The Handbook to Handling His Lordship

by Suzanne Enoch

  Emily sighed. “Yes, I know.” It had troubled her from the moment she’d said the words, that in reacting too swiftly to what might—by anyone else—have been construed as harmless questions, from one lover to the other, she’d revealed too much of herself. But she knew—she knew that he wasn’t what he claimed. Not entirely.

  “The column on the left-hand page,” Jenny said. “And take a seat, if you please.”

  She sat, going to the narrow column of print under the headline WELLINGTON’S STRATEGIES ON THE PENINSULA. It had been written three years ago, just after Bonaparte’s second capture, and after Wellington had been elevated to duke. In less-than-exciting language considering it talked about war, the article detailed the mission of the foot soldiers, the cavalry, the navy, and Wellington’s famed network of spies and turncoats.

  “I don’t see anything,” she said after a moment, looking across the breadth of the fireplace at Genevieve. “Some soldiers being commended for their exceptional service, but nothing about Nathaniel Stokes.”

  “No? Not the Wellington article. The one at the bottom of the page.”

  Lowering her gaze to the short article at the bottom, Emily read through it. NOTABLE PERSONAGES ENTERING LONDON SOCIETY, it read, listing several aristocrats who’d recently made the trip back to London after an absence. Most of them were officers who’d been away on duty, along with younger people finally of an age to attend soirees … and one Nathaniel Stokes, who had evidently been abroad for the previous four years.

  “‘Abroad,’” she said aloud. “That’s not very helpful.”

  “It is if you look at the timing and the lack of information,” Jenny returned, in a tone that said she was speaking with an infant. “The others are very specific; Lord Humphries, who gallantly served with the 101st Foot in Spain and Belgium and who has now returned to Grey House on Bond Street to be reunited with Lady Humphries and young Lord Victor. And then Nathaniel Stokes, who has been abroad. For the entire duration of the war and then some.”

  “Jenny, I—”

  “He was a spy,” Jenny cut in. “For Wellington.”

  Emily’s blood turned to ice. “You’re certain? Just from that?”

  “Not just from that, but yes. I … have reason to recognize the patterns and the language. Aside from that, the name Nate Stokes is not unknown in certain circles.”

  “Your circles?” Emily asked, her hands shaking so badly she had to set the paper down.

  “If I were ever to admit such a thing I might nod my head. But you will very rarely hear anyone say so directly.” She sat forward, pulling the newspaper closer and carefully refolding it. “A spy for Wellington is not an enemy, Emily, but a spy in someone else’s employ is a dangerous thing, indeed. Especially a spy named Nate Stokes.”

  “I—I need to leave,” Emily said in a small voice that sounded reluctant even to her own ears. For three years she’d felt safe. Or if not safe, then at least a little protected. And not alone. Now it was over. Her home, her new family—she needed to leave them all behind. Immediately.

  “Emily, this thing from which you hide. I think you know you could trust me with it. And Diane. And even Haybury.”

  Emily shook her head, the ice spreading through her like winter. “No. It’s better for all of you if you don’t know.”

  “Perhaps I can judge for myself what is good for me to know or not. And fleeing into the night without a plan is never a wise idea.”

  Forcing herself to think logically for a moment, Emily had to agree that Jenny had a point. When she’d fled before, she hadn’t had a plan, and it had cost her dearly. Finding The Tantalus Club had been an accident, a moment of providence, and she wasn’t likely to be so lucky the next time. “I haven’t seen him for two days,” she said aloud, her voice unsteady. “I asked him to go away, and he has.”

  “Then I would say that even if he suspects something, he does not yet have proof. A spy is trained to find definitive proof before taking action—because a spy’s truths cost men their lives.”

  “I don’t know what to do, then. It’s still safer if I go.”

  “Unless your flight is the proof for which he is waiting.”

  She hadn’t thought of that. The idea that he might be lurking outside the club, waiting for her finally to stick her head out the door … She drew a shaking breath. Nothing had happened yet. Nothing other than a few questions she hadn’t answered, and a man’s visit to her private rooms. Twice. If he was a spy, and he did need definitive proof, he hadn’t found it. She’d certainly left nothing for him to discover.

