A Dangerous Pursuit (Regency Spies & Secrets Book 1)

by Laura Beers

  “Hello, Corbyn,” Baldwin greeted. “What happened to the other guards?”

  Corbyn chuckled. “There have been a lot of changes since you have been gone.” He ushered Baldwin into the room. “We have much to discuss, Falcon.”

  Baldwin noticed that the guards had lowered their weapons and were staring at him with a newfound respect in their eyes. A look that he had grown accustomed to over the years.

  He brushed past them and headed into the office. His eyes scanned the sparsely decorated walls. “I see you haven’t made any changes to your office since I left for France,” he commented.

  Corbyn huffed. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the time.”

  “In three years?”

  Corbyn appeared unconcerned. “It makes it much easier to move offices, if the need arises,” he remarked.

  “That is a good point.”

  Corbyn walked over to the drink cart in the corner. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Yes.”

  Angling his body towards him, Corbyn picked up the decanter and removed the stopper. “Pardon me for saying so, but you look terrible,” he said as he poured the drinks.

  “That is understandable since I just stepped off the ship,” Baldwin shared.

  Corbyn picked up the two glasses and walked one over to him. “I expected you days ago.”

  “We ran into some unexpected trouble,” Baldwin responded. “It isn’t easy to cross the Channel undetected.”

  “You got caught.”

  “That we did.”

  “By us or the French?”

  Baldwin took a sip of his drink. “The HMS Victory,” he replied, “but Captain Hampton was being a real stickler, despite the war being over.”

  “Did you not have the proper documentation to cross?”

  “We did, but we weren’t able to produce it until after they shot a few cannons at us.”

  Corbyn walked over to his desk and sat down. “Were you using a French schooner to cross?”

  “We were,” he confirmed. “We paid a French merchant to take us.”

  Corbyn lifted his brow. “Willingly?”

  Baldwin smirked. “He was compensated enough, and we left him and his crew alive at the dock.”

  “That was nice of you.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Baldwin asked before taking the last sip of his drink. He walked over to the drink tray and set it down. “If the schooner leaves in the middle of the night, it should be able to cross back into French waters without an altercation.”

  “I was worried that you wouldn’t receive my message,” Corbyn said, placing his drink on the desk.

  “What message?”

  “The one that ordered you home.”

  Baldwin furrowed his brows. “I received no such message.”

  “Then why did you come back to England?” Corbyn asked.

  Baldwin walked over to the chair in front of the desk and sat down. “The group of royalists that I had been working with discovered a credible threat against England,” he revealed.

  “Which is?”

  “A French spy is traveling to England to meet with a group of radicals who are secretly plotting a rebellion.”

  Corbyn leaned forward in his seat. “What is this radical group called?”

  “I am not entirely sure, but the informant managed to overhear that members of the group meet at Floyd’s Coffeehouse on Baker Street.”

  “We have gone on much less,” Corbyn said with a bob of his head. “I will assign this case to another agent at once.”

  “With all due respect, I am more than capable of completing this assignment.”

  “That you are, but it is time for you to retire.”

  Baldwin reared back slightly. “May I ask why?”

  Corbyn gave him an understanding look. “We need you to take up your seat in the House of Lords and assume your place in Society.”

  “Why is that?”

  “These are troubling times, and we need an advocate in the House of Lords.”

  “For anything in particular?”

  Reaching for the newspaper on the corner of his desk, Corbyn held it up. “Lord Desmond has just introduced a bill to establish an agency within the Home Office that will be responsible for the overseeing of the workhouses.”

  “Did he state why?”

  “The Home Office is responsible for safeguarding the rights and liberties of all the people, and he feels the parishes are not doing a good enough job with the overseeing of the poor,” Corbyn explained. “He believes the Home Office has adequate funds to establish this new agency, and he is rallying the people in defense of the bill. If his bill succeeds, then we will lose some of our funding.”

  “Who does Lord Desmond think is keeping England safe from domestic and foreign threats?”

  “That isn’t his concern at the moment,” Corbyn replied. “He wants to run for Prime Minister and use the workhouses as his platform.”

  “That is just asinine.”

  Corbyn took a sip of his drink. “People in the rookeries are dying at an alarming rate, and the reformers are tired of the Tories being in charge of Parliament. The people have been rioting for years.”

  “Regardless, the Alien Office wards off potential threats and keeps the people safe. We have agents all over the world protecting England’s interests.”

  “As far as the Alien Office is concerned, we don’t exist,” Corbyn stated flatly. “Which is why we are not bound to the same rules as the other agencies in the Home Office.”

  “What does Addington say as the under-secretary of the Home Office?” Baldwin asked. “Surely he is fighting this bill?”

  “He is,” Corbyn confirmed, “as is the Home Secretary, but Lord Desmond is relentless, and he is getting the votes. That is why we need you in your seat at the House of Lords.”

  Baldwin rose from his chair and walked over to the window overlooking a small brick courtyard. He heaved a heavy sigh. “I can’t just walk away from being an agent of the Crown,” he insisted. “Frankly, I am too invested in this agency.”

  “You are a marquess, and you knew this day would eventually come.”

