Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3)

by Kristen McLean

  Though he could not tell Mahmud everything, or even the half of it, he could at least allude to the fact that someone would soon step in on behalf of the Greeks. Drake only wanted to avoid unnecessary bloodshed and expenses, both of which would be unavoidable in battle. The sultan ought to grant the people their independence before the situation progressed that far.

  He wasn’t sure how long he had sat there working out what exactly he would say to Mahmud, and how he would manage a trip to Constantinople before the end of the Season. An hour? Two, perhaps? He would have continued well into the night if he hadn’t been interrupted.

  A quick rapping pulled him from his thoughts and brought his attention to the door.

  “Yes?” he asked, rubbing his eyes and straightening in his seat.

  The door opened and a light brown head popped in through the opening.

  “My lord?” He smiled and opened the door the rest of the way, entering the room with the awkward yet confident strides of a young man comfortable in his position.

  “Freddie.” Drake was glad to see the lad again, and he started to smile, but then he remembered Freddie never came to him without reason, and usually the reason was a bundle of frustration. He frowned. Then, noticing the rather large bundle in Freddie’s hand, his expression darkened. “Good heavens, Freddie. Is it that bad?”

  Freddie paused, looking confused. Then he glanced at the bundle he carried and smiled. “Oh, no, my lord. I brought your correspondence.” He set the letters on the desk. “I thought you might have taken ill since you returned so much sooner than planned, and then you didn’t come to the office as soon as you returned. Harding promised you were in perfect health, as I can well see. Only, I wanted to see it for myself, and I figured you might want to run a few replies back to the office. I thought you might wish for my assistance instead of running Harding about London when he has duties enough here.”

  “You thought quite a bit in my absence, didn’t you?” Drake asked dryly.

  Freddie squared his shoulders. “Indeed, my lord. I knew you would be worried about things while you were gone, and so I applied myself to handle them so you would have nothing to worry for.”

  Drake shook his head, a small frisson of panic tightening his jaw. “I hope you didn’t scribble my name on anything, thinking to save me the trouble. My name on the wrong document could start a war in a dozen countries.”

  “Certainly not, my lord. I merely adhered to your filing techniques.”

  “My filing—” Drake’s brows knit. “My office was locked.”

  “I have a key.”

  “A key. Of course you have.” He almost laughed aloud at the idea of securing his space so protectively when his secretary could come and go as he pleased. Thank heaven Freddie was such a levelheaded lad. “Would you like some tea while you wait, Freddie?”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

  After he rang for tea and sandwiches for his secretary, he untied the bundle of correspondence and began sorting them into three categories, as was his custom. The first was Important, with a capital I, then the somewhat less important, and finally, the indecipherable reports. The Important pile generally consisted of information he ought to have had a week ago, and it would require immediate action to avoid more bloodshed or international scandal, or both. The somewhat less important pile would be letters from the king, Mahmud, or an Egyptian government official who complained of an Englishman who had gotten himself thrown in jail and was in line for public execution, but who claimed the Home Secretary would be very cross if he should die.

  It sounded farfetched, but it had happened more than once, and not only in Egypt.

  The pile of indecipherable reports he would tend to when he felt like giving himself a headache and wishing to claw his own eyes out.

  As tea was brought in, Drake tucked the reports into a top drawer, which had been emptied for him, and then began opening envelopes. After nearly an hour of reading and responding, he was finished. Surprisingly, no wars had broken out while he was away, nor had any of his agents gotten themselves killed.

  “Brace yourself, Freddie,” Drake said grimly, handing his secretary a stack of replies. “It’s the calm before the storm, I am sure of it.”

  Freddie grinned. “All is well, then?”

  Drake nodded. “Thank you for coming. I promised my mother I would stay clear of the Office.”

  Freddie blinked. “Completely?”

