by Lucy Adams
“I do not understand,” he said. “What happened?”
Lord Watt stepped forward, clearly aware of everything that had occurred. “The book you discovered,” he began, reminding Charles of his most recent success. “It was written in French, was it not?”
“Of course,” Charles replied quickly, a small frown flickering between his brows. “You know that I did not study it for long, however. I gave it to Lord Southway almost at once.” He and Lord Southway had worked together to root out a small group of French spies, who were passing information to each other via a small black book that looked to be as normal as any other. The French spies had passed messages by writing in the book and then placing it in a bookshop, hidden at the very back behind some large, old, dusty tomes that no one would ever have even looked at. It had taken some time to discover it, and then even longer to capture those who were involved, for Charles had been quite certain that he himself was being watched by those who sought to protect the French spies. However, all had come to a swift conclusion. They had managed to capture all of the spies save one, and he had thereafter discovered the book and taken it with him whilst Lord Southway dealt with the spies themselves. Thereafter, however, they had found themselves in a little difficulty, for the one spy who had managed to escape from them then sought reinforcements, clearly determined to get the book back by any means necessary. Charles had decided to create a diversion and had given the book to Lord Southway, who had taken it to another gentleman, who—whilst not in The King’s League—was known to them and was trusted by them. He had then returned to help extricate Charles from his difficult situation.
“Lord Southway took it to Lord Riggerton,” Lord Watt said slowly. “And it was there that we first became aware of the difficulties presented by this book.”
Charles frowned heavily, not understanding the difficulty. “Lord Riggerton can surely read French!” he exclaimed, looking around the group. “That cannot have been the trouble.”
Lord Brandley nodded. “Indeed, it was not. It was discovered that, whilst that book did contain messages of some description, they are written in a form that we cannot understand.”
“So, there is a code of some sort?” Charles asked, sitting forward in his seat and looking directly at Lord Brandley. “That is the difficulty?”
“It was the difficulty,” Lord Brandley said softly. “Sir Taylor discovered the key to understanding the message. He attempted to get it to us but was found by those who were searching for the small piece of parchment that contained the written decipher. We do not know where the parchment has gone.”
Charles closed his eyes tightly, feeling as though the victory he had achieved in gaining and securing the book had now been snatched from him. “Do the French have it?” he asked, aware of the heavy silence that had fallen on them all. “Do they have the cipher, and now will they come searching for the book?” He opened his eyes to see the others shaking their heads, and a small stab of hope pierced his otherwise gloomy demeanor.
“Sir Taylor was discovered by Lord Hogarth, just as the last of his strength left him. When Lord Hogarth asked if the French had the cipher, Sir Taylor seemed to indicate that they did not.” He shrugged, which did not fill Charles with any more hope. “That may not have been what was intended to have been communicated, however,” he said carefully. “That may be a mistake.”
“We must hope that Sir Taylor had it sent somewhere,” Charles muttered, leaning forward and shoving one hand through his hair, before placing his elbow on his knee and his forehead resting against his hand. “If the French have it, then they will certainly come for the book.”
“They do not know all of our faces,” Lord Watt said quickly. “I know that you believe you may be under suspicion, but—as yet—there is no such worry over the rest of us.”
Charles grimaced and sat up, his jaw tight. “It is not worry that drives me, Lord Watt,” he replied tersely. “It is more the fact that the French may have something of grave importance, which is required if we are to understand the messages within the book.” He saw Lord Watt look away, clearly a little embarrassed. “There must be something we can do.” He looked about at each and every gentleman within the room and felt the weight of their silence growing steadily heavier. No one said a word. There was not, it seemed, any particular idea about what they ought to do next, or where they should look to find this cipher. Charles closed his eyes tightly, his jaw working in frustration. He had no particular idea either, and it was this that irritated him most of all.
“The book is safe,” he confirmed, seeing some of the other men nod. “Who has it at present?”
“Lord Riggerton still has it in his possession,” Lord Brandley said quickly, as though wanting to try and remove some of Charles’s displeasure. “He is, as you know, one of the most talented amongst us when it comes to trying to decipher things such as this.”
Nodding, Charles took a long sip of his brandy and tried to think clearly. “We must ensure that it is kept safe,” he said firmly. “And we must go about our business in the knowledge that the French spies in perhaps all of England will be searching for it. They will not want their private matters to be read by us, nor will they want us to know their plans and intentions.”
Lord Watt nodded. “Indeed. Lord Riggerton has it kept safely here in London, but it might be wise to move the book from place to place in order to confuse anyone watching.”
Charles nodded again. “Yes, indeed. Have Riggerton make copies of some of the pages so that he might work on them when the book itself has been moved.” He saw Lord Watt glance at another gentleman, who hurried to a writing desk and began to write the instructions that Charles was giving. “Then have someone sent to Sir Taylor’s residence under whatever guise you wish. Have them look for any sign of the cipher so that we can be quite certain he did not send it to his estate.”
The gentleman writing nodded and wrote this down also.
