into his
hand. She had given up trying laboriously to read it because the words made no sense.

  ‘It’s from Jessamine!’ A name that seemed to excite him. Then he frowned. ‘“Espérance de Dieu”.’

  As Seb read with an impeccably convincing accent, she recognised the words to be French, but was still clueless.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Espérance de Dieu—well, that literally translates to Hope of God, I believe.’

  ‘That’s it? That doesn’t even make sense.’

  ‘It does to someone.’

  ‘I suspect it did to Penhurst.’ Clarissa relayed the pertinent parts of the overheard conversation twice while he grilled her on the details. Like Seb, Clarissa believed the message and the subsequent message back hinted at the imminent but unexpected arrival of the smugglers. When she had finished he reread the note in frustration as he paced towards a candelabrum and held it just above the flame while he scrutinised it.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Certain invisible inks appear with heat.’

  Invisible inks? What a bizarre world he lived in. Curious, Clarissa huddled close and bent her head to watch, immediately becoming distracted by the heady smell that was uniquely Seb. Soap, fresh air and excitement. He was somehow more attractive when he was all the dashing spy. The intensity of his stare as he considered the note, the hard set of his jaw, the way he tapped the missive impatiently against his open palm as he chewed his bottom lip. Lips she wanted to kiss again, just to be sure that last kiss wasn’t a fluke and that he did have the capacity to make her melt.

  After a minute he huffed when nothing materialised and began to pace again. ‘Hope of God? It must be a code of some sort. The last message we intercepted from Jessamine was in code. Maybe the letters correspond to a cypher—but without a key it could take for ever to crack it. Or perhaps it’s an anagram?’

  ‘Or simply the name of a ship.’ Although that was probably far too simple. Not in a world where invisible inks were commonplace. His mind was like a steel trap, used to solving the most difficult puzzles and hers was...well, frankly substandard. Clarissa couldn’t even focus on letters or numbers on a page without them jumbling and spinning. Or concentrate long enough on the problem in hand because her flighty mind was having grossly improper ideas involving his mouth.

  He stopped pacing instantly and stared at her. ‘You might have it! Espérance de Dieu certainly sounds ship-like to me and our viscount is arrogant and ignorant enough to believe he is untouchable. In which case, why bother trying to hide it? You said he blithely tossed it in the fireplace without a backward glance.’

  ‘Surely that is too simplistic. What if one of the servants saw it and retrieved it just as I did, then gossiped about it? He wouldn’t take the risk of throwing it away so carelessly.’

  ‘Have you not seen the servants?’

  Now that he came to mention it, they were a dour bunch. The night footmen were menacing, the butler a lurking despot and the maids were afraid of their own shadows. Maybe they didn’t dare gossip. ‘What if Penny stumbled across it?’

  ‘Penny is as downtrodden, perhaps more so, than the staff. Besides, we know about the smuggling so are immediately suspicious. If she doesn’t, then this letter is nonsense.’

  ‘I suppose...’

  ‘There is no suppose about it, Gem. You’re a genius!’ His boyish grin combined with the nicest comment she had ever had did peculiar things to her insides. Nobody had ever praised her intellect before. Not once. ‘Sometimes I overcomplicate things when the simplest solution is staring me right in the face. I’ll bet it’s a ship. A merchant ship. The Boss does like to hide in plain sight. The Excise Men should be able to tell us if the Espérance de Dieu is indeed a boat. I’ll set my men on it later tonight when I see them.’

  ‘You are still going out? Can’t your valet pass on the message before the house is locked up?’

  ‘The smugglers might arrive tonight.’

  ‘No they won’t. Penhurst said it didn’t affect their plans for this evening.’

  Clarissa didn’t like the idea of him risking discovery by sneaking out when it was unnecessary, or at all if she was honest. Dealing with Penhurst’s guards or, heaven forbid, smugglers alone didn’t bear thinking about. Not when he was the sort of man who threw himself in front of bullets and she was becoming rather attached to him. Perhaps even a tad besotted. Since that fateful kiss, she had floated around on a sensual cloud daydreaming. ‘It hardly seems likely anything will occur with them gone all night. Nor would they dare have a shipment of illegal brandy delivered while he has a house full of guests.’

  He turned to her then, all serious, and her heart did a little dance in her chest. ‘I sincerely doubt he would turn down profit. I am of the firm belief it will be business as usual. Besides, he also instructed the butler to reply with they will be waiting. I’ll wager he never gets his hands dirty unloading his ill-gotten gains. If there is a tunnel leading to the cellar, then he would definitely feel no compunction to curtail them. Not when the demand for that brandy outstrips supply and the guests in the house would remain completely ignorant of what was going on beneath their feet.’ His long legs were already striding to the stairs. ‘Make my apologies to our hostess, I might be a few minutes late to dinner while I share all this with Gray. We’ll be availing ourselves of your window later.’

