Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  Joe patted his arm in commiseration. “You probably did see her ladyship—on the street, that is. Before his death, your father asked the previous head of this division to keep a watch on Lady Walgrave until your return. She came to town quite frequently. From what I understand, she was quite fond of the maritime plays at Sadler’s Wells.”

  “How is it that everyone has seen my wife in London save for me?” Walgrave saw the noose tightening. He could hear the jibes now. Instead of being described as thorough, candid, and frank, he would be found dispassionate, feelingless, and cold.

  “Luck?” Adam suggested wryly.

  Joe cuffed the junior officer in the arm. “He’s not in jest, Adam.”

  “Nor am I,” Adam said. “He has made no secret of his disinterest in his marriage. I would have thought he’d be pleased to know his wife has come and gone for years without his being troubled in the slightest by her presence.”

  At the back of the main office, Joe and Mr. James, their superior, had their own separate rooms. Joe never used his; Mr. James always did. The door to Mr. James’s private office opened, and the three men grew silent.

  A stocky man carrying a coat and a worn leather lawyer’s briefcase left Mr. James’s office and pulled the door shut behind him. Once an agent of the office himself, William Aldine left the division to join one of the Inns of Court, but he had kept up his association with the men and often advised them on the legalities of their various activities. He was also Harrison’s personal solicitor. Though Aldine always looked a bit rumpled around the edges, he moved with the agility of a dancer. Aldine nodded his greeting.

  Harrison held up a pin and his thumb wrapped in linen.

  “‘Look you, his thumb is stuck full of pins.’” Aldine pointed at Harrison theatrically. He held the pose for a moment, then transformed back into a rumpled solicitor. “Webster’s White Devil: I’m expanding my repertoire, but in the original play, it’s his codpiece that’s stuck with pins.”

  “I’ll note that in my book of memory,” Joe joined in. “Henry VI, Part 1.”

  Aldine joined them at the mission table. “What do you think, gentlemen? From the severity of Walgrave’s injury, I’m sure he will die. Should I draw up his will before I leave?”

  “Walgrave, if Aldine is writing your will, then ‘forsake thy fortune; Bequeath thy land to me,’” Adam teased. “Gentlemen, that’s a happy mutilation of a line from King John.”

  All three men turned to Harrison, waiting. But he merely held up his thumb once more. “I must decline to participate. This current craze for Shakespeare will eventually pass. As a seafaring man, I prefer The Iliad, The Odyssey, The Aeneid—those are the texts that will last for all time. But, Aldine, have you had a chance to review that piece of . . . estate business we’ve received?”

  “I have.” The stocky solicitor shifted his coat to the hand not carrying his briefcase. “Joe, may we use the meeting room at the end of the corridor?”

  “Certainly, certainly.” Joe drew a key from a box on his desk. “Just return the key when you are finished.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I have reviewed the packet of documents sent yesterday from her ladyship’s solicitors, enough to get a sense of the issue. However, a more precise answer will take some time.” Aldine set his briefcase on the table and opened it to reveal a cramped mass of papers, with a tight roll of newspapers crushed onto the top of them all. He pulled out the newspapers and set them to the side, then rummaged through his papers until he found the sheet he wanted. “I brought some preliminary questions with me.”

  Aldine fostered the appearance of rumpled incompetence, but Harrison—like all the other men in the division—knew the clothes hid an exceptionally incisive mind.

  “I have my own questions as well. Am I married or not?”

  “It would be for the courts to decide. But if your wife’s recollection of events is correct, then legal defects in the marriage likely render it invalid.”

  “She has taken a long time to raise these objections.” Harrison tried to sound impartial, but even he could hear the edge of strain.

  “She might not have realized the status of your marriage until recently. A number of new books have discussed void and voidable marriages. Besides, if the marriage is not valid, the amount of time that passed is irrelevant. An invalid contract is invalid, regardless of whether the persons involved have believed it to be valid.”

  “What do we do?” Harrison steepled his fingers before his face.

  “What do you wish to do?” Aldine paused. “As I see it, it all hinges on whether or not you wish to be married. If you wish to be free, we accept her set of irregularities as accurate and petition the court to have the marriage declared null. If, however, you wish to be married, then we need to convince the courts that her claims are erroneous by showing that the marriage conforms to the requirements of the statute.”

  “What are the irregularities?” Harrison tapped his fingertips together, uncertain whether he was angry or relieved.

  “She claims that your banns were not read on three occasions preceding the marriage. Nor was the ceremony performed in a church or public chapel.” Aldine looked up hopefully, as if Harrison might have a record of the church banns or the marriage in his pocket. “Was it a special license?”

  Harrison shifted in his seat, unwilling to reveal to Aldine the full circumstances of his marriage. In an instant, he could see his father’s face again, laughing, a full glass of whiskey in his hand, as he pronounced with glee, Don’t worry, boy, I’ve taken care of all the details. I have friends in the bishop’s office, got the special license right here—he’d patted his waistcoat—even got permission for you to marry here in the chapel, in the hall of your ancestors, surrounded by your past and looking to your future.