  “Only until she makes plans,” he said, then muttered, “Whatever the devil that means.” At Freddie’s confused expression, Drake explained, “Mother has decided I am to cosponsor the come-out of my mother’s dearest friend’s grandson’s widow.”

  Freddie’s confused expression deepened.

  “Never you mind, Freddie,” Drake said dismissively. “It’s a dreadful mess, and not worth breaking your brain over.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I would like for you to bring my correspondence here every day. I may not be able to go to the Office without sending my mother into fits, but I cannot risk missing something important.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Chapter 10

  William stepped out of the post chaise and stretched his aching muscles, taking a moment to soak in the sights and sounds of the bustling London street. It was loud, crowded, dirty, and he did not want to be here.

  He walked stiffly into the inn for a large tankard of ale, George following suit, silent and grim as a gravedigger. He ought to be, too. They both ought to be, because the grave they were digging was their own.

  If the old woman blabbed to anyone, the authorities wouldn’t think twice before sending him and George to the gallows. If Sam didn’t get to them first, that was.

  Sam might kill them no matter how things turned out, and keep all the money for himself.

  “We could catch a boat to France,” William suggested, his attention fixed on his ale.

  “We don’t have any money,” George pointed out.

  “Not yet. Maybe the old woman would settle for half. Or less. Hell, we could live just fine on five hundred a piece.”

  George turned in his chair to face him. “You want to run that by me again?”

  “We have the ring. We could make whatever deal with her we want.”

  “You’re suggesting we betray Sam?” George shook his head and turned back to his ale. “A walking dead man, you are.”

  “By the time Sam realizes what we have done, we would be in France.”

  “It doesn’t matter where we go. He would find us,” George bit out. “I don’t want to hear another word about it. Understand?”

  William nodded and finished his ale. Soon they would contact the old woman, and either she would agree and pay the sum, or she would send for the Bow Street Runners. William wasn’t too worried about the runners. It was getting the money that sent cold chills down his back. Sam’s money.

  A long procession of carriages was in front of the stately townhouse of the Marquess and Marchioness of Ainsley in Berkeley Square. This evening was one of their first events of the Season, since they had only just returned to London from spending the coldest time of year in sunny Italy.

  Sarah couldn’t help feeling a little jealous. They could go wherever they liked, whenever they liked. What freedom they must enjoy. What adventures!

  “This will be an utter crush,” Lady Umberton sighed from across the carriage. “But it cannot be helped. If we hope for a successful Season, we must attend. All the rest of London is attending.”

  Sarah glanced out the window, watching as more and more guests filed through the front door. There were miles and miles of beautiful silk dresses in all sorts of colors, and the men were in fine, black evening attire.

  Saint Brides would be wearing fine, black evening attire, too.

  She glanced down over her own gown of black bombazine. Though it was the finest dress she had ever worn, it was ridiculously simple compared to all the other frilly dresses. The only decoration w
as a silk ribbon wrapped just under the bust, and the short, puff sleeves that were made of lace with tiny ribbons weaved throughout. All in unrelenting black.

  She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, but since it was made of the same black lace as her sleeves, she doubted it would ward off the chill she felt creeping up her back.

  “I should have stayed in tonight,” Sarah said, accepting the fact doing so would have been cowardly. She could have lived with that. She would have preferred a nice, warm blanket by the fire with a good book. Instead, she was at a grand ball, about to make a fool of herself in front of everyone, which would make fools of Ladies Umberton and Saint Brides, too, for sponsoring a rustic.

  Lud, did the dowagers not realize she was just a farm girl? Even though she’d had an above average education, she didn’t belong here.

  “Poppycock, my dear,” Lady Saint Brides said. “We cannot possibly leave you alone in that big, empty house.”

  Sarah smiled despite her misgivings. “Empty if you do not count all the servants and a dozen armed guards, you mean.”

  “Exactly. Not to mention, you cannot steal the hearts of the ton without first meeting a few of them.”

