by Amy Lake
“So I thought . . . perhaps . . . ” Miss Asherwood trailed off, wondering if she should attempt a bit of flirtation. Anything to change the man’s expressionless stare.
“As I said, I’m afraid I cannot help you.”
“Marguerite is a child! Don’t you care?”
His eyes narrowed. “About your sister? No.”
“Oh!” She stared at him, too shocked for words.
“Miss Asherwood, I believe you are under some misapprehension. My work for the government is somewhat . . . episodic. And I do not undertake private commissions for young women.”
“But—”
“I suggest you apply to the undersecretary of the Foreign Office. I’m sure that your good friend Lord Carlow can give you his direction.”
* * *
Chapter 15
Letters and Espionage
“Well,” said Dewhurst. “What was that about?”
Lord Blakeley’s visitor had just left, politely fuming. He had watched Miss Asherwood from the salon window, making sure that she was safely ensconced in her carriage before returning to his study.
He had to admire the way she walked down the flagstones of his front garden—‘stalked’ might be a better word—with her back straight and head held high. No-one watching would have mistaken Elizabeth Asherwood for anything other than a female of high class, and very angry.
Anthony had returned to the study by the time he arrived, and was pacing in front of the fireplace, curious for news. “And are you mad,” he added, “to let a young miss like that into the house?”
“I had to know what she was after,” said Blakeley.
“Do you?”
“I’m not sure.” Peregrine hesitated. “She told me some Banbury tale about a half-sister in France.”
Dewhurst stopped pacing for a moment, and frowned. “Interesting.”
“’Tis. And apparently Lord Carlow suggested that I was the man to assist her.”
“Carlow! That dodderer!” Dewhurst snorted.
“Sadly, one is forced to declare that the girl is a bad liar. Which makes me wonder—”
Lord Blakeley hesitated, and Anthony raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“If she was really lying about the sister. Although her father was Sir Terence Asherwood—”
Dewhurst tapped a finger against the fireplace mantle, thoughtful. “I’m not sure . . . Have I heard that name?”
“Apparently it’s come up a few times. When he was alive. Frequent trips to the Continent, visiting a friend who—I now find—was actually several years dead.”
“Hmm. Odd. Or is there a woman in the case?”
“That’s possible. As best I could discover, no-one knows whom he was really seeing. I suppose this girl—Marguerite du Merveille—could indeed be his daughter, and thus Miss Asherwood’s half-sister, as she claims.”
Lord Blakeley’s tone of voice betrayed his doubt.
“But?” said Anthony.
“Sir Terence’s wife had been dead for years, and he still didn’t bring them to London.”
“The girl and her mother, you mean. If they exist.”
“Exactly. If he was so intent on hiding them from the ton, why tell his daughter now? It seems one secret that he could have easily taken to the grave.”
“People,” said Anthony Dewhurst, “do stranger things.”
“Too true,” said Peregrine Blakeley. He had every reason to know it.
They sat for a few minutes in silence, with Lord Blakeley reviewing the conversation with Miss Asherwood in his head.
“I suppose she’ll need to be watched,” said his friend, finally. He had opened a small notebook covered in worn leather and was making notes.
“Yes . . . ” said Peregrine. “And I’m particularly interested in any more letters from France.”
Blakeley thought again for a moment. If the girl had been telling the truth about those letters—even part of the truth—
“Blast and damnation!” he said suddenly, and leapt up from his chair. “I’ve been an idiot.”
Dewhurst looked up curiously from his notebook. “What’s wrong?”
“I should have strung her along. I should have flirted and played the fool. Gods!”
Anthony shrugged. “But what does it matter? What can one young miss do?”
“She kept talking about letters. What if the chit wasn’t lying? If they’re really from her sister, fine. If not—”
“Ah. It might be of interest to discover her correspondent.”
“If I relent, if I agree to assist Miss Asherwood, give her information about contacts in France—”
“—and she passes them along—”
“Yes.”
