Dangerous Liaison (Lords of Whitehall Book 2)

by Ann Chaney

  Gillian stiffened at his words. She should’ve known the man wouldn’t give up without a final argument. She turned around and gave him what she hoped was a defiant glare. “You’ll not take another step unless I’m at your side.” She waited until he nodded to continue. “Now, we must hurry. To avoid being seen, we’ll go through the back entrance to the bookroom. More like a secret passage.” She reached into the center of an ornately carved wall panel and triggered the lock. A single click echoed through the corridor. The panel slid open revealing a dark abyss.

  “Light this.” She handed Moreham a candle and flint then stepped around him to peer around the corner into the entryway to watch for a wandering footman. With her uncle and aunt out for the evening, all the servants were below stairs save a lone footman stationed in the butler’s pantry. Her aunt had recently employed a new cadre of footmen so one never knew when one of those servants would appear. Such an eventuality was very possible which was more than a little unsettling. The quiet snick of the flint striking and hiss of the wick catching fire called her back to Moreham’s side.

  She hurried past him into the opening. Moreham followed with the candle held high and closed the door behind him. The only light was the candle’s flame. She made her way through the narrow corridor toward the wooden door to her uncle’s bookroom.

  Gillian stopped in front of the door and waited for Moreham to join her. She fished a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. She pressed her finger to her lips and whispered. “We must be quiet. One never knows who is about.”

  Moreham gave her an impatient look before he pushed the door open. A chill ran down her spine. What would they find? Gillian had never been so afraid as she was at that moment.

  Moreham gestured for her to enter first. The room possessed a scent of its own. She loved this room with its bookshelves filled with her uncle’s favorite books, the comfortable overstuffed chairs he favored and the fireplace ablaze.

  Some of her happiest memories had been spent in this room with her uncle. Most evenings when she was a child after her bath, Uncle Whitney had carried her to this very room. Together, they’d choose a book for him to read to her. On his knee, Gillian had been enthralled with mythology, astrology and her favorite, fairy tales. Only Aunt Isadora’s arrival at the door, dressed ready for an evening out, had brought their special time together to an end. She smiled at the memory of being kissed and sent to bed, warm in the knowledge she was loved.

  Her haze of happiness disappeared at the whispery brush of Moreham’s arm as he joined her in the bookroom. Gillian stiffened. She regretted seeking out the earl. She now understood his admonition about living with the outcome of violating Uncle Whitney’s trust. How would she feel if someone violated her privacy in such a manner? Standing in her uncle’s bookroom poised to search through his personal papers was not the most convenient time to develop a conscience.

  How she wished she’d not overheard those men talking, never asked Philly to arrange her meeting with Moreham. Wishing to change the past was a fruitless endeavor. It was time for action, swift and sure.

  She fought the urge to lean closer to the earl. One more innocent whiff wouldn’t see their purpose fulfilled. However, enough was enough. Gillian took a step backward to escape Moreham’s distinctive and heady fragrance. They had to hurry before someone discovered them.

  “His desk is over there.” Gillian motioned across the room. She then flicked her hand toward the windows overlooking the garden. “Close the drapes. Someone could see us moving around.”

  Moreham moved across the small room. “Are you always so bossy?” He jerked the curtains closed casting the room into complete darkness except for the pitiful flame of their candle. She lit the candles on her uncle’s desk and the mantel.

  “No, I’m thought to be rather retiring most of the time. Take a seat and search the desk drawers for false bottoms or some such. Isn’t that what spies do?”

  Gillian almost laughed when Moreham growled. He made his way across the room to her uncle’s desk with the grace of a young miss making her bow to the Queen and sat as she’d directed.

  He leaned over and pulled on the topmost drawer. “Look behind the books for a wall safe.”

  Gillian fought the urge to stick her tongue out at the man. She wasn’t the only one prone to bossiness. “Uncle’s safe is in the library on the first floor.”

  “Humor me. There’s no prohibition on having more than one safe, is there?” Moreham asked.

  “Your lack of interest in the library safe tells me your man has already breached that lock.”

