by Lauren Smith
Albert peered through the curtained window as he watched Blankenship climb into his coach. Once he was safely away, Albert let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then he returned to his office to prepare for his meeting with the Duke of Essex later that afternoon.
A sleek sloop sailed into London Harbor at midday. The Pool of London was teeming with vessels carrying goods from the West Indies, like sugar and rum, their aromas mingling with the dirty air hovering above the Thames. Other boats carried tea and exotic spices from the East, wine from the Mediterranean, and even furs, timber, and hemp from Russia and the Baltic.
Hugo Waverly stood on the upper deck, his hands braced against the railing. He had been in France for a full year, and it was a relief to be home. His wife, Melanie, and his young son, Peter, soon joined him on deck.
“Finally home,” Melanie sighed. She had detested France. Despite her beauty and intelligence, she had despised the French court with all its schemers and gossipers, even though she could have easily fit in among their glittering set.
“Let me take him.” Hugo lifted Peter, who was only a few years old, from his wife’s arms.
The boy pointed at the ships that passed them and squealed. Hugo’s heart swelled with love for the child. He had hoped that time away in France with his wife would have brought her around, but she still refused to let him into her bed. Hugo was done with being denied. He would find his pleasures elsewhere. He thought of his wife’s former lady’s maid and how sweet she had been, even in her terror of him. But there were other, more willing women out there. He had crossed a line that night. His actions toward that girl had been beneath him.
The ship docked, and Hugo escorted his wife and son into a coach. Hugo saw them on their way, and then he returned to the ship to see that their luggage was removed. Once completed, he left the dock and strode down the gangplank, only to find a familiar face waiting to greet him.
“Sheffield.” Hugo nodded at the tall, dark-haired man who was waiting for him. Daniel Sheffield had been his eyes and ears in England while he was away. They ran a covert line of spies for the Crown, and had been in regular communication through their intermediaries.
“Good to be back, sir?” Sheffield asked.
“Indeed. France wearied me.” It was indeed good to be home.
“Your wife and child fare well?”
“Yes. Peter is another few inches taller, I swear.” Hugo smiled fondly. His son was named after an old friend he had lost long ago. A lifetime, it seemed. He closed his eyes briefly, remembering Peter’s laughing smile, his eyes full of compassion and merriment. Peter Maltby had been a good soul in a world that held so little good.
Hugo wasn’t a good man. He’d never carried that illusion. But for a time, Peter had made him believe that he could be. Those sunny memories of his lost friend were always swallowed by dark, churning waters as a river from the past consumed Peter, and the last shreds of Hugo’s goodness had drowned with Peter’s last breath.
“Everything all right, sir?” Sheffield asked.
Hugo nodded. “Tell me what I’ve missed in the last few weeks.”
Sheffield fell in step alongside him, running through the latest developments of the new spy ring that they had created before Hugo had left for France.
“Avery Russell has proved himself a surprisingly capable fellow,” Sheffield said.
“Russell?” Hugo cringed at the name. He hadn’t wanted to have anything to do with any of the Russell family, but Avery had been moving up through the ranks of the Home Office with unbelievable speed.
“Yes, sir. He’s been a gifted decoder on our intercepted French messages, and has a knack for guessing where French spies will be.”
Hugo and Sheffield navigated the docks and left the port of London to enter the main city.
“Keep me informed of his progress. I may have a use for him.”
Sheffield did not question him. He knew what Hugo meant. When Hugo left England, he’d been trying to leave behind his need for vengeance, but now that he had returned, so had the need. Peter Maltby had to be avenged. The eldest Russell, Lucian, was one of the five men at the heart of Peter’s death. Having Avery working for him could only provide opportunities for the future.
Hugo suddenly jerked to a stop, and Sheffield halted with him. As if the thoughts of his enemies had summoned them, Hugo saw a pair of men across the street who were walking in his direction. One had blond hair and the other light-brown hair, but it was the cane that the latter man waved idly that grabbed his attention. The two men were in good spirits, their natural gaiety affecting the mood of the men and women around them.
To anyone besides Hugo, these men appeared to be handsome young bucks in their early thirties, the glow of health and wealth about them. But to Hugo, these men were a plague upon his existence, an ever-present reminder that England was the home of his most hated enemies—the men the local papers at times referred to as the League of Rogues.
“Careful, sir.” Sheffield’s warning brought Hugo up short again just as a carriage rushed by. He had been about to cross the street toward the two men, his vision so blinded by rage and hate that he hadn’t even heard the blasted thing. Sheffield released Hugo’s arm, and Hugo straightened his coat with a grimace, moving back from the curb.
“I believe it’s time we put our plans in motion.”
Sheffield said nothing at first, then quietly asked, “Which of the five do we start with?”
“I’m not sure yet. I need to see the players in the field. Lennox no doubt will be watching us. He has almost as many eyes in London as we do.” Hugo began to plan, moving the chess pieces across the board in his mind. Ashton Lennox, the wealthiest of the League, was also the lowest in social standing, yet he wielded power and influence beyond any of the others, even Godric, the Duke of Essex.
