Philomena had walked him right to the door and slipped out. He dashed to the ajar door and stumbled into the hall in time to see her whisk out of sight down the stairs. The cool feeling of the wooden floorboards seeped into his bare feet as he stared after her, rooted in place.
Down the hall, another door opened and Gideon poked his head out. His hair stuck up on end. Stubble outlined his face and drew attention to the dark bags under his eyes. They had both been up until sunrise as Morgan explained the various forms of code currently employed by the British spy network.
“What’s going on?” Giddy rubbed at his eyes. “Was that Miss St. Gobain?”
Yes. She’s a French spy.
Morgan brought the words to the tip of his tongue as he stared after her, but he couldn’t speak them. “I didn’t catch a good glimpse of her,” he lied, his voice wooden. “It must have been nothing.”
Until he knew for sure, he didn’t want to confess her treachery to anyone, even the brother he was closest to. He retreated into his bedchamber to prepare for the day. He had some inquiries to make.
7
“Are you hiding from Mother or Lucy?”
Morgan fought a groan at the reminder as his brother dropped into the armchair across from him. Seeking a moment of privacy, Morgan had ensconced himself in the farthest corner of the club. The wood-paneled walls muffled some of the sound pouring from the other patrons, of which there were myriad. At eight of the morning, the club catered to carousers who hadn’t yet given up their love affairs with their cups, as well as the early-rising scholars and businessmen who hoped to make their mark on the day. The latter sat quietly alone or in pairs in the leather-upholstered chairs ringing the low mahogany tables, perusing the news rags and their correspondence or talking about markets and investments. The former stumbled around the club from the wooden bar in the center housing the betting book to the uniformed maids disappearing through the various doors into hallways leading away from the common room, slurring their words and stirring up mischief.
Morgan got enough mischief at home. He hadn’t seen Philomena since she’d rushed out of his bedchamber two days ago. Gideon was helping to mitigate Mother and Lucy’s matchmaking attempts, but it helped not a whit once one of their candidates moved into his house. Miss Charlotte Vale, whose sister was newly married to Morgan’s brother, had accepted the Graylockes’ hospitality upon the seizure of the late Lord Harker’s holdings yesterday. Morgan had tried to establish Miss Vale and her mother in the guest quarters on the fourth floor, but his mother and sister had flat out refused the accommodations. Since the Vales were now family, his female relatives wanted to keep them on the same floor as the family. Mrs. Vale was now ensconced in Anthony’s old room, as he wouldn’t be using it while he still held his position as Captain in the Royal Navy. Miss Vale had been given the vacant duchess’s quarters next to Morgan.
Thank Zeus for locking doors.
With a sigh, Morgan sipped at his coffee. Cold. He rubbed at the white streak in his hair. “Put on a blindfold and point. If she’s female, I’m probably avoiding her.”
Giddy laughed. He stretched out his legs and accepted a steaming cup of coffee and a news rag from a footman, liveried in black and green to match the maids. Gideon shook out the sheet and skimmed it with his gaze as he answered. “The house is a little full, but I think you’re over-reacting. Mrs. Vale hasn’t done anything to you at all.”
“Mrs. Vale shot Harker and embroiled us in this mess.”
The paper slipped from Giddy’s fingers as his mouth dropped open. He fiddled with his cravat, already askew. “You’re jesting.”
“I am not.” Morgan sighed. He lowered his voice to the barest whisper. “She’s one of us.”
“A spy?”
Giddy was the genius of the family for a reason. Morgan nodded.
His brother let out a long breath. He leaned his head back against the chair. The top of the chair rested just above his shoulders. The position must have been deuced uncomfortable. Giddy straightened a moment later.
“Then can we use her to help our hunt?”
Morgan pressed his lips together as he hesitated. “I don’t think so. Given what she told me, she was drafted specifically to keep an eye on Harker. Without him, her talents are obsolete.”