“An excellent idea. Perhaps another society ball is in your future.” Then Dewhurst frowned. “I must say,” he said, “that she hardly seems the type for espionage.”
Lord Blakeley had spent considerable time mulling this point. “I don’t think so either,” he said. “But she could be naïve. Perhaps she is being used.”
* * * *
Lord Peregrine Blakeley had always played his part in London society to perfection. His clothes were well-tailored from the finest shops, his phaeton pulled by a matched pair of greys, and he was known to occasionally partake in that gentleman’s obsession, boxing. He belonged to White’s, and his conversation was neither especially political, nor unusually not so. He worked with the Foreign Office, true, but ’twas commonly said that he had managed to avoid any distinction there, and indeed was thought by most to be a waste of the government’s penny.
His success with women was accounted Lord Blakeley’s prime characteristic, and he had certainly bedded many, although not quite the number that his acquaintances might suggest. Society wished some gentlemen to be accounted womanizers? Very well, he had no objection. The role of a rake was pleasant work, and if it made Blakeley less likely to be recognized for who he was, so much the better. There was no sense in spreading alarm to the current French regime that knowledgeable and competent individuals existed who were very much interested in the goings on within their country.
Only his closest friends knew that the parties and balls Lord Blakeley attended were no more than a screen, ensuring that anyone who took notice saw him as a typical gentleman of the London ton. These friends knew Blakeley as a busy and much called-upon man, a friend of Lord Grenville, the foreign secretary—and a skilled agent of His Majesty’s government.
Dewhurst left for an afternoon musicale—the man had developed a passion for string quartets, and followed them all over London—and Lord Blakeley was left alone, in front of a rapidly dying fire. Peregrine sighed and rubbed his temples. The inept rake was a part he had played for years, and now one young chit had made him forget everything. He had not admitted to Anthony the real reason for his current failure with Miss Asherwood, for the lack of flirtation, or his serious demeanor when he should have been paying her outrageous compliments and angling for another kiss.
He hardly wanted to admit it to himself.
The problem, Peregrine knew, was that he found himself in precisely the opposite situation to his usual. Instead of feigning an interest in women whose position in society was such that he could do them no real harm—widows of means, and married ladies with complacent husbands—
He was now confronted with one fresh-scrubbed miss, who very much interested him, and whom he could barely stop thinking about from minute to minute, and wanting to take to his bed. A female whose reputation could be destroyed by a man such as the world thought Peregrine Blakeley to be.
What was it about Miss Asherwood that had aroused this degree of passion? Her figure was lovely, true, and her face—but those were not all. The boldness she had shown in visiting him. Her hopeless attempts to lie about Lord Carlow. Her anger—repressed, but showing clearly in her flashing eyes—when he had refused her, and which he had found so charming that he had wanted to lift her up and swing her around the room, laughing all the while.
And something else in her eyes, a quiet intelligence that he found so rarely in any member of the ton, male or female.
Was it all an act? he wondered. A wide-eyed act? He remembered the last thing Anthony had said that afternoon—
“If she is a spy, she’s a very good one.”
It was difficult to believe that Miss Elizabeth Asherwood was any kind of agent. Difficult, but not impossible, Blakeley told himself. And if she was a spy, was it not prudent—was it not essential—that he keep her close by?
He did not scrutinize this reasoning too closely. One way or the other, the situation would need to be investigated which—and Peregrine frowned to himself—would involve various deceptions of his own. He had no doubt that he could convince the girl of his own trustworthiness.
Because, unlike Miss Asherwood, Lord Blakeley was an excellent liar.
* * *
Chapter 16
Two Apologies
Damn the man!
Elizabeth returned home in a state of agitation. She nearly ran to her bedroom, kicked off her day-slippers, and threw herself on the bed, wishing that she had a better command of blue language, or some way to vent her feelings.
Something to break, perhaps. Lizzie took a quick survey of her room—a crystal vase suggested itself, one that she had never liked—but it would make a terrible crash, and she decided against alarming the household.