  “What do you suggest?” she asked, managing to steady her voice.

  “You won’t like it.”

  “I don’t like any of this.”

  Jenny slowly sank back into the plush brown chair again. “A guilty person, a frightened person, acts in a particular way. Acting in this manner might be the last bit of information he needs from you. So do not act in that manner. Do not hide. Do not be cautious. Or do not appear to be. You have fooled most everyone so far, but Nate Stokes is not like everyone else.”

  And that was what she’d begun to enjoy about him. She clenched her jaw. The tactic would take a great deal of courage. Perhaps more than she had. “When will he stop looking, though?”

  “When he’s convinced you are not the one he seeks.”

  “It seems very risky.” Especially when she had a very good idea that she was precisely who he was after.

  To her surprise, Jenny gave a small smile. “Life is risky, Emily. I don’t know what you hide from, but the consequences of it remain hanging over your head, regardless of what you do or where you go. Is taking this risk worth the reward of being able to put those things aside if you can convince Stokes—Westfall—that you are not this other person?”

  That was a very good question. Even if she could convince Nathaniel that she had nothing to do with Ebberling, the marquis himself remained in London. Whatever changes she’d made to her appearance, a chance existed that he would recognize her. But once he left, and once Nathaniel turned his attention elsewhere, she might … she might be able to walk outside. To go shopping with her friends, or stroll through Hyde Park on a sunny day. Or ride to Dover to see the ocean. Or to Vauxhall to see the Thames.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, meeting Jenny’s gaze. “It is worth the risk.”

  And it had nothing to do with the fact that she liked him, that she liked sex with him, and that she surprisingly liked kissing him, and that she wanted him to be after someone’s lost hound and not Rachel Newbury. Those were just wishes, and wishes were for fools.

  * * *

  “Do you have results for me then, Westfall?” the Marquis of Ebberling demanded, striding into the Velton House morning room where Nathaniel and Laurence had been placed five minutes earlier.

  So much for pleasantries. Nate had become accustomed to that greeting, however; in order to indulge his hobby he’d allowed himself to be hired. As far as Ebberling was concerned, they were not equals. That would suit, for now. He remained by the window where he’d placed himself. “Not as yet. I wanted a ch—”

  “Not yet? I was told you were the man for this task. What am I paying you for, if—”

  “You allowed the trail to go three years cold. It will take longer than a fortnight for me to track your lost item,” Nathaniel broke in, wondering for a moment why he continued to keep his suspicions about Emily Portsman to himself. It would save him a tongue-lashing from a marquis, certainly. Aside from that, it would be simple enough to learn the truth about her once and for all. He could haul Ebberling into the Tantalus, point at Portsman, and ask if the marquis recognized her.

  If he was wrong, though, the true Miss Newbury would know that the hunt for her was on, and she would flee. If he was wrong and Ebberling was hungrier for someone to hang than for the truth, he would be doing Emily a great injustice. And just to himself, at the very back edge of his thoughts, he could admit that he wasn’t terribly anxious for this hunt to b
e over. That he liked having an excuse to make amends with Portsman.

  “Yes, my lost item,” Ebberling rumbled, seeming to notice Laurie for the first time. “And who are you?”

  “His brother,” Laurence commented, pointing a finger in Nathaniel’s direction.

  “Why is your brother here, then? I asked for your assistance. Not for that of your entire bloodline. And I also asked for your discretion.”

  That he had. They always did. “I wanted to have a chat with your son, if I might,” Nate stated, pushing up his spectacles and attempting to look his most harmless. “Young George might have some insights I could use.”

  “No.”

  This investigation was becoming more interesting by the moment. “It won’t be an interrogation. My brother brought his new mount, and I thought George might enjoy a short ride about the stable yard. Laurence is quite amiable, as is Dandelion.”

  Ebberling looked from one to the other of them. “George likes horses. Very well. But I expect a full report on whatever information you gain from him.”