Giddy narrowed his eyes. “She sounds like a capable woman. I’m sure if she wanted—”
“That’s just it. I’m not sure that she wants to be involved in the spy business.”
The younger man raised his eyebrows. “Have you asked her directly?”
“No. That’s Strickland’s place, not mine.”
Averting his gaze from the disappointment in his brother’s shrewd green eyes, he took a gulp of coffee. Still cold. Making a face, Morgan hailed a footman and turned over the offending cup.
Gideon waited for the man to step out of earshot before he replied, “One more thing for Strickland to do. I’m still waiting on those London reports.”
He was more eager for paperwork than any newly-drafted spy Morgan had ever trained. A smile teased at the duke’s lips. “With luck, we’ll have them today. I’ll send a note to him about Mrs. Vale.”
“Have the footman wait for a reply this time.”
Gideon sipped from his cup, letting out a sigh of delight. Morgan glared at his younger brother. Giddy didn’t even care for coffee; he preferred tea. He was teasing Morgan on purpose.
With a grin, the younger man asked, “Grumpy?”
Morgan didn’t deign to answer.
“Have trouble sleeping last night?”
“I slept fine.” Morgan’s voice was surly.
Mostly because it was a lie. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his encounter with Philomena—or the implications of her presence in his bedroom—since that morning. In his dreams, that altercation went very different.
Shoving his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat, he fiddled with the glass ring he’d confiscated from the spy nearly a week ago. It reminded him of his mission, his priorities.
“You aren’t dreaming about the lovely Miss Charlotte, are you?”
Morgan groaned. “Not you, too. I don’t care a whit for Miss Charlotte’s pretty face. Sticking her in the room next to me won’t change that.” Thank Zeus Miss Charlotte wasn’t like the other ton debutantes. She was a fast friend of Lucy’s, but didn’t seem to aspire to marry anyone, let alone Morgan.
Gideon’s smile widened. “Miss St. Gobain, by chance?”
Morgan schooled his expression into a neutral mask. “Who?”
His brother cocked an eyebrow. “You know to whom I’m referring.”
“I’m afraid I don’t recall much more about her except for her parrot,” he lied.
Gideon sniggered. “There’s a matchmaking pairing Mother hasn’t tried yet. Maybe Lucy will adopt a nice lady parrot for you.”
“Are you looking for a new profession? You’re a regular court jester.”
Giddy grinned. He opened his mouth to retort, but a ruckus at the bar counter, in front of the betting book, cut him short.
“You’re daft, man!” A young dandy, his blond hair in disarray as it fell over his forehead and his cheeks ruddy, reflecting his foxed state, clapped a second young man on the back. The friendly contact nearly sent the poor man teetering into the betting book. The two men gathered a crowd of young fops. “His brother is a notorious rake!”
Morgan gritted his teeth, pretending not to notice the way the group glanced in his direction. Please, let them be gossiping about someone else.
“If he succumbed to the parson’s mousetrap, you can bet that the duke will be next.”
Bloody hell. They were talking about Morgan. He clenched his fists and shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.
“Two hundred pounds says that he’ll be married inside the month.”
Was that all that his bachelor state was worth, two hundred pounds? He fought the mad urge to laugh. Any number of debutantes would be throwing money at his feet
for the opportunity to marry him.
“Ridiculous.” The word slipped out on a growl.
After draining his cup, Giddy set it down on the table beside him with a clink. “What’s ridiculous?”
Morgan jerked his chin toward the young, bacon-brained dandies, who were now scribbling down amounts and signatures in the betting book. “These bets. Don’t people have better things to do?”
His younger brother shrugged. His hair flopped down in front of his eyes as he turned over the news rag to read the other side in depth. In an absent voice, he answered, “It distracts them from the war. I have my money on two weeks.”
“You’re betting against me, too?”
Giddy raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’m certainly not going to bet against Mother or Lucy. I have more sense than that.”