  Moreham ignored her assertion, but she relished the notion she’d called him on the more dastardly aspect of his work. Breaking into a duke’s safe was an affront to every Englishman. She’d enjoy his comeuppance even more when he found nothing to implicate Uncle Whitney.

  “You said there was a lockbox?”

  How did he do that? Catch her woolgathering. Gillian joined him and opened the bottom drawer. She lifted the lockbox onto the desk before removing the small key from her pocket. She handed him the key.

  Moreham inserted the key and turned. The lock sprang open. Gillian remained at his side as he lifted each bit of foolscap out of the box and read the papers. He threw the papers aside. Pages of numbers regarding the previous summer’s crops.

  “See, I told you there would be no incriminating papers, because my uncle is innocent,” Gillian crowed.

  Moreham wanted to stop searching, but he knew that wasn’t an option. The naïve girl had never considered there could be other hiding places. He was about to educate her on the idiosyncrasies of the gentlemen who engaged in secrets.

  He returned all the documents in the exact order he’d found them and relocked the box before returning it to its hiding place. He continued on to the next drawer where he removed everything then felt the back of the drawer for a false wall.

  Gillian’s only reaction to his continued search was a heavy sigh. Shoulders slumped, she returned to her search of the bookshelves.

  He couldn’t stand her silence any longer. “There could be cubbyholes or secret compartments. I am searching for such hiding places. You said yourself, false-walled drawers are part and parcel part of my vocation.”

  Gillian re-shelved the books she’d removed before turning toward him. “Your life must be very lonely. Being so distrustful of your acquaintances. Uncle would have no notion how to even ask for such an accommodation.” she declared, her voice laced with derision.

  He ran his hand along the wall of the drawer and pushed against the wood. His heart stuttered when the piece moved. At that moment, he wished he could send Gillian to her room and spare her the next few minutes. Moreham knew whatever he found behind that false wall could change her life forever.

  He pulled the drawer out and sat it on the desk. Gillian’s gasp of surprise tore at his heart. At that moment, he hated the world he lived in. Behind the panel lay a small portfolio.

  Gillian dropped the book in her hands and rushed to his side. He didn’t have to look up to know she was crying.

  Her voice shaking with emotion, she snapped, “Go ahead. This is what you came for. Examine it. You will feel horrid when you realize it is Uncle’s journal and you were wrong.”

  Moreham heard the doubt in her voice. He opened the small leather folder and found a folded piece of paper.

  “Well, what is it?” Gillian demanded.

  “A letter,” he replied. “Gillian, a letter a much younger you wrote to your uncle.”

  “See I told you so…hand it over. I want to read it.” Gillian snatched the foolscap from his hand.

  She moved closer to the candlelight. “I remember this letter. I wrote this the summer I turned three and ten years old. We were at Whitings after the season ended. Uncle Whitney traveled back to Town to attend a school friend’s funeral. I wrote the letter and hid it in his valise for him to find. I thought my letter would ease his homesickness. He’s kept my childish scribbling all the
se years.” Gillian’s voice softened in wonder. “What a dear sweet man.”

  Her voice soft with awe tugged at his heartstrings. She reached over for the little folder and sat on the far side of the desk. The only sounds in the room were her sniffling and sighs as she ran her fingertips over the ducal seal embossed on the portfolio. Whitney’s seal.

  A child’s letter. All he had to show for his efforts was a young girl’s note from years ago. Moreham wanted to tear the room apart. His gut told him there was something hidden within these walls. He knew Gillian would never consent to such a search.

  “Moreham, I’ve found something else. Tucked under the back cover. Another bit of foolscap.” Gillian’s voice so low he had to lean closer to hear. “I can’t read it.” She looked up at him. Her hands trembled as she placed the small slip of foolscap in his hand. “It’s a series of letters, but those letters do not form words. Moreham, I can’t do this. You must help me. You started this. You must finish it.”

  “Give it to me,” he demanded, more harshly than he’d intended. “My apologies, Gillian. I didn’t mean to bark at you. This could be important.”

