Deceiving the Duke
Leighann Dobbs
Harmony Williams
Leighann Dobbs
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Also by Leighann Dobbs
About Leighann Dobbs
About Harmony Williams
Copyright
1
The King’s Theatre, London
May, 1806
Morgan Graylocke, the tenth Duke of Tenwick, concealed his irritation as he leaned back in the red velvet-upholstered chairs of his private box. The opera, Il matrimonio segreto, drew near to the close of the second act, with nary a sign of the man he had arranged to meet. Morgan’s life was composed of enough secrets for him to voluntarily watch an opera about a secret marriage. His mother and sister would rejoice if he one day returned home with a wife. They’d made it their mission this Season to see him married and on his way to producing an heir, now that he’d reached the age of thirty.
Morgan didn’t have the time to find a wife, certainly not after his brother and fellow Crown spy, Tristan, had taken an untimely vacation in order to honeymoon with his new wife. Usually stuck behind a desk cooling his heels as he waited to compile reports and ciphers, he was finally given a chance to do the dangerous fieldwork his younger brother usually took upon himself. And, the very night his stint in the field was due to begin, Morgan found himself…bored to tears.
He adjusted the cravat around his throat and straightened the cuffs of his eveningwear jacket—black, so as to fade into the shadows when he left.
A portly, balding man dropped into the chair to his left. Morgan glanced over his shoulder. The scarlet curtain that separated his box from the gold damask-carpeted corridor twitched as it settled into place once more. They were alone.
“It’s about bloody time you got here.”
Morgan faced forward at the grumbled remark. He clenched his fists, clad in thin gloves. I’d like to say the same to you. Clement Strickland, the Lord Commander of the spy network in Britain and beyond, didn’t refer to Morgan’s opera outing this evening. Over the past two weeks, Morgan had been held up at his ancestral estate as he prepared to return to London.
When something went wrong, it seemed like everything else did, too. The fallen domino leading to all the others had been the attendance—and death—at the annual Graylocke house party of Lord Elias Harker, a member of the peerage and a French spy. Ever since he’d darkened Morgan’s doorway, his carefully cultivated plans had turned awry. Some, like Tristan’s marriage, were cause for celebration. Others caused Morgan more headaches than triumphs.
He sighed. “I had some business to tie up. If I’m to go into the field, I need to ensure that Keeling, my assistant, is well-equipped to handle the influx of work.”
“You trained him, did you not?”
“I did.” Keeling, and half of Britain. Morgan worked as Strickland’s unofficial second-in-command. He read all the reports from agents afield, he decoded the correspondence intercepted from the enemy, and he trained every man and woman destined to enter into the business. What he hadn’t heretofore been permitted to do, since he was the Duke of Tenwick and without an heir, was to enter the field himself.
One more reason to thank Tristan for getting him into this mess and then leaving on a tour of the Lake District. If Tristan had been available, he would have been the man Strickland assigned to ferreting out Harker’s replacement in the ton. Morgan would be reassigned to his eternal slew of paperwork. At least this way, he was finally doing something.
Even if, never having done this before, he didn’t quite know where to start.
“Your assistant will do fine in your absence. Your assistance in this matter is paramount.” Strickland drummed his stubby fingers on the arm of the chair, a sure sign of anxiety. Drops of sweat beaded his wide forehead and darkened the brown hair ringing his pate. His jaw was stiff and clenched.
On the stage below the private box, a woman raised her voice in a penetrating aria. The sound rang through the theater, smothering all hope of conversation. The stone pillars between the scarlet-decked private boxes, stacked row by row on either side of the stage and extending over the public seating toward the door, only seemed to amplify the sound, drawing it out longer. The air vibrated with the collective intake of breath of the crowd. After the actress held the note for an impossibly long time and drew it to a close, the other sounds in the room boomed in contrast to the ringing silence. The rustle of clothing as the patrons shifted, Strickland’s even breathing to his left, even the thump of Morgan’s own heart.
“What do we know?” His whisper emerged like thunder.
“Next to nothing.” Strickland’s voice was curt, almost cutting. He ran his hand over his clean-shaven chin. “None of Harker’s known associates have yielded any clues as to who has inherited Bonaparte’s London-based operations. They must have someone new in the ton.”
“What if the new ringleader isn’t in the ton? If I were to install someone, I would place them in a servant position, less visible.”
“Also with less access,” Strickland pointed out. He half turned, pointing his finger at Morgan for emphasis. His dark eyes glittered with determination. “A peer could get into parties and meetings where even a servant or slave might be remarked upon.”
Morgan pressed his lips together at the mention of slavery. His family had been among the first to lobby for abolition of the slave trade. With luck, the Foreign Slave Trade Abolition Bill would pass through Parliament next week, and Morgan would be there to further the cause with his vote.
In the meantime, the import and export of slaves, a vile occupation in itself, provided ideal circumstances for French spies to be ferried in and out of the country. The sooner it was stopped, the better.