Morgan rolled his eyes. “Your confidence in me is astounding.”
Grinning, Giddy said, “What are brothers for?”
Thankfully, his teasing was cut short as a footman approached with a scandal rag in hand. He set it next to Morgan with a pointed apology for making him wait. As the man bowed and left, Gideon burst, “Don’t tell me you actually read those things?”
“Don’t you want to hear what they’re saying about our dear brother now?”
Giddy made a face, a rich response, considering that he was laying money on Morgan’s downfall.
With a sigh, the duke lowered his voice, “It’s a message I’ve been waiting on.” In fact, this information was the only reason he had remained in White’s for so long.
He unfolded the scandal rag in his lap to reveal a sheet of paper stuffed into the crease. With the aid of a graphite pencil he kept tucked into his pocket, he swiftly decoded the message.
Gideon leaned closer, trying to read it upside-down. “What does it say?”
Morgan swallowed, reading it twice more to ensure that the translation was correct. His stomach sank further with each sentence. There it is. The confirmation I needed.
Unfortunately, now that he had it, he wished it had said something different.
“Morgan?”
He glanced up into his brother’s concerned eyes. Reluctantly, he forced himself to say, “Miss St. Gobain was born Miss Plaisance D’Aubigny of France.”
Gideon’s mouth dropped. “She’s French?”
“So it seems.”
“Then the spy—”
“It must be her.” Lord, how Morgan had prayed otherwise. He still hoped that if only he read the missive again, the information would change. His reaction to her—
It didn’t matter. If she was a French spy, she was the enemy, and he would treat her as such.
The silence stretched on between the brothers, broken only by the rowdy gibes as a few of the dandies gave up drinking and left the club to seek their beds.
Finally, Giddy ventured, “What now? Do we turn her in to the Crown?”
Morgan tensed. Every muscle in his body rebelled at the thought. She’s the enemy.
Slowly, he said, “Strickland will want proof.”
Giddy gestured to the missive. “Her heritage isn’t proof enough?”
“No. We’ll have to catch her in an act of treason.”
The younger man raised his eyebrows. “And how do you propose to do that?”
Morgan fingered the last sentence of the coded message. “There is another exchange tomorrow. Strickland has included the time and place in this message. I’ll attend and intercept her there.”
If she showed up, she was guilty. It was as simple as that.
Gideon suggested, “Lucy seems to be quite fond of her. I’m sure we could convince her and mother to pay a visit to her tomorrow morning. If we join them, we can search the house for coded correspondence, find our proof that way.”
Morgan shook his head. He slipped his hand into his pocket, fingering the glass piece he couldn’t bring himself to part with. It represented a mystery. Had Philomena’s man been at that inventor’s meeting in her stead? Did the glass piece mean something to her? When he arrested her, he would find out and put to rest all these questions about her accumulating in his mind.
“Not tomorrow. I have to sit in Parliament tomorrow morning.”
As Morgan stood, so did his brother. Giddy caught him by the arm. “Is Parliament really more important than the war?”
Morgan gritted his teeth. He nodded. “Tomorrow is the abolitionist vote. How can I fight the tyranny of another country if I turn a blind eye to the oppression riddling mine?”
Giddy’s gaze glinted. Whether or not he agreed with Morgan, at the very least he knew better than to press the subject. The Graylockes hadn’t owned slaves for well over a century. Morgan’s father had been an abolitionist, as had his father before him. Morgan was proud to carry on that tradition, whatever it took.
Keeping his voice even, he added, “We’ll get this spy, Giddy. Don’t worry on that account.”
8
“You’re in a pickle!”
Phil batted the fingers of her free hand at the parrot perched on her shoulders. She scoffed. “I am not. I’m just looking for Jared. Have you seen him?”
“In…a…pickle!”
She sighed. Had she expected another answer?
