Sir Lee forced himself to dismiss the critical thought, realizing that he was probably just being envious. He’d give his right arm for a chance to change places with the man sitting across from him.
“I’d heard Gérardin Valmont was dead. His heart gave out in a Paris bordello.”
Wheaton’s blue eyes twinkled. “I knew you still kept your oar in the water.”
“I’m old, Wheaton, not dead.” Glancing about the room Sir Lee lowered his voice. “So why the sudden interest in Quince, an intelligence officer who’s hardly been worth his salt these last few years?”
Wheaton sipped his port, stringing him along.
Sir Lee sighed. “You know if you ever want my help you’re welcome to it, Wheaton.” He knew that his former pupil was always loath to ask for a favor. “It doesn’t mean you will owe me anything.” He smiled. “Well, not necessarily.”
“Gérardin Valmont was the king of secrets. Hell, his forte for holding nasty tidbits over the heads of those in influence was the only thing that kept the firebrand in England for as long as it did.”
“Nothing could save him after he published that idiotic pamphlet mocking the King, though,” Sir Lee shook his head. “I don’t know what the fool was thinking.”
“Who knows, and at this point who cares? It was one less problem to deal with, was what you’d said at the time. Now that problem seems to be making a nuisance of itself once more, but in the form of our very own Alexander Quince.”
“What’d he do?”
“A certain man of influence who assists me now and again suddenly took off for the country and refused my messages requesting his return. When I went to see him, a bloody two days’ ride in the middle of nowhere, I was shocked to find him a complete wreck. After much coaxing, he finally confessed that he was hiding out in the country, hoping that his troubles might not chase him down. Those troubles, it seems, are in the form of a blackmailer. One with some very nasty secrets he’s ready to exploit.”
“You suspect Quince is picking up where his former employer left off?”
“Yes. Valmont is dead and suddenly a few of the older set in Society are fielding blackmail demands.”
“A few?”
“I know of at least one more and suspect there are others. These blackmailing buggers dig until they find as many worms as possible and make them squirm. Until the field dries up, of course, or someone stops them.”
“So arrange a payment and nab him. There’s not much to it.”
“Actually, it’s not that simple. The man’s crafty. He has the payments exchanged for bits of damaging evidence, at fashionable affairs, if you can believe it. Balls, soirees and the like. He doesn’t set the terms of the delivery until the affair is in full swing. Usually by slipping a note to the target when he’s least expecting it. It’s a damned nuisance, I tell you.”
Wheaton sniffed. “Then there’s the damaging stuff he leaves behind. He tends to leave little tidbits of the secrets, as if to tease his victims. Letters and the like, exposing some very sensitive surprises.” Exhaling noisily, he looked up. “All in all, this isn’t exactly a major threat to King and Country.” His lip curled. “And the victims are, well, Society.”
“You were never particularly good at dealing with the aristocracy.”
“Not my forte,” Wheaton agreed.
“And you always tended to blame the victims of blackmail if I recall correctly.”
“Who else is there to blame?”
Sir Lee frowned. “Everyone has skeletons in the cupboard, Wheaton. A little compassion wouldn’t kill you, you know.”
“In my line of work, I must hasten to disagree. Skeletons are enormously helpful…if properly aired.” Lifting his port he sipped and watched Sir Lee over the rim of his snifter. “But back to the matter at hand, the more vexing thing is that no one knows what Quince looks like.” His gaze sharpened. “Except you.”
“I met him eighteen years ago, Wheaton. Once, and only for a moment at that. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. It’s not like he’d look the same in his late thirties. Moreover, what makes you think that it’s not someone else? Another servant perhaps or a friend of Valmont’s?”
“Poppet’s gone missing. And Wiggins, too.”
Sir Lee’s heart skipped a beat, a very frightening thing for a man over seventy. “Neither one of them has worked for us in years.”
Wheaton smiled, clearly not missing Sir Lee’s reference indicating that he still considered himself part of the Foreign Office. Wheaton tossed some grease into the fire. “Poppet and Wiggins were the only two of our men yet alive who’d met Quince in his time in London. Except you.” He raised a snowy brow. “Do you think you ought to be worried?”