  “What would I want with their hearts?” she asked, swallowing nausea at the thought of meeting all those people she watched file into the mansion. “My reputation among them means nothing to me. I shall be leaving England as soon as I can.”

  “And how, precisely, do you intend to live, my dear?” Lady Saint Brides asked with an arched brow. “Have you a plan to keep from starving whilst you are on these adventures?”

  She shrugged. “There’s plenty of work I could do.”

  “Work?” Lady Umberton’s eyes widened.

  “And what if there isn’t?” Lady Saint Brides asked, ignoring her friend’s outburst.

  “I shall survive somehow.” She had no doubt about that. There was always something to be done. Nothing was truly hopeless. If she couldn’t find work in one place, she was sure to find some in another.

  Lady Umberton shifted in her seat, her lips pursed, exaggerating the wrinkles around her mouth. “You do plan on visiting, don’t you?”

  A definite no caught in Sarah’s throat. True, she had only just met these women a week ago, but they were kind and had already begun to wheedle their way into her heart. She had no desire to cause Lady Umberton any more pain than she already had. Still, she was brought up telling the truth, and lying had never sat well with her.

  The hopeful spark in Lady Umberton’s eyes had Sarah re-evaluating her definition of morals.

  “Er… I think, perhaps …”

  Before Sarah could bring herself to spit out the lie, the door swung open and a livery offered his hand to help them down.

  After the two matrons had stepped down, Sarah squared her shoulders and followed them onto the cobblestone drive. If she was going to make a fool of herself and these two wonderful ladies, she might as well face it head-on and get it over with. Maybe if they became laughing stocks with her, they wouldn’t want her to come back to visit.

  Somehow, that thought was not as comforting as she had hoped.

  The last time Drake had stepped foot in this house had been seven years ago when he had wed Ainsley to his marchioness… in secret, no less. What a debacle that had been.

  Ainsley was a bloody good assassin, but the biggest pain in the arse Drake had ever had the misfortune of managing. Thankfully, he was now as dedicated to his wife as Pembridge was to his, and no longer Drake’s problem.

  Drake glanced around the oversized ballroom, remembering the grin Ainsley had greeted him with when he had arrived this evening. A grin from the always angry, always brooding Ainsley.

  By some baffling twist of fate, marriage must agree with him. Or perhaps having children was what had made such a change in him. Drake guessed it could very well be a little of both.

  The chandeliers shone brightly over the room, overstuffed as it was with the beau monde. Despite the heat of the room, he suppressed a shiver. He had been here unfashionably on time, and so he was the most eligible bachelor in the room for at least an hour. Consequently, he had the sole attention of at least twenty mamas and their daughters, and he was forced to dance the entirety of that hour—thankfully, none of them waltzes. He had never waltzed in public, and he rather preferred it that way. When other gentlemen arrived, he was able to retreat to the far end of the room, thoroughly reminded of why he loathed societal functions.

  At last Drake stood near the terrace doors where he could feel the cool night air at his back. He was not a coward, but at times a strategic retreat was in order, such as when three mamas suddenly looked his way in unison and smiled.

  He stepped toward the cool air as he watched them stretch their necks and pop up on their tippy toes, presumably searching for daughters to launch at him.

  He took another step back, standing in the doorway now. One more step, and he would be on the terrace, where he could enjoy the rest of this crush in the relative solitude of the gardens.

  He had made an appearance; he had been here at least two hours. He had greeted his mother, kissed Lady Umberton’s cheek, and bowed over Mrs. Tindall’s small hand. That fulfilled his obligation.

  It wasn’t as though the matrons or Mrs. Tindall were want for company. Hordes of gentlemen crowded to see the lovely Mrs. Tindall, decked from head to toe in the most becoming black lace, the sort that burned into men’s minds and tormented them late at night.

