Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two

by Mary Lancaster

  “Letitia is quite pretty, Edith,” Uncle Alfred said with a frown.

  For a moment, Letty feared an argument would ensue. She had visions of being carried off back to Cumbria. But Aunt Edith tapped Letty’s chin. “Well yes, I now see a little of your mother in your features, and you get your dark hair and eyes from your father. A pity, when fair hair and blue eyes are so fashionable.” She turned to the young maid. “Mary? Don’t stand there as if you’re frozen to the spot! Bring in the tea tray. Alford, I’m sure you and Letitia would care for tea? Good. Shall we sit? Don’t tell me you came in a hired chaise? So extravagant.”

  Letty sat beside her aunt while Uncle Alford chose the overstuffed armchair. “No, we took the stage, and I must say…”

  As they conversed, Letty sank back against an embroidered cushion. The room was old fashioned with big heavy pieces of furniture not in the modern style at all, the walls papered in dark green which made the room quite dark, even with the matching velvet curtains drawn aside. Outside the window was the brick wall of the house next door. She wished she didn’t feel so flat. With a sigh, she acknowledged the trip had left her weary. She remained confident that tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, everything would look a great deal better.

  The coal fire sent flickering lights over the Turkey carpet of Fraser Willard’s cozy library, the walls covered in mahogany bookshelves stacked with tomes. A branch of candles, the only other light in the room, perched on the table beside a crystal decanter.

  A whiskey in his hand, Brandon Cartwright lounged in the leather wing chair, his legs stretched out over the crimson rug as he blew a cloud of smoke from the cheroot he held between his long fingers. “So, I’m to find out all I can about Lord Ambrose Fraughton?”

  “Become his shadow.” The firelight warmed Willard’s gray-streaked, fair hair. Brandon’s superior at the Home Office, seated opposite him, took a pinch of snuff from an enamel box. “Whatever ball or soiree Fraughton attends, you attend. We want to know who he meets, and if possible, what is said.” He sniffed delicately. “This mission is eminently suited to you, because as Sir Richard Cartwright’s heir, you can inveigle an invite to any affair.”

  Brandon stubbed out his cheroot in the dish. “I’ve met his wife, but I don’t know Fraughton. If I’m to be of service, I’ll need to learn more about him.”

  “There’s a scheme afoot to rescue the Comte de Lavalette from the prison of the Conciergerie, before he is executed,” Willard responded. “As I’m sure you realize, to aid a French subject in escaping his country’s justice is a sensitive matter. It must be kept under a cloak of absolute secrecy. Difficult, when we have the problem of a group of monarchists wishing to make an example of him. Blood runs high after the deposing of a king, and these men are looking for someone to punish.”

  “Who is this Lavalette, may I inquire?”

  “It’s a very interesting story,” Willard said. “The Comte was Napoleon’s postmaster and at one time, his aide-de-campe. He was appointed to the position so he could open, read, and then reseal suspicious mail on the grounds of intelligence gathering. The real purpose was to identify threats to Napoleon from the monarchists as well as others. Lavalette’s wife, by the way, is the niece of the former empress, Josephine.”

  “And what is Fraughton’s interest in this affair?”

  “He is one of those who are determined to see Lavalette dead.”

  “What is the government’s interest in Lavalette?”

  “We are informed he has information vital to the interests of the British government.”

  Brandon took a deep sip of the smooth whiskey. “Why not arrest Fraughton, keep him out of the way until the business is done?”

  “Can’t do that. We have to wait to see what information Lavalette has passed on to his wife,” Willard said, returning his snuff box to his pocket. “We also need to learn what it is these monarchists are planning.”

  “So, I’m to hide in the rooms where they gather,” Brandon said dryly, pushing back his dark hair with an impatient hand. “Under the sofa?”

  “I’ll leave that to you. They are unlikely to view you as a threat. You’ve worked hard to create the image of a harmless rake.” Willard’s lips twitched. “You have quite a reputation with the ladies, not to mention your much talked about affair with Lady Mary Stanhope.” He cast an eye over Brandon’s snugly fitted, dark blue coat which spoke of the expertise of Schweitzer & Davison who enjoyed the patronage of the Prince of Wales. “You are known to be a dab hand at the reins since you won that curricle race to Brighton some few years ago. You strip well at Jackson’s boxing salon and are an excellent judge of horseflesh at Tattersalls.”