“Nay. Quince didn’t know I was observing him.” Sir Lee shook his head, disturbed. His heart was heavy as he recalled Fred Poppet, a father of two with a flair for passing messages in crowded places. And Timothy Wiggins, a man with enough jokes in his repertoire to keep even the most skittish informants at ease. Sir Lee’s hopes for them were slim. Pushing away the grief and homing in only on the strategy, he asked, “What are you proposing, Wheaton?”
“Track him down and bring him in.”
Sir Lee sat quietly a long moment. He’d been wishing for something very much like this for a long time now. Ever since his retirement years earlier. He’d imagined being called upon once again, as a hero, the only man to handle a dangerous situation that required his very special talents. But not at the cost of two men who’d served under him faithfully for years. Never would he have wanted it at his men’s expense.
“How many men can you give me?” Sir Lee asked.
“None. We can’t have any connection to this matter, I’m afraid. Too messy with the haut ton involved. But I have asked a couple of Bow Street Runners I know to back you.”
“That’s pathetic,” Sir Lee growled. “Bow Street Runners are not professional intelligence officers. If two of your men had gone missing, you’d certainly find a way to supply more resources.”
“Of course I would. But they’re not my men.” The ice in his gaze was only matched by the coolness of his tone. “I’m giving you all I have to give. But more to the point, this situation requires a delicate touch. We’re dealing with Society. Muckety-mucks with nasty secrets. Less is more.”
Reaching into his pocket, Wheaton pulled out two folded sheets of foolscap. “Here’s the name of my informant who’s being blackmailed. I want him back in town and free from this nuisance. You must protect his reputation at all costs.” He held out the paper. “Are you in?”
Sir Lee inhaled a deep breath and then reached for the foolscap. Unfolding it, he noticed that Wheaton had been thoughtful enough to print clearly and in bold letters for a change. He didn’t even need his spectacles. Noting the name listed, Sir Lee raised his brow, impressed.
Wheaton shrugged. “He has his uses. May I?”
Sir Lee nodded and handed over the foolscap.
Holding it over the candle’s flame, Wheaton watched it burn to ash. Then he held out the second piece of foolscap. “Here’s a list of those I believe or suspect are being blackmailed. For all I know some may be accomplices helping Quince get back into Society. I don’t give a rat’s ass if they burn for their sins, especially if they’re in league with the bugger.” Wheaton sniffed. “Investigate them and their associates. Use them to lead you to Quince. Do whatever you have to do. Just free up my man. As soon as I can get him back in town, he’ll be useful to me once more.”
Sir Lee’s eyes scanned the list.
“You can keep that one,” Wheaton offered.
Sir Lee pocketed it for later perusal. “And once I have Quince?”
“Use your imagination. Just ensure he doesn’t bother me again.” Wheaton lifted his glass. “To serving just deserts.”
Nodding, Sir Lee joined in the familiar toast. “To just deserts.”
The men sipped in silence, then Wheaton lifted his bulky form from the chair and sto
od. “I want it done, Sir Lee. The mess cleaned up and my man back in business.” Wheaton sniffed. “Whatever it takes, I want it done.”
Knowing that tone, Sir Lee nodded. “It will be. Whatever it takes.”
Chapter 6
“He’s agreed to help!” Edwina declared as she rushed into the library of The Society for the Enrichment and Learning of Females and joined her three friends.
Lady Janelle Blankett peered up from the tome lying open on the well-used brown desk and, with her usual dour expression, stared at Edwina through her quizzing glass. “Who’s agreed to what?”
Aware of the open door behind her, Edwina whispered, “Him! You know, the perfect man for the job…” Closing the heavy wooden doors behind her, Edwina turned and caught sight of her reflection in the small gilded mirror above the pedestal cupboard. She was appalled to see that her tight chignon had come loose and her mousy hair was fairly plastered to her head, making her nose appear even larger. A swell of mortification blossomed inside her chest, knowing that Mr. Devane, Prescott, she had to remind herself to use his Christian name, had seen her like this.