  It might have been that the father didn’t want to subject the lad to further trauma, but Ebberling certainly hadn’t mentioned anything of the kind. Or it might have been as simple as the marquis not wishing to discuss the marchioness’s death. Or it might not. “Of course,” he said aloud. “We’ll be in the stable yard.”

  With a curt nod the marquis left the room and called for a Mrs. Peabody—presumably the boy’s new governess. Laurence took Nate’s shoulder as they left the front entry for the yard. “‘Dandelion’?” he repeated.

  Nate shrugged. “It sounds harmless. I’m not going to say we wish to set his son and heir on Widowmaker while we interrogate him.”

  “I’m not calling him the Widowmaker. That was only something I was contemplating. I decided on Dragon.”

  “Ah. Much more acceptable. Today he’s Dandelion.” Stifling a grin, Nathaniel walked up to the pretty bay gelding and patted him on the withers.

  “If a name meant anything, we’d be putting young George up on Blue,” Laurie muttered.

  “And then we both could join the elusive Miss Newbury in running from a murder,” Nathaniel returned in the same tone, putting a smile on his face as young George bounded around the corner, an elderly stick of a woman on his heels. “You must be George,” he said in his friendliest voice. “Your father tells me you’re an admirer of horseflesh.”

  “Oh, yes!” the boy shouted, grinning widely.

  George Velton couldn’t be more than eight or nine, which would have made him five or six at the time of his mother’s death and Rachel Newbury’s departure. Five-year-olds did not make the most reliable of witnesses. What they were exceptional at, however, was reading a man or a woman’s character. And that was what he wanted to know.

  Two of Ebberling’s grooms were also present, evidently to make certain that the lad didn’t break his neck. Considering the care with which he and Laurie had selected the bay, and the reputation of Sullivan Waring’s stables for producing reliable mounts, they had nothing to worry about.

  What he found more curious was that Ebberling remained indoors. In his experience, fathers, sons, and horses were a nearly inseparable trio in aristocratic circles. But he hadn’t been hired to determine his employer’s character. Bending, he took George around the waist and lifted him into the saddle. A groomsman and Laurie shortened the stirrups while Nate held the reins and the boy bounced excitedly, all skinny arms and legs and ears. Evidently the boy took after his late mother in looks, because other than the dark hair, he didn’t resemble the marquis a whit.

  “What’s his name?” he asked, patting the gelding’s neck. “He’s sterling.”

  “Dandelion,” Laurie supplied, even managing to avoid grimacing as he said the name. “From Waring’s stables.”

  “Oh, that’s diamond. Waring has the best stables in England! I’ve been wanting one of his, but Father says I’m not old enough.”

  “Perhaps this will convince him,” Nathaniel put in. “Did your father tell you who we are?”

  “He said you were Lord Westfall,” the boy returned, then looked at Laurie. “And you were Westfall’s brother.”

  Laurie offered his hand. “Laurence Stokes. You may call me Laurie, if you like.”

  They shook hands. “I’m Viscount Ryling, but you may call me George.”

  “George it is, then.” Laurie patted the boy’s thigh. “Ready to give Dandelion a go?”

  “I certainly am,” the young viscount replied. “I’m a very good rider.”

  Nathaniel handed over the reins and shifted his grip to the bridle. Clucking his tongue, he led the gelding into a walk around the perimeter of the yard while his younger brother kept pace beside George, chatting with his usual easy amiability.

  As they walked, Nate watched his brother. Seeing him beside an eight-year-old made one thing clear—Laurence wasn’t a child any longer. And he had a refreshing way of being himself that made his older brother mildly jealous. As did the fact that most people genuinely liked Laurence Stokes.

  “That skinny woman,” Laurence said in a confidential tone. “Is she your governess?”

  George scowled. “She is. She’s very slow, though. I can’t run anywhere. I can’t even walk quickly without her yelling at me. It’s quite disappointing. I’m accustomed to being more active.”

  “When I was your age, I had a governess named Mrs. Reed. She knew all the words to ‘Drunken Sailor.’”

  “Mrs. Peabody would have an apoplexy if I sang that song.” George giggled. “I think you should teach me.”