“Aside from that, I do not know what we can do,” Charles replied heavily. “We are here to engage in the Season as gentlemen usually do whilst ensuring that we go about the king’s business and search for those who do not belong.” He looked around the group and saw the solemn faces, knowing that each and every one of them had given all they could to this cause. The death of Sir Taylor had torn at them—it was clear to see—and he could find nothing reassuring to say. It might well be one of them the next time. It might even be Charles himself.
“We will continue the search, wherever we think we might look,” Lord Brandley said quietly. “Retrieve answers from those we capture. Seek out the truth from those who have hidden it for too long.” A new sense of purpose filled him as he looked all about the room, seeing how the other gentlemen lifted their heads, evidently feeling much the same as he. “We will discover the truth, gentlemen. We must. We defend this country and remove those who come here to harm us. We have succeeded before, and we shall succeed again for we are The King’s League—are we not?” Rising from his chair, he raised his glass of brandy. “For the king!”
“For the king!” The other gentlemen raised their glasses, with those seated getting to their feet hurriedly, an obvious sense of pride evident on each and every face. Charles nodded to each of them in turn, knowing that he had managed to remind each of them what their purpose was. They served the king, using their influence and their standing to ensure the safety of both the king and England. No matter what their enemies threw at them, Charles was certain that they would, in the end, achieve the victory.
And as Charles sat back down, seeing how Lord Brandley nodded his thanks, Charles allowed that sense of pride to fill his own soul. No matter what was to face them, no matter what it was that was yet to come, Charles was utterly determined that Sir Taylor’s death would not be in vain.
It felt very strange to go from a meeting of The King’s League to then a very fine ball, but Charles had become quite used to such a feeling, having done so for the last three Seasons. Being an earl, he was welcom
ed into a good many places and no one questioned why, as yet, he had not taken a wife. A gentleman could choose to wed whenever they pleased, whereas young ladies were expected to find a suitable gentleman very soon after making their debut. It worked entirely in his favor and suited him well for the task with which he was currently employed. Besides which, his large estate was very well run by his most excellent steward—meaning Charles himself had very little to do other than to find other ways to occupy his time. It was just as well that he had been recruited to work for The King’s League else he might very easily have fallen into so many of the vices that captured other gentlemen.
“Good evening, Lord Westbrook.”
Charles smiled warmly at the young lady who greeted him, seeing how her friend fluttered her fan just in front of her nose and mouth, her eyes alluring as she looked up at him beneath lowered lashes.
“Ah, Lady Isabella,” he said, bowing deeply. “And Miss Worthing, how very good to see you both this evening.”
“As we are glad to see you returned to society!” Miss Worthing replied, finally lowering her fan but keeping her warm smile firmly fixed in place. “We had heard that you were to be gone from London for many months and would not return in time to even attend a single ball!”
Charles, who knew that this was most likely nothing more than idle gossip, permitted himself a small smile and a shake of his head, which Miss Worthing accepted with a flicker of delight in her eyes.
“Then you must ensure that you make the most of this wonderful ball,” Lady Isabella said, a little too loudly for Charles’s liking. “You are to dance this evening, are you not?”
Hesitating, Charles immediately tried to think of an excuse – any excuse – as to why he would not be dancing this evening, but nothing came to mind. With a slightly labored sigh, he nodded and, of course, was thereafter forced to seek a dance from both ladies, who gave him their dance cards without hesitation.
Finally able to extract himself from both Miss Worthing and Lady Isabella, Charles decided to move to the side of the ballroom, in the hope that he might not be accosted by yet more young ladies seeking to have him sign their dance card. His heart was rather heavy to be engaging in such revelry, for he was still deeply sorrowful over the news that Sir Taylor had lost his life. The man, whilst holding the lowest title of the group, had been a friend and someone for whom Charles had a good deal of respect. He knew very well that Sir Taylor would not have given up any information whatsoever before his death and prayed that the cipher was still kept somewhere safe so that the French could not have the advantage over them again, but the struggle of the unknown darkened his mind. There always seemed to be so much for The King’s League to do, and yet it never felt as though they were achieving a great deal.
“Oh, goodness!”
A small, ripping sound, accompanied by a yelp of pain, caught his attention, forcing his head up as he realized that, in the depths of his thoughts, he had not only trodden on the back of a gown, but had also knocked a young lady entirely off balance! Reaching out instinctively, he seized her arm and managed to pull her back to her feet before she fell completely, only for another, louder ripping sound to reach his ears.
He closed his eyes tightly, shame creeping up his spine as heat rushed into his face. “I am truly sorry,” he murmured, letting the young lady go and stepping back in the hope that he would not do yet more damage. “I did not see you standing there, my lady, and I—”
Opening his eyes, he stopped dead at the look on the young lady’s face. She appeared to be on the point of tears, looking around herself in a hopeless fashion in an attempt to see the damage to her gown.