  Brandon laughed at what he considered an unflattering description of his talents. “Exhausting work, but it befalls me to make the sacrifice.”

  Willard smiled. “I’m sure. Especially your well-earned reputation with the fairer sex. These men will not know about the work you performed for foreign affairs in Madrid during the war, or the other undercover operations for Whitehall you’ve been involved with. By the way, Princess de Vaudémont has requested we recruit you.”

  Brandon raised his eyebrows at that. The princess was a political plotter par excellence. He had always admired her intellect. “Did she indeed? Then I can hardly refuse, can I?”

  Chapter Two

  Fortunately, Uncle Alford departed for the country on the morning following their arrival in London, after declaring himself a trifle uneasy about leaving Letty in a place where scoundrels lurked on every corner. He declared that Letty was an intelligent young woman, but of a spirited nature and not always prudent. Therefore, he demanded his sister write to him every week to assure him everything went well. Until the hackney took him away, Letty was on tenterhooks, fearing he’d demand she come with him.

  Letty’s first day at the modiste’s disappointed her. It seemed that her aunt, who had never married, had quite conservative views about dress. And worse, the modiste, Mrs. Crotchet, a lady in her fifties, tended to agree with her. They decided that Letty must be seen to be a demure young lady, and it appeared that even her ball dress would lack glamor. No fripperies were to be indulged in. Letty’s dreams of fur muffs, feathered, high-crowned bonnets, and military-styled pelisses, faded while practical styles were discussed in serviceable colors such as nankeen, snuff, and drab.

  Because Letty’s father had been the second son of a baron, she was to be presented. Young ladies were allowed to wear more color on this occasion. She dreamed of ruby velvet with point lace like the one she’d seen in the Belle Assembly fashion periodical, or a gown bordered in gold and adorned with tassels, but she didn’t hold out much hope for either of these. Fortunately, the presentation was some weeks away and gave her time to practice her curtsey.

  Now, all her hopes lay with the Kirkwood’s ball held on the Saturday of the following week.

  Letty’s days were taken up with accompanying her aunt about. Many hours were spent in Hatchards Booksellers in Piccadilly, and Minerva Press on Leadenhall Street, where her aunt searched for a particular book. Aunt Edith’s penchant for gothic fiction surprised her. On the way home, they often stopped for an ice at Gunter’s, another of her aunt’s indulgences.

  Toward the end of her second week, two of Letty’s gowns arrived from the modiste. She rushed to open the boxes. Once untied, and the gowns spread out over her bed, her heart sank. The morning gown was acceptable, although quite plain and of a serviceable material, but the ball gown! It was as bad as she had feared.

  Aunt Edith came into the room. “Perfect for a modest young lady,” she declared, looking pleased.

  Letty stood before the mirror. The modest style wouldn’t be hideous on an older lady, she thought bleakly. The sprigged muslin was undeniably pretty, but the green of the sash not a good color for her, and the frill around the neck made her think of an African lizard she had seen pictures of in a book.

  On the night of the ball, Mary, Aunt Edith’s maid, arrange
d Letty’s hair, and struggled to create the style she wished for. The overall effect was uninspired, for her locks, as straight as a broom handle, resisted the curling tongs, and the green ribbon looked drab against her dark hair which had not a hint of gold.

  “How nice you look, Letitia,” her aunt declared, while handing her a velvet box. “You shall wear my pearls.”

  “Thank you, Aunt.” Letty clasped the strand around her neck, her reluctant fingers fumbling with the catch. As the necklace rested against the high neck of the gown, the pearls tended to look more cluttered than glamorous, but at least the pearl earrings were pretty. She turned her head, enjoying the way they danced against her neck. If only she could take her scissors to the gown and cut a scoop neck and replace the horrid flat green ribbon with white. She was good with a needle, it wouldn’t take more than an afternoon to create pretty puff sleeves. But of course, she couldn’t. She would have to wear it and cringed at the thought.

