The Enigma of a Spy

by Linda Rae Sande

  Persephone struggled to keep her mouth closed. She didn’t remember asking him to luncheon whilst they shared dinner the night before.

  Adonis’ manner as well as his query seemed entirely normal to the viscount. “Lord Reading’s nag won another race,” he replied, finally lifting his attention from the paper to find Adonis taking a seat halfway down the table. A footman was quick to add a place setting and pour wine. “There are reports that red snow is falling in Italy. And it sounds as if the Carlton Group will pursue their project up in Leeds once the canal is complete.”

  Adonis angled his head. News of red snow falling in the higher elevations of Italy had been reported several times that year. He decided to instead ask about the project in Leeds. “Did you join the investment group?”

  Craven shook his head. “The buy-in is entirely too rich for me. If I had that much blunt, why I would use it to play faro at the Jack of Spades. At least then I could be assured of some kind of return on my money,” he claimed with a roll of his eyes.

  “Faro does favor the player,” Adonis commented, his manner not the least bit judgmental. Knowing how poorly his brother-in-law played the card game had him deciding it was a good thing Lord Craven didn’t have the money to do so. “But I haven’t had the chance to try my luck since I was in Brussels.” He suddenly frowned before he turned his attention to his sister. “Will you be paying calls this afternoon, my lady?”

  Persephone blinked and stared at her brother for a moment. Perhaps her husband was right. Adonis’ behavior seemed entirely ... normal. “Given this ghastly weather, I think not,” she replied, not meaning her words to sound as prickly as she felt just then. Robert Craven hadn’t graced their townhouse with his presence in nearly three days, and then he had simply showed up for luncheon as if he did so every day.

  “How was your trip to Sussex?” Adonis asked then, turning his attention back to his brother-in-law.

  “Dreary and cold,” Craven replied with a frown. “But Cunningham and Waterford know what they’re doing. Since Gregory Grandby won’t take me on as a client, I figure Cunningham is my next best opportunity to make some blunt this year. Given they have some gypsum mines and how much construction has been going on, I can’t help but think there is some money to be made.”

  “You won’t have to pay taxes on your earnings,” Adonis said in response.

  The viscount lifted his head from the paper and regarded his brother-in-law. “Come again?”

  Adonis managed a shrug. “The income tax has been repealed. You won’t be taxed for any income you make from a venture with Cunningham and Waterford,” he stated.

  Craven gave his wife an arched brow before turning his attention back to Adonis. “Good point,” he countered. “We had to turn off the spigot, you see, or Prinny would have continued to bleed us dry.”

  Persephone frowned as she listened to her brother and husband exchange words. She recognized the names he had mentioned. Cunningham was Michael Cunningham, the son of a viscount and an investor with his father-in-law, Harold Waterford, in a variety of business pursuits in the Horsham District of Sussex. The two had investments in ironworks as well as gypsum mines. Given the extreme weather all of England had been experiencing this past winter as well as the wet, cold spring, though, she figured coal mines would be a better investment. At least, as long as people could afford to buy it.

  Ever since Sir Humprey Davy had proven his Davy’s lamp in the Durham Coalfield earlier that year, coal mines throughout England had begun outfitting their miners with the lamps. She rather imagined Waterford and Cunningham had done the same with the gypsum miners in Sussex. She hoped they hadn’t increased the price of their product to compensate for the added expense, though. Most in England could barely afford to buy food let alone mined products.

  As for Gregory Grandby, he was a younger cousin of Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, and he was a master at investing monies to build wealth for his clients.

  “You were in Sussex?” she asked of her husband, not bothering to hide her surprise. Here she had thought he was merely holed up in a gaming hell, gambling away what little was left of the Craven fortune.

  Or worse.

  Craven gave a shrug in response. “Just returned a few minutes ago,” he replied. “I apologize for not sending word of my delay. I truly thought I would be back last night, but the damned roads were so muddy, the coach couldn’t get through,” he complained. He didn’t add that he had spent the night in a coaching inn in Coulsdon.