  Harrison pushed the memory away. “It was a special license, I’m sure of it.”

  “Then, I will see if we can discover a record of it.” Aldine read over the documents. “The marriage was in your family chapel, but there’s no one living there. Do you remember the minister’s name or from what village he came?”

  “I only know that my father knew him well.” He remembered nothing of the minister, but everything about Olivia. Standing at the front of the nearly empty chapel, he’d grimaced to see his father in the first row of pews, but then, looking up, he had seen Olivia waiting at the back of the chapel. Her hands had been clasped beneath a bouquet of daisies. Her eyes—full of hope—had met his, and his heart had expanded in his chest. Remembering, he felt it once more, the sense of possibility coupled with the heat of desire.

  “Walgrave?” Aldine asked quietly.

  Harrison, returning to the present, ran a hand through his hair. “I was trying to remember the name of the minister. Can you repeat that last question?”

  “The witnesses. Who witnessed the ceremony?”

  “My father; his valet, Baxter; and the housekeeper, Baxter’s wife. But all are dead. Wouldn’t the parish record or the license have the signatures of the witnesses?”

  “Unfortunately, the church in the village closest to your estate burned several years ago, and its records were lost. If the minister was a friend to your father, he may have come from a nearby parish, and I might find some information in that way. If there is no special license and no village register, we will have trouble refuting her claims. But even if we could, we will have trouble disproving her final two claims: She indicates that she did not provide her true baptismal name and that she knew your father was not observing the legalities of the statute.”

  “Doesn’t that constitute a fraud?” Harrison felt the hurt twist in his chest. A fraud with his father at the heart of it. His old anger, long cold, began to simmer anew.

  “She claims that your father assured her that he acted according to the bishop’s advice. She has realized he was in error—whether he intended the mistake or not.” Aldine after a slight pause continued. “All this leads us back to the question I posed at the be
ginning. What do you wish to do? Either path will cost you somewhat, but her requested settlement is quite reasonable.”

  “I don’t care about the money.” He pushed the papers away.

  “What do you care about, Walgrave?” Aldine’s voice was gentle. “What do you want?”

  “Strangely, Aldine, you are the second person to ask me that, and I don’t yet have an answer.”

  “I only need to know how to proceed.” Aldine folded his list back into his briefcase. He picked up the roll of newspapers, then pushed them toward Walgrave. “I’ll leave these for you—or whoever might like them. Tell me, Walgrave, what do you want—married or free?”

  Harrison thought for a long time before he spoke. “I want to know why. I married on my father’s insistence and recommendation. He presented Olivia as the impoverished child of an old friend, and I believed him. But if her name is a lie, then what other lies did she or my father tell?” He felt his heart grow brittle like a piece of flint struck too many times. “Find the truth—her name, her background, all of it. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

  “Certainly, my lord.” Aldine snapped the lock shut, then hesitated. “Of course, there is a third route, less public than the courts. But given the thoroughness of Lady Walgrave’s proposal, I hesitate to suggest it.”

  “I would like to know all my options, even if they are disagreeable.”

  “If your marriage is not valid but you wish to be married to her ladyship, all you would have to do is marry again. I could arrange for the license, make sure everything is done correctly this time. Given your reputation as an orator, surely you could convince her ladyship to marry you again.” Aldine touched Harrison’s shoulder as he rose, and when his client did not respond, Aldine placed the key on top of the newspapers and slipped out.

  Harrison sat in the conference room for a long time. The question of what course the remainder of his life would take had been plaguing him for some time. But before the letter from Olivia, his plans had been inchoate and inarticulate. For years, he’d found friendship and solace in the company of Mr. James and Joe Pasten. All three men worked late into the night, reading reports from their informants across the country in order to see patterns and intervene. But recently Mr. James had developed a persistent cough, and Joe, blaming the damp of their basement office, had been insistent that Mr. James spend his evenings in the apartment given him by the Prince Regent—another hidden space, but one with a rooftop view of the city. Though he could not resent the loss of the two men’s company, he felt their absence deeply.

  Each night, when the last man in the division lifted his hat off the rack and turned his feet toward home, Harrison felt the question of his life laid bare. Other men would take to the bottle; Harrison took to work, more and more and more work. With the blessing of Mr. James and the gratitude of Joe Pasten, he’d begun to supervise their agents. He was clearly being groomed to take over the office when Mr. James’s health demanded retirement. But if his life were to change, did he want to be the great spy, or did he want something else? All his adult life, he’d felt constrained by his father’s choices for him. But if he could begin again, if he could make whatever choices he wanted, what would he choose?