  He knew at least four of the gentlemen who would be suffering. Last he had seen them, they were all huddled around Mrs. Tindall, smiling and leaning toward her as though to hang on to every word she uttered, all the while sneaking lewd glances at her bosom, at the way her soft breasts rose above the lace, lifting against its confines with every breath.

  His jaw tensed. He ought to have reminded them they were in a crowded ballroom by rearranging their handsome faces with his fists. There was still time.

  He scanned the room, looking for her, but her dark curls were nowhere to be found. He also noticed the gentlemen had dispersed, finding three of them dancing with nondescript ladies.

  Where the devil had that woman wandered off to this time?

  He shook his head. It wasn’t his business tonight. She was safe here, surely. Relatively. He had stationed at least two of his men at every entrance in case their villains decided to intrude on the fête. And she had no motive to run. Indeed not. Tonight was meant to show London how civilized she was. It was meant to convince them she could never have killed anyone, and any allegations to the contrary would be utterly preposterous.

  Where the devil was she, though?

  He almost growled aloud at the thought of her running off. This entire charade was for her and Lady Umberton. Surely she wouldn’t… Bloody hell, he was not chasing after her tonight!

  He took another step backward onto the terrace, and another. He was far enough now to turn and disappear relatively unnoticed. The mamas he had hoped to avoid were still gathering their daughters. He would not reenter that ballroom just to search for Mrs. Tindall. He refused. Otherwise, he would not make it five steps before those matrons were upon him.

  He nodded, determined to escape. But as he turned, he collided with something, or someone, rather.

  He quickly caught her before he knocked her down. Then he was staring down into wide, hazel depths framed with long, dark lashes that nearly knocked him off balance. They were the very same exotically beautiful eyes that had been plaguing his dreams, causing him to wake up randy and cross. Now she was in his arms, her curves exactly as he remembered them. Her skin was just as soft and flawless, a stark contrast against the black lace.

  Yearning and desire nearly swallowed him whole before he brought himself ruthlessly back under control.

  “Mrs. Tindall,” he managed. “What in heaven’s name are you doing hiding on the terrace?”

  The surprise on her face dissolved into an arched look. “The same as you, I expect.�
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  Sarah fought a pout. She was supposed to be acting like a lady, after all. She just didn’t understand how he did it. How the devil did he manage to find her every dashed time she tried to escape?

  Was she wearing bells? Did a bright light flash in the sky the moment she made a run for it? It simply wasn’t natural!

  Then again, neither was he. A man as sober and autocratic as he should be too harsh to be attractive, but Saint Brides was preternaturally beautiful. His neatly styled chestnut waves gleamed in the mix of candlelight and moonlight, and his broad frame was snugly fitted in black, except for the snowy white cravat at his throat with its emerald stickpin.

  She felt heat rise over her cheeks to her ears as his hands flexed where they still clasped her arms. For just one moment, he had looked surprised, and then his green, penetrating scowl slid neatly into place, and he was once again the beautiful but indomitable lord.

  One needed sufficient preparation before being subjected to his presence, and she had expected to be completely alone here. After thirty minutes amongst the wolves in petticoats in the ballroom, she needed some alone time.

  Thirty minutes, that was how long she had lasted amongst his peers. A mere thirty minutes before she had slipped away to hide in the garden.

  “I was not hiding,” he said.

  “Neither was I,” she returned, the lie smoothly tripping over her tongue. Thirty minutes was also all it took for her to completely abandon her morals, apparently. “I merely wanted a bit of fresh air. The ballroom is crowded and suffocating.”

  He nodded and released her, dropping his big, warm hands to his sides. “Ainsley ought to have known everyone and their dog would come. He should never have sent out so many invitations.”

  “He seems a very amiable man, and his wife, also.” Lord and Lady Ainsley truly seemed happy to meet her, and their genuine welcome had eased her anxiety, if only slightly.

  “Yes, well, I truly never thought I would say this, but I agree with you. Eight years ago, I would have thrown a fellow into Bedlam for attributing such a description to Ainsley.”