“Lennox is interested in acquiring another shipping company, the Southern Star line,” Sheffield interjected. “I know the widow who owns the company and can arrange contact for you. We could make sure that he has trouble acquiring it. It would prove a distraction to him, if nothing else.”
“Excellent idea. Start there first thing tomorrow morning.” Hugo brushed his fingers along his jaw as he watched the two men across the street pass by. Charles Humphrey, the Earl of Lonsdale, and Cedric, Viscount Sheridan, would pay for their crimes. But not yet. First, Hugo would tear their lives apart piece by piece, weakening the bond of friendship between the five men until it was no longer what kept them safe.
He would destroy the League of Rogues, even if it took his dying breath to do it.
2
Emily joined her uncle for a late luncheon of cold lamb sandwiches, then asked carefully if she might spend the afternoon outside.
“Outside?” Albert mused. “Doing what?”
“I thought perhaps I’d tend the garden. It has become a bit of a tangle out there since we let Mr. Shreve go last month.”
Her uncle frowned. “Ah.” Neither of them had wanted to see the gardener leave, but they simply could not afford to keep him. Her uncle had little in life that he enjoyed except for his garden, which seemed to bring him some pleasure.
“If you wish to, you may. But remember, at two o’clock you must not come inside. Or if you are inside, keep to your room.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Emily wouldn’t forget. If the man her uncle was meeting with this afternoon was anywhere near as frightening as the man from this morning, she would not dare interfere again.
“May I go now?” she asked.
“Yes, go on.” Her uncle turned to the stack of letters the butler had brought in and began opening them.
Emily pushed her chair back and ducked out of the dining room. She located an old white muslin smock, which she tied around her waist. It covered her gown down to her feet. She then donned a pair of white sleeve coverings that would keep her sleeves free of dirt. With a flutter of excitement, she headed into the small garden behind her uncle’s townhouse.
The rhododendrons had grown to a towering height. They marked the lines between the townhouses on either side of her uncle’s. Rosebushes grew in disarray against the backdrop of the rhododendrons, wisteria, and honeysuckle, which climbed an old wooden trellis against one side of the house. Emily planted her hands on her hips and surveyed the chaotic tangle of leaves and flowers along the garden walkway. There was much to do, and while Emily felt overwhelmed, she was glad to have a task, one that would bring her joy and perhaps even cheer up her uncle. She wished desperately to please him, to let him know that she was not a useless burden.
When she had received the letter that her parents were not coming home, her world had crumbled in on itself. She’d had no chance to grieve, no opportunity to fully process losing them and her happy life with them.
A tightness claimed her throat, as though an invisible hand had curled its icy fingers around her neck and squeezed.
Do not think about it. Do not think about them.
Emily squared her shoulders and took in the nearest flower bed. She knelt at one end, her pruning shears and protective gloves at the ready. The work was hard, but within an hour she was seeing very good results and was quite pleased with herself.
She wiped her face, accidentally smearing dirt on the tip of her nose. She rubbed again, hoping that this time she removed the dirt. Then she sat back on her heels, her body aching with the concentrated effort of staying bent over for so long. A large black-and-yellow butterfly drifted lazily among the gleaming petals of the bluebells as she looked over her handiwork.
“Hello there,” Emily greeted the butterfly as it settled upon a flower. It looked like a species of swallowtail, her mother’s favorite. The butterfly extended its proboscis, which looked like a tongue—a butterfly tongue, at least—and drank the nectar from the flower. Its wings were folded up flat as it rested. Emily wished she had her sketchbook, but she had thrown it away after . . .
She buried the thought and focused again on the butterfly. Its antennae swiveled in the air as it studied her back.
“Do you like my garden?” she asked it.
The butterfly fanned its wings out as though in response.
“It needs a bit of work, doesn’t it?” she agreed.
A flash of movement caught her eye. She looked toward the house. She thought she saw someone in one of the windows. The maid must be cleaning. Emily pulled a tiny pocket watch out from her smock pocket and checked the time. It was half past two. It would be best if she stayed outside at least another hour.
Please let Uncle’s meeting go well, she prayed. She had a feeling that today was the most important day of her uncle’s life. Perhaps even hers. It was silly, but she couldn’t deny the feeling.
Godric St. Laurent, the Duke of Essex, sat in a chair in the Bombay Room of Berkley’s, his club. Godric was sipping a glass of whiskey, his mind miles away from London.
A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Godric?”
He glanced up at Lucien Russell, the Marquess of Rochester, who was leaning against the doorjamb. The man’s red hair was a bit mussed, and his fine clothes were all wrinkled.
“I assume you had a good evening last night?”
Lucien chuckled. “With Lady Marsden? I did. The poor widow was most eager to renew our acquaintance. Apparently, she’d always regretted not sharing my bed before she married that old goat.”
Godric snorted. The late Lord Marsden had not been a friend of most men. He had been a sallow-faced old toad who yelled at practically everyone. His wife, thirty years his junior, was a pretty brunette. The day of their wedding, everyone had quietly remarked what a shame the marriage was. Thank God the old man had died. He wasn’t going to be missed, least of all by his poor wife.
Godric waved for his friend to join him. “I’ll wager Lady Marsden was quite pleased.”