  “I had no idea you had business in Sussex,” Persephone countered, wondering why he hadn’t let her know of his plans. She had even entertained a thought that he was ensconced in a brothel these past few days.

  The viscount frowned. “I left a note for you on your escritoire,” he replied, glancing up from the paper to give her a nod. “You were sound asleep when I left, and I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

  Persephone blinked. And blinked again. Well, she supposed she might have discovered the note if she had bothered to pay a visit to her salon anytime in the last few days. “That was rather considerate of you,” she managed in reply, just as the footman delivered a bowl of steaming fish soup in front of her.

  Her husband’s attention was back on Adonis. “What is it?” he asked, noticing how Adonis seemed deep in thought.

  “It makes no sense, of course,” Adonis replied with a frown, leaning to one side as his soup was delivered.

  “No sense?” Craven repeated.

  “The country is eight-hundred and thirty-four million pounds in debt. Why would the income tax be repealed at a time when it is most needed?”

  The viscount blinked before finally giving a shrug. “Well, we did have a bit of a discussion on the matter in Parliament,” he replied, ignoring the bowl of soup that appeared next to his newspaper. “But considering who is saved from having to pay the income tax, it makes perfect sense we would repeal it.” The comment came with an arched eyebrow, as if everyone should guess that those in power—those who earned the most money in England—benefited the most from the legislation.

  “I take your meaning,” Adonis said with a nod, his frown deepening.

  “By the way, your sister thinks you’re a candidate for Bedlam,” Craven stated suddenly, his tone most unapologetic. He ignored Persephone’s gasp of shock. “What say you?”

  Adonis gave the comment some consideration before he allowed a shrug, his brows furrowed so a vertical line appeared between them. “I suppose there are days when it appears as if I probably should be admitted as a patient,” he allowed. “But, for the most part, I am sane. Just a bit ... preoccupied is all,” he admitted with a shrug. He didn’t add that his most recent thoughts had him imagining Lady Lydia Barrymore kissing him again.

  In his home.

  In his arms.

  In his bed.

  “What has you preoccupied?” Persephone asked from her end of the table.

  Her brother allowed a shrug, realizing he couldn’t exactly tell her the truth. Well, he could, but then she really would have him admitted to Bedlam. “I discovered only yesterday that I was to be knighted this morning, so there was a investiture ceremony, with all the pomp and ...”

  Robert Craven dropped his newspaper. “You’re a knight now?” he half-questioned, beating Persephone’s attempt at stating her disbelief. “Good God, I must not have been in Parliament the day knighthoods were discussed. Either that, or Prinny did it without our approval, which I wouldn’t put past him,” he added, sotto voce. “Well deserved, though, I should think, given your participation in the Battle of Ligny. Congratulations,” he added before finally turning to his soup.

  “You don’t believe him, do you?” Persephone countered, her attention on her husband and her pointed statement proving she didn’t believe Adonis’ comment about his investiture. “I told you he was insane!”

  Having reached into a pocket in his topcoat even before Persephone put voice to her protest, Adonis pulled out the badge
he had been given during the ceremony. The ribbon on which it was strung trailed behind. “It’s rather more heavy than I imagined,” he said as he handed the medal to his brother-in-law.

  Lord Craven examined the badge and let out a slow whistle. “I suppose now I have to address you as Sir Ad—”

  “Donald,” Adonis put in abruptly. “But, no, you needn’t address me as such.” He turned to his sister and was about to say something more when he instead simply sighed and went back to eating his soup.

  He was quite sure she was about to faint. If she did, he didn’t want to pay witness to her tumble from the table.

  “You’ll have to forgive your sister, Donald. She’s merely concerned since you’ve seemed a bit ... off these past two months,” Robert said in a soft voice.

  “Oh, I have been off,” Adonis acknowledged with a nod, not the least bit embarrassed at admitting it.

  Off in another place.

  Off in another time.

  Off-kilter.

  Lost.