  “But I could be no less ready for it.”

  Corbyn’s lips twitched. “You need not fret. We do have other competent agents, including Oliver.”

  “I have no doubt that my brother is more than competent, but I want this assignment,” Baldwin retorted.

  Corbyn grew silent for a long moment, studying him thoughtfully. Finally, he spoke. “All right, but you must also resume your seat in the House of Lords.”

  “Thank you, Corbyn.”

  “But after this assignment, you are finished working as an agent,” Corbyn said, leveling his stern gaze at him. “Do we have a deal?”

  “I suppose I have no other option.”

  Corbyn rose from behind his desk. “Go home, Falcon,” he encouraged. “You have been gone for far too long.”

  Stepping away from the window, Baldwin admitted, “I suppose it is time.”

  “I can’t help but notice that you seem reluctant.”

  Baldwin nodded. “I am. I’m not sure if I’m ready to go back.”

  Corbyn came around his desk and said, “Take all the time you need. I have to leave to interrogate a suspect.”

  “Do you require any assistance?” Baldwin asked hopefully.

  “Thank you for the offer, but I can handle this suspect on my own,” Corbyn replied as he walked over to the door. He placed his hand on the handle and stopped. “I believe it is time for you to face your past so you can embrace the future.”

  Baldwin lifted his brow. “Since when did you get so sentimental?”

  “A lot has changed since you have been gone,” Corbyn said. “I do find it odd that you can go undercover in France for three years, but you are too scared to return to your own townhouse. A rather remarkable townhouse, I might add.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “And no doubt they are foolhardy,” Cor
byn quipped.

  Baldwin winced. “You are right.”

  “Of course I am right,” Corbyn said. “I wasn’t offered this position because of my good looks.”

  With a shake of his head, Baldwin remarked, “You are entirely too full of yourself.”

  “With good reason, like the fact that I’m not afraid to go home,” Corbyn joked.

  “I will go, but only because I tire of this conversation,” Baldwin said, closing the distance between them.

  “That is a good enough reason for me.”

  Baldwin sat in the filthy hackney as it made its way towards Hawthorne House. He was dreading going home. It wasn’t long after his father had died that he had accepted the assignment to join a group of royalists in France. But a month-long mission turned into three years.

  The hackney lurched to a stop in front of a high black iron gate. A guard approached the driver and asked, “What business do you have with us?”

  The driver shouted down, “This fellow paid me to take him to Hawthorne House.”

  “It is too late for callers,” the guard declared, taking a step back. “Be gone with you.”

  Baldwin put his hand through the open window and pushed down the handle. As he stepped onto the pavement, he said, “I would like admittance to my own home, if you don’t mind.”

  The guard’s eyes grew wide. “Lord Hawthorne,” he responded, clearly stunned. “Yes, of course. Give me a moment.”

  The guard rushed to the gate, unlocked it and pushed it open. Baldwin reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and removed a few coins, then extended them towards the driver.

  “Thank you, milord,” the driver said with a tip of his hat.

  After the driver deposited the coins into his pocket, he urged the hackney forward and disappeared down the darkened street.

  Baldwin stepped into the cobblestone courtyard and took a moment to admire Hawthorne House. It was a rectangular building with two protruding wings. The doors and windows had gold embellishments around the frames, and a large portico hung over the door.

  The guard spoke up from behind him. “I apologize for the misunderstanding, milord,” he said in a hesitant voice. “I hadn’t heard that you had returned home.”

  “No harm done,” Baldwin replied.

  He heard the gate being closed and locked behind him as he started across the cobblestone courtyard. Stopping in front of the double ebony doors, he sighed. This home offered so many memories of his father; memories that he longed to forget.

  Baldwin placed his key in the lock and turned it, then pushed the door open. He paused on the threshold and took in the familiar scent. The entry hall was square in shape with marble-tiled floors and columns that preceded a dominating staircase that led up to the second level. The pleasant sound of the pianoforte could be heard drifting out from the drawing room.

  The raised heel of his Hessian boots made clicking noises on the floor as he approached the drawing room. He came to a stop just outside it and peered in. He could see his sister, Jane, playing the pianoforte, her eyes closed as her hands drifted over the ivory keys with ease. Her brown hair was pulled into a high chignon and she was wearing a white gown with a blue sash around her waist. His mother listened to the music with her back to him, and he could see her once vibrant brown hair was now starting to fade.

  Baldwin took a moment to gather the nerve to announce himself. He knew they would be angry for his departure, and subsequent abandonment, but he hoped they would forgive him in time.

  He stepped into the room and cleared his throat. The music came to an abrupt halt, and he heard his mother gasp as she turned to face him.

  His mother and sister both stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

  He felt the need to break the silence. “I hope I am not intruding,” Baldwin attempted.

  His mother rose from her seat. “You are finally home.” Her voice was soft, almost reverent.

  “I am.”

  She slowly approached him and hesitantly placed her hand on his right cheek, as if she were trying to convince herself that he was real. “I have prayed for your safe return for so long.”

  Unsure of what to say, Baldwin remained quiet. He saw his sister rise from her seat and walk closer to him.