  On Saturday evening, a hand to her nervous stomach, Letty sat stiffly upright as the carriage took them through the streets to St. James’s Square. They stepped down before the imposing Kirkwood mansion, ablaze with what must be a thousand candles. It was all so terribly grand, Lettie caught her breath. Admitted by a footman, they moved through the reception rooms like Aladdin’s cave, crammed with guests decked out in fabulous jewels. Their names were announced in the ballroom by the expressionless butler to the seemingly disinterested guests, few of whom paused to glance at them.

  Huge crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling edged in gilt and painted with landscapes and putto. Swathes of gold silk damask dressed the long windows and banks of colorful blooms clustered around marble columns. It didn’t matter to Letty that the long room was noisy, smoky, overly perfumed, and too warm, for the atmosphere was electric.

  Aunt Edith introduced Letty to a couple of her friends, one a lady of similar age, and an elderly gentleman. They sat on a sofa placed amongst the potted ferns. Aunt Edith fanned herself and talked to them, while Letty, who could hardly hear for the voices swirling around them, watched the ladies mill about in their finery, and the gentlemen, so impressive in their evening wear and crisp white cravats, gather in groups. The haute ton were all here, and Letty was sure there would be intrigue and scandal on everyone’s lips. A self-confessed snoop, she would have loved to wander among them and eavesdrop.

  A quadrille was announced, and couples formed sets as the orchestra struck up. Not one gentleman approached Letty. She seemed to be invisible. Her aunt barely noticed being deep in conversation with the lady beside her. The elderly gentleman rose and limped away. No help in that quarter. Letty was even prepared to dance with him had he asked her.

  When the footman appeared with a tray, Letty took a glass of lemonade, which she sipped to ease her dry throat. She trembled with humiliation and nerves when, following the announcement of a country dance, she again failed to attract a single man’s attention. She might have a sign on her head declaring her a wallflower. Seated near her, were two young debutantes in their white muslins. Their wide-eyed gazes met hers briefly and then they quickly looked away. As if whatever kept the gentlemen at bay might be contagious.

  Another hour passed while Letty became convinced that the whole ballroom had become aware of her discomfort. Gentlemen bypassed her with barely a glance, seeking the fashionably dressed women in their elegant finery. When the master of ceremonies called a waltz and the dance floor filled again with twirling dancers, Letty could bear it no more. She stood. “I must go to the ladies’ withdrawing room, Aunt.”

  Aunt Edith cast her a glance that was faintly sympathetic. “Very well, Letitia. Come straight back.”

  Letty threaded her way through the crowd. Those not dancing stood drinking champagne together, either in deep discussion or laughing at some seemingly droll on-dit. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, which made her feel worse. She located the withdrawing room and hovered before the mirror. With the fear that she appeared desperate, Letty fiddled with her hair, but there was little she could do with it. She was tempted to pull the offending ribbon off, but then it would be like being naked, with every lady’s head dressed so lavishly with flowers and pearls and feathers, so she let it be.

  As she pinched her cheeks and bit her lips, two women of a similar age to her, entered the withdrawing room, talking together. They appeared like fairies in their fragile gauze and white satin gowns, bordered around the hem with embroidery and silk flowers. Their scoop-necked gowns displayed a tasteful amount of décolletage, and a few inches of skin between the small-capped sleeves and their long white gloves. Letty glanced at them enviously. She smoothed her long sleeves and smiled at the brunette the other girl had called Miss Somersby as she stood beside Letty at the mirror.

  “It’s quite a crush, isn’t it?” Letty said.

  Miss Somersby leaned closer to the mirror and patted a perfectly ordered curl by her ear. “Yes, the Kirkwood’s always is, of course, being the first ball of the Season.” She turned away and addressed the blonde girl with pink roses in her hair who came to join her. “Did you see Annabelle Freemont? If she had another feather in her headdress, she might fly off.”

  “And the jewels Lady Meredith Neave wore!” The blonde girl tittered. “I declare it hurt my eyes to look at her.”

  “Some badly dressed people here tonight,” Miss Somersby observed, turning to view the elegant fall of her gown from over her shoulder.