  Robert gave his wife a pointed glance. “Well, as long as you don’t go off killing someone, or showing up in some poor woman’s bedchamber uninvited, I suppose all is well.”

  Adonis blinked, wondering why Lord Craven would mention the latter.

  Or the former, for that matter.

  He had only ever killed four men, all of them French, including the soldier who had used his bayonet in an attempt to kill him first. But how did Craven know he had been spending his nights seeing to Lady Lydia Grandby Barrymore’s protection? “And if I am?” he countered, leaning back as a footman delivered a plate of steaming pork loin swimming in gravy.

  Craven regarded his brother-in-law with an arched brow. Then he burst into laughter, the throaty sound eliciting another gasp from his wife. “Carry on, dear brother. Carry on,” he replied with a huge grin.

  Persephone Craven stared at her plate and allowed a sigh, deciding her husband would never believe her claim.

  Perhaps Adonis was more sane than she thought. Or perhaps it is merely me who is losing my grip on reality, she considered as she stabbed her fork into the pork.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Former Lover Pays a Visit

  An hour later ...

  Oliver Preston stepped down from his Irish walker and regarded the townhouse his fellow agent and one-time friend had purchased on the occasion of his marriage to Lydia Grandby. Although its exterior looked like any of the others along Bruton Street—white with Palladian windows, columned porticos over the front doors, and curved wrought iron railings in front of the second- and third-story windows—he thought it much grander on the inside.

  Especially one particular bedchamber.

  He tossed a coin to a boy who ran up to take the reins of his horse. “Much obliged, guv’nor,” the urchin said as he lifted his cap.

  Oliver was about to warn the boy he might be awhile, but realized that he was probably already being spied on by at least a few of Lydia’s neighbors. If he stayed too long, Lydia would be the subject of rumors and gossip for a fortnight. Better that he state his business and hope she could provide answers quickly. Make it appear as if he were an old family friend merely checking on her well-being.

  The visit from Adonis Truscott had him convinced he had to finish his business in London and leave—as soon after the wedding as he could manage the arrangements.

  The blue painted front door opened before he could use the lion-head knocker. “Mr. Preston for Lady Barrymore,” he said as he paused before the threshold. He held out a white pasteboard card, his name engraved in black ink.

  Jenkins gave a nod and stepped aside. If he was displeased by the appearance of a man who had paid calls on his master in the past, he didn’t show it. “I’ll see if Lady Barrymore is in residence,” he said before heading down the central hall from the vestibule.

  When he had called on the widow in the past, Oliver usually let himself in the back door, crept up the stairs, and went straight to her bedchamber. Lydia was, he had decided, a bit of a prude, insisting she’d rather not have her servants know of her affaire with him. They’ll gossip with the neighbor’s servants, and should Lady Pettigrew discover I’m ...

  A widow having an affaire? he had countered. You would be gossiped about should you not take a lover, dear Liddy.

  Well, today’s visit would be brief and to the point. He had to find Jasper’s ring.

  “Oliver?” The feminine voice held as much surprise as it did welcome.

  “In the flesh,” he replied as he gave a bow. Rather than kissing the back of her hand, he bussed her on the cheek, making sure the butler noticed. “I thought to check on you whilst I’m still on these shores.”

  Lydia angled her head and turned to lead him to the parlor. “Can you bring a tea tray, Jenkins?” she said as an aside before turning her attention back to Oliver. “Where will your travels take you this time?”

  Her visitor took in a breath and waited as Lydia settled herself into the middle of a dark blue velvet settee. “The Continent is all. The wedding trip,” he added a bit sheepishly, thinking she probably didn’t want to hear the reason.

  “You needn’t be apologetic about getting married, Oliver,” she scolded gently. “But I must admit, I’m rather surprised it’s taken this long for you to find a wife.”

  He gave a shrug. “One has to look for a bride to find one,” he countered, as if his words held some deeper meaning. “I’ve just never looked before.” Never had to. He dared a glance toward the door. “Truth be told, I’m getting out of the service completely,” he whispered. “I just have this one assignment to complete, and then I’ll be wed and off to the Continent.”