  “I thought you were dead,” Jane accused in a critical tone.

  Baldwin smiled, hoping to disarm his sister. “As you can see, I am very much alive.”

  His mother’s eyes searched his face. “Where have you been?”

  “I’m afraid I am unable to say,” Baldwin replied.

  Jane placed a hand on her hip and asked defiantly, “You have been gone for three years and you can’t tell us where you have been?”

  Baldwin turned his attention towards his sister. He had left when she was eighteen and preparing for her first Season. Now he barely recognized the young woman standing before him. Her pointed chin was jutted out and her eyes held an intensity, challenging him.

  “Where Baldwin has been is not important, only that he has returned,” his mother declared.

  His brother’s voice came from behind him. “Well said, Mother.”

  Baldwin turned towards the door and saw his younger brother, Oliver, standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a green jacket with a white waistcoat and dark trousers, a look that accentuated his dark hair.

  “Welcome home, Brother,” Oliver said.

  “Thank you,” Baldwin replied.

  Oliver stepped further into the room. “It is about time that you returned,” he stated, but there was no animosity in his voice.

  “It is good to be home.”

  Oliver perused the length of him and commented, “You look awful.”

  Baldwin glanced down at his wrinkled clothes. “I could use a bath,” he admitted, “and a fresh change of clothes.”

  His mother nodded. “That you could,” she agreed. “You have a slight odor coming off your person.”

  “A slight odor,” Jane huffed. “Baldwin smells like he rolled around in horse manure and deposited some in his pockets for later.”

  His mother frowned at Jane’s comment. “It is rather a pungent smell, but nothing a long soak wouldn’t cure.” She walked over to the door and stopped. “Jane and I will see to the bath, won’t we, dear?” she asked, giving Jane a pointed look.

  Jane cast him an annoyed look before saying, “Yes, Mother.”

  Baldwin watched as Jane kept her head high and followed his mother out of the room. His gaze remained on the open door. “It would appear Jane is not pleased that I returned home,” he observed.

  “She will come around,” Oliver insisted.

  “I hope so.”

  “You must understand that it has been nearly three years since they have heard from you,” Oliver said. “Most of the ton speculated that you were dead.”

  “Did you not receive my messages?”

  Oliver nodded. “I received them, but they were quite vague.”

  “They had to be,” he argued. “If they had gotten into the wrong hands, I would have been exposed.”

  “I am well aware of that fact.” Oliver walked over to the door and closed it. “Did you already report to Corbyn?”

  “I did,” Baldwin confirmed. “I was pleased to see that the location of our headquarters remained unchanged.”

  “Was Corbyn pleased to see you?”

  Baldwin walked over to a maroon velvet settee and sat down. “He appeared to be.”

  “Was your mission successful?”

  “It was,” Baldwin confirmed. “I did discover that a French spy intends to rendezvous with a group of radicals on English soil.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “That is what I intend to find out,” Baldwin stated.

  Oliver came to sit across from him in an upholstered armchair. “You should take a break and let the other agents handle this case.”

  “Like you?”

  Oliver shrugged. “If Corbyn deems me worthy of the assignment, but I am curre
ntly working on another case.”

  Baldwin leaned his head back and revealed, “Corbyn wants me to retire.”

  “Would that be the worst thing?”

  “It would,” Baldwin said. “The last thing I want to do is resume my place in Society.”

  “Is being a marquess really that troublesome?” Oliver joked.

  Baldwin huffed. “I never wanted to be a marquess, at least not at the expense of Father.”

  “I am well aware of that, but it doesn’t change the fact that Father died,” Oliver reminded him.

  “You don’t need to remind me of that,” Baldwin said in a sharper tone than he intended.

  Oliver leaned forward in his seat. “Did Corbyn state why he wanted you to retire?”

  “He did,” Baldwin confirmed. “He wants me to resume my seat in the House of Lords and vote down Lord Desmond’s bill.”

  Oliver let out a low whistle. “Lord Desmond is quite influential in the House of Lords. Did Corbyn mention that he intends to run for Prime Minister?”

  “That he did.”

  “Just so you are aware, he is still just as despicable as he was when you last saw him,” Oliver shared.

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” Baldwin stared up at the white embellishment on the ceiling as the candles on the tables cast shadows around the outskirts of the room. “Being home feels so odd,” he admitted.

  “In what way?”

  “For starters, I lived in single rooms above coaching inns for nearly three years,” Baldwin shared. “I learned how to preserve candles for as long as possible.”

  “That must be a rather difficult thing for you to overcome,” Oliver said with amusement in his tone. “A rich marquess who had to learn to be frugal.”

  Baldwin grew reflective. “Despite the hardships, I am not ready to give up being an agent of the Crown.”

  “What did Corbyn say to that?”

  “He is going to let me work this last case,” Baldwin shared, “but then I am to retire.”

  Oliver made a clucking noise with his tongue. “You were recruited right out of Oxford to be an agent.”

  “As were you.”

  “But, unlike you, I haven’t been working as an agent for nearly ten years,” Oliver pointed out. “You are thirty years old and have managed to survive being an Englishman living in France during a time of war.”