Lucien slouched into the chair opposite him, a grin still on his face. “She wore me to exhaustion. I barely escaped her bed this morning.”
“And you don’t mind that in the least.” Godric’s reply earned him a light box on the ears from his friend.
“Of course not.” Lucien made a show of settling back into his chair. “Now, what has you so Friday-faced?”
“I am not Friday-faced,” Godric argued.
“Aren’t you? I know you are always one to brood, but good God, man, you look torn between composing sonnets for your broken heart or thrashing some poor bounder to within an inch of his life. So what’s the cause of it?”
Lucien knew him too well.
Godric was both upset and furious with himself. “You know I parted ways with my mistress.”
“That delectable French creature?” Lucien asked with interest.
“Yes. Evangeline was upsetting the servants.”
“Oh?”
“She insulted Simkins,” Godric growled, his rage returning at the memory.
“The devil you say. Simkins is an impeccable butler. Whatever could she have against him?”
“He broke some silly trinket of hers, and she flew into a rage.”
“Wait a moment. That was months ago, wasn’t it?” Lucien clarified.
“Nearly six.” He wished he wasn’t counting, but he was. He was not so casual as Lucien in his love affairs. He preferred to have a mistress close at hand, a more permanent fixture in his life, and his empty bed was bothering him. Lucien could sleep with a dozen women a night, never see them again and not care one bit.
“Ah . . . So you’re lonely.” Lucien’s teasing tone had softened.
“If you tell any of the others, I’ll deny it to my last breath,” Godric warned. “And then I’ll knock your teeth out.”
Lucien nodded solemnly and in understanding. “Mum’s the word, old boy. They won’t hear it from me. So why not find another woman? You weren’t in love with the French chit, were you?”
“No.” He hadn’t been, but he did miss Evangeline’s charm and intelligence. So few ladies of his acquaintance dared to show him such qualities. Many a woman had been raised to believe that she must act the simpleton. There were many men out there who desired such ladies, but not Godric. He enjoyed conversation, teasing, and interaction outside of bed as well as in it.
“There are dozens of courtesans who would throw themselves at your feet,” Lucien reminded him.
“I don’t want that. I want . . . a challenge. A woman who is unimpressed with my title. A woman who speaks her mind.”
Lucien shrugged. “Well, that won’t be easy.”
“No. Hence my very black mood.” Godric pulled his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and cursed as he saw the time.
“What is it?” Lucien sat up a little.
“I have an appointment with a man about some investments.”
“Oh? Are you taking Ash with you?”
“No, I didn’t wish to bother him with this.”
“Bother him? The man eats and breathes the language of business.” Lucien laughed.
“I know, but I have a feeling he wouldn’t advise me to go with this man. It’s likely to be a risky venture.” Godric slid his watch back into his pocket.
“Then why do it?”
“I wish to be good at something. Cedric has his horse racing, Ashton has his finances, Charles has his boxing, and you have your women, but I excel at nothing.”
It had always bothered Godric that while his title afforded him the highest status among his friends, he always felt as though he had such little personal value.
“You are good at plenty of things,” Lucien insisted.
Godric arched a brow. “Such as?”
“Well, for one thing, there’s . . . Bloody hell, man. You put me on the spot.”
At this Godric laughed. “I have to go. Tell the others I’ll see them this evening.”
“Very well, leave me to drink all alone,” Lucien said with a chortle.
Godric left the marquess and exited the gentlemen’s club. He had one of the young lads bring his horse ar
ound, and then he mounted up and rode through London until he reached the fashionable area of Mayfair. The townhouse he stopped at belonged to a man named Albert Parr. He had been referred to Godric by a few friends, but not Ashton, which meant this was indeed a risk.
A groom came down the steps and took charge of Godric’s horse, and Godric headed inside. A butler took his hat and riding gloves and bade him to wait in the entryway. A minute later, a man came toward him.
“Your Grace.” The man bowed to Godric, who simply nodded in return. “Please, come into my office.” It didn’t escape Godric’s notice that the townhouse was dim and rather dusty. Perhaps Parr scrimped on his housekeeping staff.
Over the next half hour, they discussed Parr’s purchase of a silver mine in Cornwall. Silver was a difficult and risky venture, but it paid high dividends when it was successful. Godric was willing to put ten thousand pounds into the investment, and Parr seemed grateful. Godric wrote the man a banknote for the amount and then signed the necessary paperwork.
“I think you’ll find this to be a good investment,” Parr said as he opened the study door to show Godric out.
He paused by a pair of windows that revealed a rather wild and unkempt garden. Movement caught Godric’s eye.
A young woman knelt in the nearest flower bed, a linen smock covering her dress as she sat back on her heels. She wiped her face, leaving a smudge of dirt on her adorable little nose. Wisps of auburn hair spilled out of an elaborate but seemingly effortless coiffure. There was something about her that gave Godric a strange thrill. Her face and eyes were animated, glowing, and open. She was speaking to someone, yet she was alone. He could not hear her words—he could only see her lips moving. That puzzled him, until he saw a butterfly dancing around her face, and she started to laugh. The innocent sight captivated him. The young woman was talking to a butterfly.