  ‘But it is dangerous!’ Clarissa’s insides were already taut with worry.

  He shrugged as if it was no matter. ‘I’m a spy. We thrive on danger.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clarissa returned listlessly to her chair with the wives, trying to appear composed, but failing miserably. How could she sound excited about riding tomorrow when Seb was putting himself in harm’s way tonight? Damn Penhurst to hell! At the unladylike thought, her eyes came to rest on him coldly. He was stood smiling smugly with his awful friends, the three looking exceptionally pleased with themselves as they listened to Westbridge who was still holding court by the fireplace.

  ‘I see you are staring longingly at Westbridge.’ The interruption made her jump. ‘He cuts such a fine figure, doesn’t he?’ Lady Oliva offered her a brittle smile and sat determinedly in the chair next to hers.

  It was then Clarissa felt the magnetic pull and just knew he had returned. The room felt warmer. Her eyes drifted to Seb of their own accord and she found herself smiling at his Lord Millcroft persona as he greeted some guests in that imaginary lord’s customary arrogant fashion. ‘Yes, he does. A very fine figure.’ The way Seb’s shoulders filled out his black evening coat was really quite something. Although he wore a bandage better...

  ‘We shall be seated next to each other at dinner. I am very much looking forward to it. His Grace is excellent company.’

  Gracious—they were supposed to be discussing the same man and Clarissa had momentarily forgotten her Duke once again because Seb was occupying her thoughts. Foolishly, she was giving the horrid Olivia the upper hand. ‘Yes, indeed. Dear Albert is very diverting.’ No, he wasn’t, but it would serve the young usurper right to think that she was missing something.

  ‘This morning we took a turn around the gardens together.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Good Lord, how had Clarissa missed that?

  ‘Yes, indeed. We have been spending a great deal of time in one another’s company since we arrived here in Sussex.’

  ‘Have you? I haven’t noticed.’ A staggering truth, yet the truth none the less. At this rate, she would have lost the game through her own negligence. It was all well and good being caught up in Seb’s mission, but Clarissa had come here with her own. One that was rapidly receding into the mist and which she couldn’t appear to muster the energy to retrieve.

  ‘It has been wonderful getting to know him on a deeper level.’

  What did that mean? ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘May I confide
in you, Lady Clarissa?’ The girl had a calculated gleam in her eyes.

  ‘Of course you may.’ Jealousy warred with the overwhelming urge to check on Seb, She could sense him close by. It took a great deal of resolve to stare into her rival’s eyes and smile.

  ‘His Grace has implied that he is fond of me.’

  Implied? Not a declaration, then. But a worry. Yet another worry when her aching head was full of them. ‘Let me guess—he has complimented your beauty?’ One of the few things Westbridge ever noticed about a woman.

  Lady Olivia pretended to look coy, as if she found such compliments outrageous. ‘Not just my beauty, but my grace and innate sense of style.’

  The usual, then. ‘Try not to read too much into it. Dear Albert does tend to flatter the ladies.’ Clarissa took a casual sip of her ratafia and acted bored. Tomorrow, she would get up early, have her maid arrange her hair in a very becoming style and squeeze her into one of her specially made new gowns. Gowns which had been copied from the latest Parisienne fashion plates and the most vibrant un-debutante-like silks. They would swiftly remind Westbridge who was the true Incomparable.

  If she could miraculously muster the energy.

  ‘It is funny that you mention reading—we have discovered a mutual love of the poems of Lord Byron. He has specifically asked me to read some after dinner.’

  Clarissa’s heart plummeted to her toes just as Westbridge turned towards them. His eyes darted between the pair of them as if he wasn’t entirely sure where to look before he hastily turned back to the gentlemen. A telling omen if ever there was one. Her Duke was torn. Her nerves were frazzled. Her old friend and her spy were in jeopardy and she couldn’t memorise an entire Byron poem in an evening at such short notice. Such things usually took days to fake. The best Clarissa could muster on the back foot was a particularly salacious passage from Mrs Radcliffe’s The Romance of the Forest which had been exciting in the extreme and filled with derring-do. That dog-eared favourite novel was hardly of the elevated literary genius of the fêted Byron. Reciting it would make her appear shallow—which of course she was. Olivia had won another round before it had started, making Clarissa’s long-hoped-for future less secure. Every day the ground beneath her feet seemed to get less certain. First her Duke and then the revelations about Penhurst, poor Penny...