Impossible, stubborn, pig-headed male!
Unfeeling!
Then Miss Asherwood burst, once again, into tears.
Penny, in the carriage, had been much concerned.
“You cannot return home in such a state,” she told Elizabeth, as the Perrins’ coach wound its way from Saint Ann’s Lane and through the parks to Aisling House. She handed Miss Asherwood a handkerchief of fine lawn. Lizzie blew her nose, noisily.
“I must. I told Pivens I would return by mid-afternoon.” Miss Asherwood gave a sniffle and a small hiccup. “You know what he’s like.”
“Oh, very well.” Penelope extracted a puff and a small vial of rose-water from her reticule. “Let me see what I can do about your nose.”
Whom could she turn to now? Lizzie just knew that Lord Blakeley could help her if he wished! She had seen it in his face—something he was hiding. His eyes had flashed when she mentioned France, and how could anyone, anyone be so heartless!
“Miss?”
Daisy scratched at her door.
“Miss Lizzie, are you all right?”
No! she wanted to scream, but roused herself enough to reassure the maid, who had now poked her head inside the room.
“I’m . . I’m fine, Daisy. Penelope and I went for a carriage ride—in the Perrins’ carriage—you know I feel ill, sometimes.”
“Of course, miss.” The maid nodded in understanding.
In fact, Elizabeth had never complained of coach-sickness before, but every one of the Asherwood servants felt that, really, only the family’s own carriage was good enough for their young charge. Naturally, in an inferior carriage—
“Should I bring you up one of Cook’s tisanes?”
It did sound good, thought Lizzie. “Yes, thank you, Daisy.”
The maid left. Miss Asherwood had just thrown herself back on the bed when she heard someone else at the door.
It couldn’t be the maid back so soon. “Yes?” she called, wishing they would all go away and leave her to have a small bout of hysterics in peace.
“Miss?”
It was the butler. Elizabeth sat upright, suddenly worried. Had one of the servants found out what she had been up to in the Perrins’ carriage?
“Yes, Pivens?”
“A letter for you, just delivered.”
A letter! With hope, Miss Asherwood hurried to the door. She thanked Pivens and smiled, although she could tell at once—eyeing his expression—that the missive was not from France. Disappointed, Elizabeth looked at the thick vellum envelope with curiosity. ’Twas not the usual time for invitations to be delivered by the regular post; it must have arrived by private courier.
The handwriting of the address was unfamiliar to her, but the hand seemed decidedly . . . masculine.
Sinking back into the pillows of her bed, she opened the envelope; and immediately sat upright again as she read the first words of the letter.
My dear Miss Asherwood,
I write to tender my most abject apologies for my remarks today, regarding mademoiselle du Merveille, remarks which I do not doubt came across as most unfeeling. Your concern for your sister does you great credit, and perhaps I can be of more assistance than I first led you to believe.
The Tallfields’ ball is in two nights; if I could ask your forbearance for a dance perhaps we could discuss the matter again, at more length.
Yours most sincerely,
Peregrine Blakeley
For several long minutes Elizabeth could do nothing but stare at the signature, imagining a strong hand and fine, long fingers as they wrote the name. He was touching this same page only minutes ago, she thought. Then— Good heavens, are you twelve years of age?
Elizabeth slowly re-folded the heavy sheets of paper and tucked them back into the envelope. She got up and padded over to her writing table, selecting a fine sheet of vellum of her own. This would need to be discussed with Penelope. But before she had any chance to put pen to paper—
“Miss Lizzie?” came the maid’s voice at the door.
Cook’s tisane, she assumed. But, no.
“Lord Winthrop is here to see you,” said Daisy. “He asks if you might wish to go for a drive.”
Lud.
Geoffrey was waiting by his horses when Miss Asherwood, in a sedate day-gown and freshly-washed face, made her way through the roses of the front garden to his side. She had convinced Pivens, who really felt that she looked under the weather, and should rest, that Cook’s tisane—which had arrived shortly after Geoff—had been just the thing.