  Without another glance at Letty, they left the withdrawing room. Letty followed as they walked away through the crowd, arm in arm.

  One look at the daunting crush of beautifully dressed, indifferent people, and she couldn’t bear to face them. She turned and hurried away down a deserted corridor.

  Entering through the first door she came to, she found herself in a library where a coal fire smoldered in the fireplace, despite the vast room being unoccupied. With a gasp of relief, she scurried across to ease the cold knot in her chest before the flames. The mirror above the marble mantel reflected her anguished face. How long before her aunt wished to leave? How long might she stay here until her absence was noted?

  Hearing voices, Letty spun around. She spied an elaborate screen in the far corner, painted with a beautiful rustic scene. She’d just slipped behind it when the door opened. Not daring to risk a peek, she stood with her hands to her cheeks, trying to breathe quietly.

  “Good, we can talk freely here,” a woman said.

  “Lord, Susan! What is this? Your husband will be looking for you,” a man responded.

  “He is busy, ensconced with his colleagues. And I wanted to see you privately, Marston,” she said, sounding flirtatious. “I thought we might…” Her voice lowered into a whisper.

  “A quick tumble here in the library? You may be that reckless, madam, but I am not.”

  Letty put a hand to her mouth to stop from gasping. How foolish of her not to make herself known to them and leave. But it was too late now. She was trapped!

  “Where might we meet then?”

  “We won’t. Not until your husband has breathed his last. It’s too perilous.”

  “I’ll be too old,” she said in a sulky voice.

  He chuckled. “It won’t be long by the look of him. Fraughton doesn’t seem to be in the best of health. One never knows…”

  She gasped. “You wouldn’t! Surely not, Marston?”

  “You have a vivid imagination, Susan. Or do you wish I would?” There was a pause where Letty strained to hear. “Can you be fond of him?”

  “We barely see each other from day to day. He dines with his cronies and is never there at breakfast. I had no say in the marriage. Father insisted. He wished me to be well settled.”

  “And so you are. The man’s as wealthy as Croesus. Give me a kiss then.”

  The kissing seemed to go on rather long. Letty wished she had a chair. When moans and groans reached her, her face heated, and she wanted to block her ears. What if they discovered her? But they seemed ca
ught up with each other. So much so, she feared they might be there for hours. Finally, amid rustling noises and the lady’s giggles, they left the room.

  After waiting a moment to be sure, Letty slipped from her hiding place. She cautiously opened the library door and peered out. Without chancing discovery, she darted down the empty corridor to the door leading to the ball room.

  “There you are, Letitia.” Aunt Edith gathered up her shawl and reticule. “I thought I must have missed you on the dance floor.” She frowned. “You cannot dance with just anyone, you know. You must first be introduced.”

  “I wasn’t dancing, Aunt. And I don’t see how I can be introduced when no one wishes to meet me.”

  Her aunt looked exasperated. “Where were you then? Surely not in the withdrawing room all this time?”

  “I… tore my hem and had to pin it.”

  “Oh, your lovely dress. What a shame. I do hope you haven’t ruined it. Give it to Mary to mend and launder. I found no one here tonight who might ask you to dance. But never fear, I’m sure more of my acquaintances will attend the next social event. It’s still early in the Season, and many remain at their country estates.” She smiled at Letty. “But it was your first ball, and you looked very well and behaved prettily. Did you enjoy yourself?”

  Letty failed to imagine how crammed the ballrooms would become once the ton had all returned to London. “I did, Aunt. I found it most…enlightening.”

  “Good. Quite different to life in the country, is it not?” She put a gloved hand to her mouth. “I declare, I am ready for my bed. I haven’t been out so late in years.”

  Letty had to stifle a yawn herself. She hadn’t yet grown used to city hours, and her lowered spirits made her tired. Her anticipation of a wonderful Season waned a little. As they left the ballroom to wait for their carriage to be brought around, Letty stared about her at the milling guests, wondering what the man and woman in the library looked like. She knew only their names, Lord Fraughton’s wife, Susan, and the man with the low seductive voice, Marston.