  He took the paper. The sight of the jumbled letters confirmed he had discovered a coded message. He knew without a doubt, he’d found his evidence of Whitney’s collusion with the French sympathizers. The sooner he had his man, Fitzroy, decrypt the note, the sooner he could put this business behind him. As for Gillian, He’d find a way to ease her pain.

  Now was not the time to let emotion rule his actions. Moreham riffled through the desk drawers until he found a torn bit of paper. He slid the paper and an inked pen across the desk. “Write this down.”

  Moreham turned his attention to the coded message. He read off the chaotic combination of letters.

  If he were lucky the code would be one his code breakers had deciphered before—rendering the message readable in minutes. If not, then those same men would be working around the clock until they broke the code and revealed the message.

  Moreham folded the note and returned it to Gillian. “Can you put the letter back just the way you found it? I’ll take the copy to someone who is skilled at deciphering codes such as this one.

  She did as he asked and handed him the book. Neither spoke as he placed the tome in its hiding place.

  “Don’t fret yet. That could be Whitney’s secret receipt for his wassail punch he offers his closest friends at Yuletide.”

  “People do such a thing… Make up a code for a receipt for Christmas punch?”

  Moreham winced at the hopeful sound of her voice. How he wished he could ease her fears. Instead, he put the small leather folder back in its hiding place and reseated the drawer. Whitney would never know they had found that note.

  Part of Moreham wished they had not.

  Gillian left him and returned to the bookshelves. She picked up the book she’d dropped only moments before and re-shelved it. She moved to another shelf but with a heavy sigh turn around. She, no doubt, knew they’d found what he’d come for.

  He searched his mind for the right words to ease Gillian’s fears. All he knew at that moment was he wanted to hold her, to comfort her. Anything he said would be a lie. Gillian was no fool. She knew the ramifications of a coded missive. The slip of paper in his pocket changed everything for both of them. Gillian needed to prepare herself for the worst.

  Abruptly, the night’s quiet, disappeared. Fast paced footsteps and a loud voice which sounded far too familiar for his comfort grew louder until silence again when those footsteps ceased outside the bookroom door.

  He grabbed Gillian and turned his back to the door so whoever was about to open that door would not see her. She started to move away which he couldn’t allow. Moreham pulled into his embrace and held on to her. “Be still,” he growled.

  His only recourse was to press his lips against her ear. Each second crept by as his fear slowed down time to snail’s pace.

  Moreham knew Whitney was the one trying to get his key into the lock on that door. No doubt, the duke had imbibed a few too many glasses of port after dinner. Inebriation played havoc with one’s coordination. Moreham held onto Gillian and waited.

  No doubt, Whitney would call him out for compromising his niece. The man was a duke, after all. He may not have pistols for a duel, but he did have enough money to buy the services of a crack shot. Moreham was a dead man.

  He hoped Cross was close enough to realize they’d been discovered. No matter what happened in the next few minutes, he must get the copy of the note to his friend. A threat of marriage was nothing compared to being found in possession of the duke’s correspondence. Whitney would ensure he paid the ultimate price. Not a happy thought that. As for the note, time was of the essence.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Whitney bellowed.

  Moreham looked over his shoulder at the short man. “Your Grace, I can explain.” He made sure to tuck Gillian closer. He wanted Whitney to believe he’d interrupted a passionate tryst.

  Gillian had other ideas. She pinched his arm and rushed over to her uncle. “Uncle Whitney, it’s not what it looks like.”

  The duke gave her a pitying look. “My dear girl, it is always exactly as it looks.”

  “Uncle Whitney, I can explain.”

  “Your Grace, we wanted to be alone.”

  They both spoke at the same time which gave their situation more credibility.

  Moreham winced. He sounded like a greenling straight down from Cambridge in his first season, caught red-handed with deflowering on his mind.

  Whitney’s eyes grew as large as marbles. The duke’s attention was centered on him.

  “Moreham? Unhand my niece at once. Gillian, you will not say one word. Go to your room until your aunt and I send for you.” Whitney ordered, still not looking at her.