But the humiliation couldn’t quite overshadow her triumph at securing his help for her scheme. So despite hearing the echo of her mother chiding her to run a brush through her hair before anyone else saw her, Edwina decided that she was amongst friends and could set such trivialities aside.
“You look like a drowned blackbird.” Janelle sniffed as she patted one of her graying blond curls. “And a half-starved one at that.”
Well, perhaps not all friends. “I’ll be sure to consume a worm or two before dinner.” Edwina waved a hand, feeling so glorious not even Janelle could pull her down. “Une délicatesse crue.”
“A raw delicacy, you say?” Janelle’s blue-green eyes narrowed, creasing the lines around the fifty-year-old matron’s face. “The French don’t actually eat worms, do they? Although I wouldn’t be surprised with their aberrant tastes.”
“I told you not to bother, Edwina.” Lady Genevieve Ensley, known to her friends as Ginny, dropped her needlepoint on her lap and moved to stand. Poor Ginny; her arthritic hip caused her to have to lean on the arm of the chair for support.
Although she was still a handsome woman with sparkling blue eyes and rosy cheeks, her slate gray hair and awkward shuffle made her appear much older than her forty-five years. “My problem is my own and I will not drag you into it, Edwina. Besides, I thought you’d given up.”
Edwina snorted. “And let that knave win? Never!” She moved to stand before the flaming hearth and held her hands to the fire. The warmth reminded her of another heat she’d experienced that afternoon.
Lord, oh, Lord, what a kiss that had been! Prescott Devane was a master, she marveled, as she recalled how hungrily she’d kissed him back and how desperately she’d clung to him.
But did he know? Did he realize? A ball of ire welled in her belly; he was practiced in the art of passion and would undoubtedly know her mortifying secret. Swallowing, Edwina was glad her face was to the hearth and prayed her friends assumed the redness in her cheeks was from the flames.
Pushing aside all upsetting thoughts, Edwina focused only on the moments after the kiss. The walk back to the guesthouse. The lively discussion, and the earnest way Prescott threw himself into her plan. The man was sharp, insightful, and more than a little brave. The perfect man for the job. Oh how she loved being right.
“I appreciate your trying to help me, Edwina.” Ginny had moved to stand beside her. “But you’ve already done enough and I don’t want that wretched man hurting you.”
Edwina grasped Ginny’s hands. “I’m not about to stand aside like a worthless Thatch-gallows while everything you cherish is at risk.” She smiled. “Besides, you know I’m only doing it for the sport. I hate losing.” At least on that account, Edwina and her father were alike, which is why they butted heads so acutely.
“Just so you don’t do anything that you’re not comfortable with, Edwina.” Despite her arguments, Ginny’s face looked relieved. Edwina could hardly blame her; Ginny wasn’t the sort to go up against a scoundrel alone. She was simply too sweet.
“I consider it our obligation to stop this villain.” Edwina didn’t mention that not since establishing the society three years earlier had she felt this passion to set forth boldly on a mission of principle.
Recently, she’d felt adrift, as if her life was moving forward yet going nowhere. Like something was waiting for her, but she didn’t know which way to go to find it. All she knew was that it was decidedly not in the direction the Earl of Wootton-Barrett wished her to go: to the Viscount Bellwood’s side in marriage. But her frustration with her father and sense of being directionless could all be conveniently brushed aside now that her dear friend was in need. And if all went as planned, then her problems with her father would disappear, at least when it came to remarrying.
Dropping her quizzing glass on its chain, Janelle scowled. “I still have my reservations about your little scheme, Edwina. It seems fraught with peril. Primarily for you and your reputation.” Resistance from the gangly matron was no surprise, as Janelle used every opportunity to try to spike Edwina’s wheels, so to speak.
Janelle resented the fact that Edwina was the president of the society while she was only a vice chair. Typically, she used Edwina’s younger age of three-and-twenty as her excuse for needing a more senior leader. To Janelle’s utter frustration, the rest of the members usually ignored her.