  He’d made the first step in setting Aldine on the path to discover Olivia’s real name. While he had not wished to marry, having a wife had often proved convenient, and sometimes even comforting. No marriage-minded mamas paid attention to a wedded man. His estate was well managed and prosperous, all without his having to offer it the least attention or worry, a situation that provided him with a warm sense of satisfaction. He had not wished to give Olivia a greater place in his life, but sometimes he had found the idea of her a comforting possibility. Whenever his life grew too frustrating, he could imagine returning home and being welcomed as lord of the manor, even if he never made that journey. Or on days when he found himself plagued by a sense of nostalgia for family—brought on usually by visiting with those in his circle with happy families—he reminded himself that someday, if he wished, he could return to the estate, to his wife, and begin his own happy family. But if Olivia were not the honest, biddable wife he had believed her to be, then those comforting thoughts were merely more lies to count against her reckoning. Even so, he found himself angry with her for displacing them. If Olivia was other than he had been led to believe, she would never see another penny of his funds. It wouldn’t matter how reasonable her request for a settlement was.

  He rose, setting his hand on the key and the newspapers Aldine had left. On top, a copy of the World was folded open to An Honest Gentleman’s most recent letter. Perhaps as he waited for Aldine’s inquiries to come to fruition, he might find some solace in doing his duty—and the letter he’d found in the gypsy’s dressing room suggested his duty involved identifying An Honest Gentleman.

  * * *

  “He can see you now.” Joe nodded his head back toward the closed door of Mr. James’s office. “But you might want to make it brief. The Manchester debacle has kept him in meetings for the last three days, and he’s worn thin.” Joe brushed his hand through the waves of his thick black hair, a characteristic gesture when Joe was worried or dismayed. “Are you sure it won’t wait until tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be brief.” Harrison folded the newspaper he had been pretending to read. As much as he cared about his commander’s health, he knew that Mr. James would want to know if there were traitors in England, and he would also want Harrison to investigate wherever that might lead. “I’m considering doing some traveling this week.”

  “To your estate?” Joe’s eyebrow raised suspiciously.

  “I haven’t decided my destination.” But traveling to his estate might be the perfect excuse to justify his need to be gone from the office.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Adam muttered from his desk.

  “Why does everyone say that?” Harrison knew he sounded petulant.

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” Adam countered. “Or do you actually wish to know?”

  “It’s not as if I’ve been needed at home.” He gestured toward his desk. “My work here is too important to neglect.”

  “Don’t blame us. Mr. James has suggested you go home a dozen times or more.”

  “Not this year.” Harrison glared, then growled. “I don’t wish to justify my decisions.”

  Joe turned back to the paperwork on his desk. “You never do. But someday you are going to wish you had paid more attention when you had the chance.” He looked at the clock above the door to Mr. James’s office. “You have five minutes. Use it well.”

  Harrison crossed the room in three long strides. Tapping once, he pushed the door open and stepped through. Mr. James’s office resembled what Harrison imagined a rabbit hole might look like if the rabbit had a taste for books. Hundreds of them, on shelves, in piles, and making—for part of the room—a short wall on which other papers, maps, and engravings were laid haphazardly. For all the disarray, however, Harrison knew that Mr. James could lay his hand on any piece of paper he wished to find, or recall any detail at the snap of his fingers.

  “You know, it’s the women killed at Peterloo who haunt me. Mary, thrown in a cellar, and Martha trampled by cavalry.” Mr. James shook his head. “The old soldiers knew what the costs might be. But those two . . . it was supposed to be a parade.” The head of the division folded the map of the countryside he’d been examining. “Joe says you have something important to discuss, something that can’t wait.”

  Harrison slid a copy of the World in front of Mr. James. “Have you read this?”

  “Only under duress.” Mr. James barked a laugh. “Why?”

  “I suspect that someone is using periodicals like this one to send confidential information to our enemies abroad. Worse, I believe someone in Whitehall is providing at least some of that information, but whether for idealism or for a price, I don’t know.”

  “That rag? The World will make up any accusation to sell a paper.” Mr. James looked uni
nterested. “Most of the time their writers merely rehash the parliamentary reports printed in the Times and serve them up as scandal.”

  “I don’t think so. Something else is going on, and I want to find out.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “This.” Harrison folded the newspaper open to An Honest Gentleman’s latest letter.

  “That?” Mr. James didn’t take the paper, but instead leaned back in his chair. The scar that disfigured one half of his face remained visible behind his steepled fingers. “Joe investigated An Honest Gentleman months ago. He’s just an eccentric with a banner to wave. Besides, aren’t you a Whig? Don’t you want someone like An Honest Gentleman promoting the cause of reform?”

  “I want reform. Universal suffrage, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly—all those are good and necessary, and I hope to see them flourish in my lifetime. But ranting letters that point up every failing of the House of Lords and the Prince Regent harm more than they help.”

  Mr. James turned to pull some papers from a pile to his right. “Does An Honest Gentleman rant?”

  “That’s a tricky question. He appears more reasonable than the others, but he always includes information that isn’t widely known outside of Whitehall.”

  Mr. James shook his head. “He’s simply well connected—one can find out almost anything with the right circle of friends.”

  “No, my gut tells me that someone in government—perhaps in this very office—is using An Honest Gentleman’s position to rabble-rouse.” Harrison leaned forward confidentially, his elbows resting on his knees. “A hint here, a nudge there, and suddenly a peaceable reform society transforms into an angry mob. And certainly that would suit the purposes of our enemies abroad.”