Oblivious to Morgan’s disgust, Strickland added, “Rest assured, I have others searching in the lower classes, agents with more freedom of movement than you would have in those spheres. Even if the new French ringleader is not among the ton, they will certainly need an agent among the peerage with access to different information and more funds at hand. Someone in London is bored and wicked enough to take up the French’s offer.”
Morgan didn’t want to believe that a British peer could be so easily swayed. Unfortunately, that had already been proven, with Harker and with multiple agents before him.
“Do you have any inkling of where I should start my search?”
Morgan read most of the reports sent to Strickland—in fact, he compiled the information into more easily readable documents for the Lord Commander. However, Morgan handled the information sent from abroad, not from London. Strickland might know something he didn’t.
A suspicion was confirmed when Strickland whispered, “The Society for the Advancement of Science. They meet monthly on St. James’s Street. I’ve heard rumors that the French may be ferrying messages throug
h the inventions of the Society members.”
“I’ll look into it.” Morgan stood, unwilling to sit through another minute of the opera.
As Morgan rounded the chair, Strickland, still seated, added, “The next meeting is Saturday at seven of the evening.”
Morgan nodded. Strickland leaned back in the plush chair, taking in the opera as he hooked one ankle over the other. The stance was a clear dismissal. Fingering the white streak in his black hair, situated at his right temple, Morgan slipped past the heavy drape and into the corridor.
Two days was not a lot of time to prepare to infiltrate an exclusive club.
* * *
Two days later
Morgan turned his collar up to shield the nape of his neck against the cold spring drizzle. It wrapped around him like a fog, muffling his booted footsteps on the cobblestones and soaking through his greatcoat and eveningwear, into his very bones. He tucked his chin into the collar as he pulled his topper lower over his forehead.
The twilight gloom blanketed the night, premature for this time of day due to the thick clouds overhead. Anyone with any sense drove in a closed carriage or remained indoors. Not wanting to draw attention to himself with the ducal seal on his coach door, Morgan had instructed his driver to wait near Piccadilly. The clatter of carriage wheels trundled past Morgan, splattering murky water from a puddle onto Morgan’s Hessian boots. He clutched his greatcoat closer to his person. He breathed shallowly through his mouth. The humidity of the night increased the stench of the street.
At last, he found the door to the club. It was a five-story townhouse, squashed wall-to-wall with its neighbors, the third in a row of six. The brick façade was identical to the others in the line, worn from years and weather into a long, benevolent visage. Light spilled from the glass windows in its cheeks, lighting Morgan’s path up the beaten stone steps to the red-painted door. He grasped the brass knocker and rapped sharply.
An eternity seemed to pass before the door yawned open, revealing a butler in somber black livery. Brass buttons gleamed from his coat. He, like the townhouse, sported a long, narrow face weathered from the passing years.
“May I help you?” He dragged out the words as he swept his gaze over Morgan.
Annoyed, Morgan bit the inside of his cheek. He swept the topper off his head despite having yet to enter the club. Satisfaction swept through him, chasing away the chill brought on by the drizzle, as the butler’s eyes widened. The wrinkled man’s jowls quivered as his gaze fixed to the white streak in Morgan’s hair. The telltale marker that the oldest Graylocke brother graced the house, not one of the younger three.
Bending at the waist, the butler stepped to the side, holding the door open for Morgan to enter. “Forgive me, Your Grace. May I take your coat?”
Morgan relinquished his coat, topper, and leather gloves. The snowy-haired butler tucked them away in a nearby closet. Once he finished, he gestured for Morgan to follow him down the hall. “This way, Your Grace.”
A green runner patterned with fronds ran the length of the squat corridor. At the back, a wooden staircase disappeared into the shadowed depths above stairs. Indecipherable chatter from deeper in the house spilled down, interrupted by the creak of the staircase as they passed to the higher levels. As they neared the third floor, other sounds intruded, including something that sounded like eerie thumping. Reflexively, Morgan grasped for a pistol he’d left in his greatcoat pocket.
The third floor overflowed with light. The flames cast a reflected, amplified light in mirrored contraptions mounted in sconces on the walls. The flames burned bright, but gave off surprisingly little heat given the amount of light. In fact, when Morgan squinted and leaned closer, he saw that the flame itself was barely larger than his thumbnail. It gave off as much light as one the size of his hand.
Standing a few feet down the hall, the butler coughed into his fist. Morgan straightened, following as the man led him to an open door at the end of the corridor. When the butler looked as though he intended to announce his presence, Morgan brushed his fingers over the man’s shoulder, a hand lower than his own. He slipped the man a shilling. “I’d prefer to watch unimpeded.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The butler bowed and took himself off.
Morgan straightened the cuffs of his jacket, dove gray tonight. He checked his pocket watch. Five minutes to seven o’clock, though from the cacophony seeping from within the room, it sounded as though the meeting was already well under way. He thrust his shoulders back and stepped into the room.