“I am very sorry,” Charles said again, feeling all the more terrible at what he had done—for not only had he damaged her gown, but he had brought the lady to the point of tears! “What can I do to help you, my lady?”
The young lady looked up at him, her emerald eyes sparkling with tears. She was, he realized, quite beautiful, although with such fiery red hair that he would not be able to forget her easily.
“I-I can fetch someone for you,” he stammered, seeing that she was standing alone. “Your maid is here with you, I suppose? Might I be able to fetch her for you?”
“I think you have done enough, sir.” The young lady’s voice was thin but steady as she looked back at him, blinking rapidly to clear away the moisture from her eyes. “My aunt shall return for me in a moment. She was just gone to fetch us both something to drink.” She waved a hand down at the back of her gown, where a large hole now gaped. “Although quite how I am to make my way to my maid without the entirety of the beau monde noticing it, I cannot think.”
Charles began to stammer, knowing that he had made an utter fool of himself and that, in being so caught up with his own thoughts, he had made this evening something of a disaster for her. He might offer to accompany her to find her maid, but then the ton would spot him walking with the young lady and might soon take notice. That was not at all what she either wanted or required.
“I-I shall pay for any damages, of course,” he said eventually, as the young lady looked about her impatiently. “For an entirely new gown, if you wish it.”
The young lady arched one eyebrow, no longer evidently upset with him. “That would suit me very well, my lord. Might I enquire as to your name so that I might have them send the bill to your residence?”
He floundered for another moment, his mind refusing to give him the answer he required. She was looking at him with such a strong gaze and he was so very greatly embarrassed that—for some moments—it seemed quite impossible to remember his own name.
“I am Lady Esther,” the young lady said, sighing with apparent exasperation. “Pray, do not wait for propriety’s sake, my lord. Might you give me your name also?”
“Of course, of course,” he said hurriedly, his words tumbling over each other. “The Earl of Westbrook, Lady Esther.” He bowed awkwardly. “And you shall send all bills to me, Lady Esther. I insist. The bill to repair this gown, if it is possible, and the bill for a new gown of your choosing, whatever the price.” His face burning, he bowed again and then turned away, wanting to leave the young lady alone in order to prevent further embarrassment to both herself and to him. “Excuse me.”
“You are excused,” he heard the lady say, her tone a little jarring. “Good evening, Lord Westbrook.”
“Good evening,” he muttered over his shoulder, knowing that now he was behaving abominably and certainly was unspeakably rude, “and again, Lady Esther, I apologize.”
His face still hot, he strode away at once, thinking that mayhap the shadows no longer held the protectiveness he had hoped for. Returning back to the center of the ballroom, he soon found himself surrounded by friends and acquaintances once more, all speaking of London gossip, of their hopes for the Season, and whispering about one gentleman or another. Charles tried to embrace the joviality, tried to let himself forget the embarrassment that had been his, but no matter how hard he tried, the image of Lady Esther remained firmly fixed in his mind. Her sharp eyes, her tight lipped smile – it would not leave him. No matter whom he conversed with or whom he led to the dance floor, there was none but Lady Esther lingering on his mind. He had never made such a fool of himself before, and it was that feeling, mayhap, that he did not like. It clawed at him, biting into his heart and rendering him entirely unable to enjoy any part of the evening. For whatever reason, Lady Esther had done what no other young lady had ever been able to do in capturing his full attention even though, he thought grimly, it was for all the wrong reasons.
Chapter Two
“Papa?”
Esther peered into her father’s study as she carefully pushed the door open, expecting to see him within. The room was, unfortunately, entirely empty, and there was a slight chill about the place that made her wonder when he had been here last.
Frowning to herself, Esther walked a little further into the room as though she expected there to be some sort of clue as
to where her father might be. He had not been at breakfast, and upon asking one of the footman, she had been reassured that he was not still abed. So where might he have gone? It was much too early for afternoon calls, and Lord Leighton was not the sort of gentleman to go out walking early in the morning.
Her heart twisted painfully as she recalled how her father had given her that beautiful locket only yesterday. She had worn it to the ball last evening, which her father had not accompanied her to, but rather he had left her in the care of her aunt. He had, however, told her just how beautiful she looked and had commented on the locket around her neck. Her eyes closed tightly against the flood of tears that rushed towards her, her breathing a little ragged as she rested her hands on her father’s study desk. Just where was he?
“Oh, Lady Esther! Excuse me, I–”
Her eyes flew open, only to see a maid standing there with her expression one of sheer embarrassment, evidently having come to dust and clean in Lord Leighton’s study but having accidentally stumbled upon Esther instead.
“It is quite all right,” Esther said quickly, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief and straightening up. “Do come in and go about your duties.”
“Thank you, miss,” the maid murmured, her head low as she came into the room. “What with the master gone, I thought it best to get his study in order until he returns.”
Esther, who had been on her way towards the door, stopped dead. “Gone?” she repeated, turning around slowly to see the maid looking back at her with an astonished expression. “Lord Leighton is gone somewhere?”