  Gillian stiffened. “I’m staying. If I leave you alone with Moreham, you’ll do something ridiculous like to challenge him to a duel.”

  Whitney’s gaze locked on the woman. “I have allowed you too much freedom, my girl.” Her uncle dropped into the chair by the fireplace and reached for the bottle of port he kept at the ready. “You said earlier your head was aching. Never thought you’d lie.” His hand shook. “Your aunt will be hysterical when she finds out about this.”

  “Uncle, please give me the bottle before you drop it. This bottle of port is too good a vintage to waste you always say.” Gillian took the bottle from her uncle’s hand and poured him a goodly portion of the drink. She motioned toward one of the cabinets by the fireplace. “Moreham, look in that cabinet and get another glass. You look like you need a tot as badly as Uncle does. You are as white as a bed sheet.”

  Moreham complied. He handed her his glass which she filled two fingers high. The fact she gave him less of the port than she had her uncle was not lost on him. He raised his glass in her direction in a silent toast before sampling the esteemed drink. Once his tumbler was empty, he motioned for a refill.

  Whitney would not be denied. “Moreham, name your seconds. How dare you impugn my niece’s honor in my own house? I will meet you on Hampstead Heath at daybreak.”

  With a speaking glance in his direction, Gillian crossed over to her uncle’s side and replenished his glass. This time with even more port than she had the first time. Looking thoroughly disgusted with her relative, she set the bottle on the sideboard well out of his reach.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Uncle. You arrived before the earl even kissed me. Look at me. Do I look as though I have been kissing anyone?”

  “Your Grace, you misunderstand the circumstances. I wanted a quiet place to propose marriage to Lady Gillian.”

  Unfortunately, he’d not thought before speaking or he’d have waited until the duke had swallowed his port. The duke sputtered and sprayed his port down the front of his shirt. No man liked to waste good liquor.

  The duke brushed at his now wet cravat and shirt before giving up and turning his attention to Gillian. “Well, gel, what do you have to
say to Moreham?”

  Moreham crossed two of his fingers and hoped the hellion would give credence to his ruse.

  Why hadn’t he remained behind his desk and left the sleuthing to Cross and Sturm? Cross had never landed in such a pickle. Never been within smelling distance of a bride. He, however, had ventured out for one evening and ended up proposing to a duke’s niece. He dared not think what his mother would say.

  Married? He looked over at Gillian and decided if the displeasure he saw in her eyes was an indication, his intended was no happier about the prospect than he was. He hoped the bit of foolscap in his pocket was worth the sacrifice required of them both.

  “Uncle, you always said I could marry where I chose. I choose Moreham. He is titled which should please Aunt Isadora and is in possession of substantial wealth or so everyone in Society has said often enough. You’ve always said you wanted me to marry a gentleman who valued me. At this moment, Moreham has made his feelings known to me and I am satisfied as to our future together.”

  The duke looked at her as if she had taken leave of all good sense. Moreham felt sorry for the man. Whitney didn’t stand a chance against a determined Gillian. Then the truth hit him like a shovel to the face. He was the one who’d never stood a chance.

  The dejected duke slumped in his chair. Moreham removed the now empty glass from the man’s hand. “He’s out cold.”

  Gillian joined him, taking both tumblers from him. “Yes, well, unfortunately to my uncle’s horror, he has difficulty in holding his liquor. Especially this aged vintage of port. I’m sure your tasting of the brew confirms its potency.”

  Moreham motioned for Gillian to follow him out into the corridor. “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “You should leave. The ballroom is at the end of the corridor. The garden door is to the left. You’ll recognize it. Once you are gone, I’ll ring for the butler. He’ll have a pair of footmen carry Uncle Whitney upstairs to bed. Only now am I realizing, the footmen have been performing that duty far too often for the last month. He’d be appalled if he knew I had witnessed him in such a state. That bottle of port is a special vintage. Meant to be sipped. You both have been tossing the drink back like sailors on shore leave swilling rotgut gin. Will you be able to find your way through the garden? I am sure you are anxious to be off.”