  “No one’s taught you any sea chanteys? This is a travesty,” Laurence commented with a grin. “Did you have a governess before Mrs. Peabody?”

  “Yes.” George’s face fell. “But I’m not supposed to talk about her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She killed my mother. Father says so. I don’t think she would do that, though, because Miss Newbury and my mother were good friends. They shared books and everything.”

  “Did you like Miss Newbury, then?”

  “Oh, very much. She helped me learn about insects and plants, because when I was little I wanted to be a botanist. Now I’m going to ride a horse in the Derby.”

  “Did Miss Newbury know any sea chanteys?”

  “Probably, but she would never teach me any. Father says I’m always to be a gentleman.” He bounced in the saddle. “Did you see Sullivan Waring when you purchased Dandelion?”

  Laurence shook his head. “Lord Bram Johns was at Tattersall’s with Waring’s horses.”

  “Oh, they’re partners. They were in the war together.”

  Nathaniel stifled another grin. Laurence was finally getting a taste of what it was like to have a conversation with himself. Perhaps his brother would pay more heed to staying on the subject during their own discussions, from now on. “What was your favorite thing to do with Miss Newbury?” he asked, taking pity on his sibling.

  “Well, we went for a walk almost every day, and she helped me catch frogs. That was quite fun.”

  Frog catching didn’t quite fit with his vision of a nose-in-the-air governess, but that was why he was there—to gain some insight into her character that the butler and the marquis and the housekeeper had lacked. “What did you do on rainy days?” he pursued, walking backward to keep both eyes on the lad.

  He smiled. “Oh, we read. Miss Newbury and I would act all the parts in the stories. My favorite was the one with the hedgehog and the badger.” Abruptly his expression collapsed into a frown. “But Father says only silly people read silly stories that can’t possibly be true. They’re for babies, and I’m almost nine.”

  Laurie sent a glance over Nathaniel’s shoulder. “You’re out of time,” he murmured.

  “Go chat with Ebberling, will you?” Nate whispered back at him. “I need two minutes.”

  “If I get my head bitten off I’m blaming you.” Laurence patted young George on the knee and strode back
to the edge of the yard. There he began chatting about … something. Whatever it was, Ebberling didn’t seem terribly interested. However charming Laurie could be, two minutes might be a bit much to ask.

  Nate returned his attention to the young boy sitting on the overlarge saddle. “Was Miss Newbury happy at Ebberling?” he asked quietly. “Did you ever see her cry?”

  “I saw her cry two times,” the lad returned, ducking his head closer to reply in the conspiratorial tone that Nate had used. “One time Mama was sick, and Miss Newbury took me down to dinner, when usually she ate in her own bedchamber.”

  “Did she cry before or after dinner?”

  “After dinner, when she came back upstairs to tuck me into bed and read to me. I even asked her what was wrong, and she said … let me think. She said something about how her own mama had been sickly, too, and she used to bring her flowers to cheer her up. And we picked flowers from the garden in the morning, and Mama liked them very much. Her favorite was the yellow daisies, but Miss Newbury liked white roses.”

  For a moment Nate ran that convoluted bit of conversation through his mind. Knowing Rachel Newbury liked roses was well and good, but something about the rest of the conversation felt off. “Did she stay downstairs with your father for very long after dinner that night?” he finally asked.

  “Not for very long,” the boy answered. “I only had time to put on my nightshirt and feed flies to my frogs and review my butterfly collection.”

  Then she had been alone with the marquis, and for long enough to engage in more than discourse. Had she been his mistress? Had the marchioness died because of some governess’s jealousy? Had the tears been because Ebberling had ended the affair? Too many damned questions, and not enough answers. “What was the other time she cried?” he pushed, noting that the marquis’s face was growing red. Evidently even Laurie’s charms had their limits.

  “I remember that very well. It was right when she left. I was playing with my frogs, because I was training them to hop across the keys of the pianoforte, and she ran by the music room and I saw her crying. I went to ask what was amiss, but I couldn’t find her, and then Father came into the house and he was very angry and said everyone was to look for Miss Newbury because something terrible had happened and it was her fault.”