The flame of the candle she held wavered as she descended the stairs in a rush that had Pickle flapping his wings for balance. The glossy wood bannister reflected the light. Her stocking feet slipped on the steps. She gripped the bannister hard to keep from losing her balance.
Where was Jared? He had been avoiding her all week, ever since the Society for the Advancement of Science meeting that he’d agreed to accompany her to, out of the blue. In fact, he’d been acting more and more distant, closed-lipped and moody, even before that day. He was the only family she had left. She had to fix this rift between them and get her affectionate brother back.
“Jared?”
Distantly, she heard a door slam. Her heart jumped into her throat. Was that the front door? She dashed into a sitting room overlooking the street. Cupping her eyes to shield the light of the candle, she pressed her face to the glass window. That was definitely a man descending the front steps. Given the lanky build, it had to be Jared. He was leaving without telling her where he intended to go.
Again.
She had to catch up to him.
“Meg!”
Pickle took up the cry, repeating her maid’s name at the top of his lungs. Phil raced out the door, nearly colliding with her friend, whose cheeks were pink with exertion.
“What is it?”
Pickle continued to scream Meg’s name. She glared at him as she inched away, rounding Phil’s other side.
“Hush, you silly bird,” Phil commanded.
Pickle made an outraged squawk, ruffled his feathers, and remained silent. That was a neat trick. Phil would have to remember it for a later date.
Pushing the thought aside, she told Meg, “My brother just left the house. I want you to ready the carriage. I’m going after him.”
She nodded, her freckled cheeks flushed. When Phil turned toward the staircase leading to the floor above, Meg called after her, “Where are you going?”
“I have to change into men’s clothes.”
“There’s no time—”
I know. But if Phil followed in her skirts, she would certainly be noticed. As a man, she was all but invisible.
She hiked her skirts to her knees and sprinted up the stairs. Disgruntled, Pickle took to the air and soared someplace else in the manor. From the startled shriek a moment later, he’d found Meg.
Phil usually ran interference to ensure that her pet didn’t frighten her closest friend, but she had no time to find them and sort it out. Hopefully one of Meg’s siblings would come to her rescue. Phil employed them all, and her parents, too.
She shucked her dress the moment she entered her room. She didn’t have time to bind her breasts flat, or even to wrestle to untie her stays. Instead, she donned her men’s clothes over the feminine un
dergarments and prayed that the swell of her chest wouldn’t be noticeable beneath the loose shirt and jacket. Breeches, boots, shirt, waistcoat, jacket. By the time she was fully dressed, stumbling out of the room, her hair had tumbled from its pins. She gathered it in a queue and tied it off with the first thing that had met her fingers, a frilly white ribbon. With luck, she wouldn’t be venturing any place that was brightly lit.
She barreled down the stairs, the soles of her boots giving her more purchase this time on the slick wood. As she reached the front door, Meg waited for her. Her hair was in disarray, but Pickle was nowhere to be found.
“Has he gone?”
Meg nodded. “He just stepped into a hired hack. The hostlers are readying the carriage in the mews.”
“Thank you. With luck I can still catch him.”
“What do you mean to do—”
Ignoring the protests of her maid, Phil yanked open the door and jumped down to the street. A stitch started in her side as she reached the gaping doors of the mews. The night air wrapped around her, thick with moisture even though the bullish clouds refused to shed their burdens. The stables were nothing more than an indistinct form with a beacon of light spilling from inside.
The hostlers were nearly ready with the carriage as she burst in. The strong musk of horses and hay assaulted her senses.
“Miss St. Gobain!” They stopped to pull on their forelocks.
“Forget that. I have to follow the hack my brother just stepped into. Are we ready?”
“Yes, miss. Let me help you in.”
The moment the squat hostler let down the stairs, Phil leaped into the carriage under her own power. In the space of two heartbeats, the driver jumped into place, the other hostlers buckled the last clip, and the horses’ hooves clattered as the team of four trotted out of the stables and into the night.
Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2) Page 7