“I’ll be fine. I really think some fresh air would do me good.”
The butler was not entirely happy, but after this plea he had acquiesced. “Very well, Miss Elizabeth.”
To her relief, because Miss Asherwood was suffering from a guilty conscience. Why had Geoffrey shown up so unexpectedly, today of all days? Had he somehow found out about her trip to see Lord Blakeley, or was it just coincidence? She had been wearing a veil. But what if one of Lord Winthrop’s friends recognized the carriage, or the gown she had worn, or—
No, if Lord Winthrop was here she needed to speak with him.
What could she tell him? Lizzie mulled over various explanations for her appearance on Saint Ann’s Lane, and discarded each one as dubious, and likely only to get her in more trouble. Perhaps truth was the best policy, although she did not believe that Lord Winthrop would take it well.
The horses were a fine pair, stomping and shaking their manes. She smiled, at them and at their owner, and Lord Winthrop kissed her hand.
“I thought you might like to get out a bit,” he said, and handed her up into the phaeton. “It seems like I’ve hardly seen you for the past week.”
“Of course,” murmured Miss Asherwood. “How nice.”
The first few minutes of the drive were hectic for Lord Winthrop, who was required to keep a pair of finely-bred animals calm and under control in the midst of London traffic. But Upper Grosvenor Street led directly into Hyde Park and they were soon enjoying the relative peace of the King’s Road.
Lord Winthrop remained unusually quiet, as if he was working himself up to some particular topic of conversation. Elizabeth’s worries increased. She had almost decided to broach the subject herself.
I happened to visit Lord Peregrine Blakeley today, on Saint Ann’s Lane, she imagined herself telling Geoffrey. You remember, Lord Blakeley of the Foreign Office, and I asked him about Marguerite, but he was no help whatsoever, he was most appallingly rude, and—
Even in her own mind it sounded a thin excuse.
“Elizabeth,” sa
id Lord Winthrop.
Miss Asherwood held her breath.
“I wanted to . . . apologize.”
“Apologize?” Good heavens, what was this about?
“Yes. For my response to your . . . your sister’s plight. I believe now that I was mistaken to show—to be so concerned over reputation.”
“Oh,” said Elizabeth, who was wholly unprepared for this angle.
“I believe, of course, that your reputation is important, and the standing of . . . our children as well.”
“Mmm.”
“—but if we are married quite soon, and Miss du Merveille is brought into an established household, under the protection of my name—”
“Geoffrey—”
“What I’m trying to say is . . . that I do not believe that her background will be an insurmountable problem.” Lord Winthrop finished in a rush, as if eager to give her good news. He smiled, and touched her hand.
Elizabeth was unable to respond for a long moment. She realized that Geoff, in his own mind, was making a huge concession. But to think of Marguerite as a problem, even a not-insurmountable problem, was maddening.
And there was the additional issue, now broached. If we are married quite soon—
Elizabeth took a deep breath, and closed her eyes, gripping the hard wood seat of the phaeton against the tumult of raw emotion that broke over her head.
What in heaven’s name was the matter with her? She felt the urge to weep, and had no idea why. Except—she did know why. Marriage to Lord Winthrop. The idea filled her with sudden despair. She’d never been infatuated with Geoffrey, and no more he with her, she imagined. But it had always seemed acceptable—
When did I stop thinking of marriage to Geoffrey as a given? she wondered. When did a life as Lady Winthrop become something to be avoided, and not just postponed?
Since I met Lord Peregrine Blakeley, came the answer, sudden and true.
The rest of the drive passed uneventfully. Miss Asherwood accepted Lord Winthrop’s apology without further comment, and neither of them added anything on the subject of marriage.
“Will I see you at the Tallfields' ball?” asked Geoffrey, in front of Aisling House, as he handed her down from the carriage.