“I appreciate your concern, Janelle,” Edwina replied, forcing herself to recall that Janelle did not have it easy. Her husband, Lord Blankett, showed more affection for his mounts than he did his wife and spent the majority of his time in search of the next Derby winner. Janelle’s daughter had moved far away and rarely deigned reply to her mother’s letters. And then there was Janelle’s son who all of London knew had a weakness for cards and spirituous liquors. “But my reputation is my own and I think I can protect it well enough.”
Janelle waved her quizzing glass. “But what of your family’s reputation? Particularly your father’s. You’re quite free with that.”
Dropping Ginny’s hand, Edwina turned to the fire, trying to ignore the twist of guilt in her belly. She forced herself to remember how disdainfully her father often treated her. He persistently raked her over the coals for having the cheek to create a club for females and satirized their good works with marked contempt.
Then, after she’d begun contesting his attempts to marry her off to Viscount Bellwood, he’d called her “a rogue specimen in need of a man to rein in her ‘outlandish’ propensities.” In need of a man! What utter rot!
Sir Geoffrey was the only husband she would ever have; no one would ever fill his place.
Squaring her shoulders, Edwina turned. “My father is out of town and not expected back this season. By the time he hears of anything, it will all be over.” And so will any attempted betrothal to Viscount Bellwood.
Mrs. Lucy Thomas scribbled out a note on a bit of foolscap. The dark-haired, doe-eyed beauty had lost her husband to a terrible wasting disease less than a year earlier and when her dying husband had lost his ability to speak, inexplicably, so had she. Lucy would sit quietly and listen, read, and only now and again scratch a note. One might have assumed that anything she wrote was worth reading, but often as not her notes were as trite and self-absorbed as anyone else’s verbal commentary, like asking if you admired her new hair comb.
Stepping over, Edwina read the message aloud, “Which one is he?” She smiled. “Getting right to the point, Lucy. It’s Mr. Prescott Devane.”
“Mr. Devane?” Janelle scowled. “The man’s a cicisbeo, for heaven’s sake!”
“Some might argue that being a charming companion at balls, soirees, picnics and the like, provides a service in our society,” Ginny disputed. The rosy-cheeked matron loved to argue a point, whether she believed it or not. She warmed to the subject as evidenced by the twinkle in her pale blue eyes. “In fact, in
this instance, at least, the lady retains complete control of the funds and the terms of the relationship. She has an engaging escort, nothing more.”
Janelle shook her head. “Any arrangement where one person uses another is invariably opportunistic and immoral. The man’s a parasite.”
“He’s an escort,” Edwina scoffed. “Don’t make it sound as if he’s a gallant or a fancy man. He doesn’t sleep with women in exchange for material gain.” Yet, the list of his lovers was long. A strange twinge flared in her middle once more, but she disregarded it.
“He does have a rakish reputation with the ladies…”
Ignoring the burning in her cheeks, Edwina crossed her arms. “From what I hear, it’s the ladies who chase after him, not the other way around. And when was the last time you saw a man censured for earthly appetites? Or a woman castigated for accepting a gift?”
Pursing her lips, Ginny’s eyes took on a dreamy cast. “I knew a cicisbeo once. He was quite charming and had the largest hands…”
“Yes, we know all about your obsession with hands.” Janelle snorted. “Which is why you find yourself in such a fix.”
“Janelle!” Edwina cried, alarmed by the hurt look on Ginny’s face.
Lucy brandished her note in the air and Edwina was thankful for the change in subject. “Lucy’s right. I must tell you why Mr. Devane is the man to help us out of this mess.”
“Us.” Ginny looked up, a suspiciously bright gleam in her eyes. “When I read that first letter from the blackmailer I thought my life was over. I couldn’t have Judith discover the truth. And if anyone else learned about me and Gérardin…Well, Judith’s fiancé would end it for sure, and Judy and I…we would become outcasts. My daughter would never have forgiven me, and I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself!”
Ginny’s smile was pained. “But you’ve given me hope, Edwina. Real hope that we can get through this mess. But am I being naïve? Dare I trust your plan will succeed? Dare I?” Pressing her hand to her mouth, she cried, “Oh, what a wretched fix I’m in!”
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