  Lydia didn’t have a chance to respond to this news before Jenkins appeared on the threshold with the tea tray. “Do you take cream or sugar?” she asked, giving a nod to Jenkins before he took his leave of the parlor. She knew he preferred the Highland Park scotch Jasper favored and had kept stocked in the study prior to his death, but she wasn’t about to offer him a drink in the middle of the day.

  “Yes to both,” Oliver replied as he leaned forward. Lowering his voice, he said, “I’m afraid my one loose end has a bit to do with Jasper.”

  Glancing up from the cup she was setting onto a saucer, Lydia regarded her guest with an arched brow. “Oh?”

  “I can’t give you the details, of course, but I was wondering if I might be allowed to go through his personal effects. The things he had with him whilst he was in that last battle on the Continent.”

  Handing him the cup of tea, Lydia’s expression saddened. “Oh, I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  Oliver blinked. “Why ever not? I just need to look, Liddy,” he insisted, his manner suddenly hinting at annoyance.

  “I haven’t yet received his personal effects,” Lydia remarked, wondering at the sudden sense of unease she felt in the man’s presence. He had visited her bed on several occasions. He wasn’t the accomplished lover she had hoped for when she accepted his overtures. Although his dark, dangerous looks would have suggested a man who could please a woman between the sheets, he was rather quick with his tumbles, and despite a mouth with lips that promised he would enjoy kissing, he eschewed the practice.

  Well, except when it came to her nipples.

  Then he seemed to use them liberally. Too bad he hadn’t figured out how to use them to their best advantage. “I have asked at the War Office, of course, but ...” She shrugged before seeing to her own cup of tea. “Was there something in particular you were looking for? Perhaps he didn’t have it with him over there. Truth be told, I’ve begun to think he knew he wouldn’t be coming back to these shores when he received that last assignment from Wellington.”

  The dark, handsome man shook his head. “I’m quite sure he would have had to have it with him. A means to pass along ... information,” he hinted, one of his eyebrows arched up. “Something with a very small compartment. A small pocket watch or ... a ring or ... a snuff box, perhaps.”r />
  Lydia shook her head, careful not to give away the moment she felt alarm at hearing the word, “ring.” She had just discussed the matter with Lord Chamberlain the day before. Caution kept her from offering the details of what she knew about how Jasper hid little bits of information. Tiny folded squares of paper. Gemstones. Thin rolls of papers with a column of numbers penciled onto them. Runes. All of them fit into one particular piece of jewelry he owned. A piece that wasn’t particularly well hidden in his master bedchamber. That was the beauty of it, of course. No one thought to look at items that were out in the open or easily discovered in the top tray of a jewelry box.

  Lydia shook her head as she pretended to think. “Not a snuff box, certainly. He never used the stuff, and I don’t believe he’s ever received one as a gift,” she remarked before taking a sip of tea. “Perhaps you would have more luck at the War Office than I did,” she suggested. “I’m quite sure they only saw me as the grieving widow. Why, I should think they would be more forthcoming should you make the request.”

  Oliver seemed to consider her words before he drained his tea cup. “If you don’t mind, I think I will do just that,” he replied, moving to stand up.

  “Must you go so soon?” Lydia asked, feigning disappointment. “You haven’t even eaten a piece of cake.”

  He seemed to think on the offer before giving a shake of his head. “Thank you, milady, but no. If I head for the War Office right now, I might make it whilst there’s still a clerk or two about,” he said as he gave a bow.

  Lydia didn’t bother getting up, but allowed him to brush his lips over the back of her hand. “Do let me know what you find out, won’t you?” she said quietly. “Before you take your leave of these shores?”

  Oliver regarded her with a sigh. “I will, Liddy. Do take care of yourself, won’t you?”

  With that, Oliver Preston gave a leg and took his leave of the townhouse, a plan forming in his mind’s eye.