Like the corridor, the room was brightly illuminated with the strange mirrored lights. They chased the shadows into the very corners of the large, rectangular chamber that must have stretched from the front of the townhouse to its rear. The far wall of the room was lined with shelves stuffed with books, the spines a jumbled, disorganized array of colors and sizes. A damask patterned rug running the length of the room was faded along the edges from many booted feet. In the center of the room, an oblong table ringed with chairs was packed with men, shoulder to shoulder, in varying displays of wealth. Some wore pristine jackets and elaborate cravats—others battled with unkempt hair and rumpled, ink-stained clothes. Morgan was surprised at the variety of quality of their clothes. The Society for the Advancement of Science required a yearly membership fee which he doubted some of those gathered could afford.
The men around the table clutched inventions of all sizes, from the fist-sized nugget one man absently rolled from hand to hand, to a contraption so large that it obscured the man seated behind it. On either end of the room, overstuffed furniture in dark colors sat beneath the windows overlooking the street. Morgan slipped into the room, unnoticed but for a few furtive glances by those engaged in heated conversation, replete with hand gestures and sarcastic expressions. Not wanting to attract attention, he chose a leather armchair in the corner and sat to take in the proceedings.
The meeting didn’t proceed for some time. Members continued to pour in, some lugging inventions to be set up on the table, others empty-handed who, like Morgan, took chairs along the perimeter. A few of the lesser-dressed gentlemen were accompanied by peers, clearly their patrons in the proceedings. Morgan memorized each face, running over what he knew about the various peers. The Billingsley heir, a young fop with a tendency to get half-sprung and race horses down Rotten Row, more interested in impressing women of ill repute than in attending to his studies or the family estate. Baron Abinger, a hefty middle-aged man with a reputation for investing on the ground floor of profitable ventures in steam and other technology. Lord Coleville, a thin, sour-faced old man who didn’t often enter into Society. Viscount Folkestone and his friend Baron Marchwood, always trying to out-do one another through their various bets.
Morgan counted at least five other peers of note among the men gathered. One, the Earl of Wycombe’s second son, earned himself a position at the table, seated in front of a contraption covered in a white linen sheet. He spoke to no one, eyeing those who ventured near with a wary glare, as if they meant to peek at whatever secret he concealed beneath the cloth.
Any one of these men might have changed their allegiances and decided to ferry information to the French through the sale of their inventions. Morgan paid close attention to the conversations—those who stood in pairs debating, those who demonstrated their device to whoever cared to watch, those who whispered to one another along the perimeter. He watched for the exchange of money or messages. Those who aroused his suspicion, he placed on a mental list of people to investigate.
Two men strode through the door, the shorter with a parcel tucked under his arm. Despite the difference in their heights—nearly a foot between the shorter and the taller—they were obviously related. Both sported auburn hair; the taller man, who looked as young as his companion, neither appearing old enough to sport facial hair, wore his in a fashionably short style with a longer forelock that dripped onto his pale forehead. The shorter man, narrower in the shoulder but thicker in the waist and r
ump, wore his hair in a long queue. Both had relinquished their hats, but sported hat-head, wisps of hair escaping in disarray. Without preamble, the shorter man claimed the last seat at the table, leaving his grumbling compatriot to find a spot along the perimeter to lounge. The fellow looked bored. He idly contributed to conversation with the man standing beside him, a pudgy blond youth whose whiskers were so pale as to be invisible.
Meanwhile, the shorter man grinned as he fielded questions from the men seated alongside and across from him. He tucked the parcel into his side, refusing to reveal its contents as he shook his head with a smile. His sharp chin was softened by the fluffy white cravat tied around his neck. The curve of his eyebrows looked a bit too precise—a dandy, to be sure—and they betrayed his excitement when he spoke, raising and scrunching in turn. Something about him set Morgan’s senses to tingling, but Morgan couldn’t put his finger on what. Perhaps the mischievous way his lips curved, as if he knew a salacious secret.
Trusting his instincts, Morgan paid particular attention to this young man as he interacted with other inventors and shook hands with the peers.
At half past seven, according to Morgan’s pocket watch, the doddery old man at the head of the table raised his hand. The room fell silent in turns as the occupants noticed him. He coughed into his fist, jiggling his jowls and the unfashionable powdered wig he wore.
Once underway, the meeting flew by. With difficulty, Morgan wrested his attention from the wonders the inventors displayed. Wycombe’s son revealed the prototype for a two-wheeled contraption he called a running curricle. Another man unrolled a design for a man-sized flying machine that somewhat resembled a kite. He paid particular attention to the wealthier patrons of the group, citing costs and the time it would take to build and test a prototype. At one point, his eye turned to Morgan, trying to get his attention. With a small shake of the head, Morgan leaned back. As tempting as it would be, he didn’t have the time to invest to become the benefactor of an inventor. Judging by the gleam in Folkestone and Marchwood’s eyes, the man would have lavish offers heaped upon him by the end of the meeting.
Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2) Page 1