“Do you know of a man called Marston, Aunt Edith?” she asked when they’d settled in their carriage.
“Marston?” Her aunt frowned. “I hope he did not approach you.”
“No, I heard his name mentioned, that’s all.”
“Robert Marston is a rake. You must have nothing to do with him!”
So, that was a rake. My goodness! Letty had read about them, but in all her eighteen years, had never met one. She thought again of the couple in the library, kissing, obviously, and whatever else—her imagination failed to fill in the details. Although such an experience had hardly been what she wished for, for they were not nice people, the episode had stirred something in her, an excitement and a curiosity. It was, after all, the beginning of her adventure. Once she got home, she would put pen to paper and tell Jane all about it. She frowned. Well, perhaps not all of it. She didn’t want her dear friend worried about her.
Brandon disliked missions such as these. He would prefer to be in Paris, working actively in some way to serve the Crown. Not skulking behind pillars like some miscreant. He’d thus far had no success with Fraughton either, who seemed to be more interested in what was occurring in England among his peers, than anything to do with the man about to be beheaded in France. The whole affair seemed odd to him. He wondered if his spymaster had the right of it. But Willard was not one to be mistaken.
As he strolled through the ballroom, pausing to chat to those he knew, he nodded to Lady Fraughton. She smiled beguilingly at him from where she sat sipping champagne. He wandered over to her. “Alone, my lady?”
She pouted prettily. “As you see.”
“Extraordinary! Where are your devoted admirers? Your husband?”
She shrugged her slender shoulders in her blue dress and waved her painted fan to the left while her gaze remained on Brandon. “Fraughton is amongst the group surrounding the Duke of Wellington.”
“So he is,” he said, quite well aware of where Fraughton was, hanging onto the great man’s words, and being of no value to Brandon at all.
The Master of Ceremonies called from the dais as the musicians took their places.
“Ah, a waltz. Would you favor me with a dance, Lady Fraughton?”
She rose. “Delighted, sir.”
Susan was young enough to be Fraughton’s daughter, and he obviously neglected her. A mistake in Brandon’s opinion, for it drove her into the arms of that nasty piece of work, Marston. Would Fraughton condone their affair? He rather doubted it. The man did not wear his anger on his sleeve, it simmered beneath the surface and was all the more dangerous for it. From what Brandon had learned this morning at the man’s stables, Fraughton had taken a whip to his stable boy and thrashed him within an inch of his young life.
Brandon put a hand on her waist as the orchestra began to play Mozart. As he guided her over the floor, she gazed up at him coquettishly. “Why have you not married, Cartwright?”
“Must everyone be married, madam?”
“It seems the best of both worlds.”
“Does it? Or do you wish to see me suffer the same constraints as you do?”
“Ha! What constraints do men ever suffer? The world is their oyster.” She frowned. “A woman has not the same opportunities.”
He swirled her around, leaving her breathless. “I suspect you make the most of your circumstances. But is it wise?”
Her hand tensed in his. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Some men you can read like a book. Fraughton is not one of them.”
She gave him an arch look. “You are offering me advice, then?”
“Your husband, madam, may not be as compliant as you believe.”
“I declare, you speak in riddles tonight,” she said waspishly. “You are usually more entertaining.”
He bowed his head. “Then I apologize.”
They danced the rest of the waltz in silence. As Brandon led her back to her chair, her hand squeezed his arm. “If you wish to explain those cryptic comments, sir, you know where I live.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Come to your home? I think not.”
“Then send me a note. We shall meet.”
He bowed and left her.
Lady Fraughton might prove the perfect source for the information he required. If he could charm her into providing it. Not an easy task with Marston lurking. No doubt the man, who found himself short of funds after succumbing to the betting tables, might have some plan afoot. At the very least, Brandon imagined Marston would find the fair-haired Susan a most appealing diversion.
As Brandon moved through the crush, Fraughton left Wellington’s side and headed away down the corridor. With a pull on his cuffs, Brandon casually followed.
Chapter Three
Letty was forced to wear the frumpy gown to their next ball, which was held at Lord and Lady Driscoll’s in Grosvenor Square. She feared that had another garment been made at her request, she might like it even less.
This time, her aunt introduced her to more of her acquaintances. Letty danced a quadrille with Mr. Montague, who was of a similar age to her aunt, but quite sprightly. She’d begun to suspect Aunt Edith knew no one under the age of sixty, and again, after sitting for several hours watching the dancers merrily performing their steps, she took herself off to the withdrawing room. Her frowning face stared back at her from the mirror.
She really should be grateful. Here she was in London at a fabulous ball. She should not expect too much too soon. Things would surely improve. But when she left the withdrawing room, Miss Somersby, in yet another beautiful gown, stood in Letty’s path while talking to a woman in emerald green. The humiliation was too much. The need to compose herself drove Letty from the ballroom in search of a quiet corner. Surely, this enormous house would have a library, which might be unoccupied, and the chance of overhearing lovers again seemed remote.
Letty soon discovered the library with its high, coffered ceiling, the walls covered in shelves of tightly packed gilt-edged books, and sighed with relief to find it empty. She sat in a brocade armchair and toasted herself by the fire. She would just stay for a few minutes, then return to her aunt. By then, Miss Somersby might be on the dance floor.
Letty enjoyed the quiet room, the scent of old books and leather and the crackle of the fire, so soothing, but at the sound of footsteps outside in the corridor, she leapt up.
Having anticipated this possibility, she’d located a hiding place before she sat down. The cloak cupboard in the wainscoting was roomy enough for her to be comfortable until she could leave again. Letty darted inside and shut the door.
The library door opened and closed, then footsteps crossed the carpet. With a gasp, Letty stiffened and edged back into the corner. A moment later, the cupboard door was pulled open, and the smell of tobacco and spicy cologne wafted into the space along with a large body, who closed the door after him.
In the total darkness, Letty tried not to breathe and to remain as still as death. But apparently not still enough. A deep voice cursed, and a heavy hand settled on her shoulder. Letty jumped and fought not to squeak.
“Violets,” came a surprised comment as a big hand moved down to wrap strong fingers tightly around her arm.
The door opened, and she was pulled unceremoniously into the light.
A tall, dark-haired gentleman stood staring down at her. His dark eyebrows arched over angry blue eyes. “What the devil…”
At the sound of men’s voices outside the door, without a word, the gentleman rudely pushed her back inside the cupboard again.
Letty opened her mouth to complain, but a hand smothered her words. “Shush,” came a fierce whisper.
Affronted, she wanted to protest, but he pushed her down onto her bottom on the floor. A hard, masculine shoulder settled against hers. Considering it wise to obey him, she sat mutely, drawing in his sharp cologne with each anxious breath.
Outside their hiding place, a conversation had begun which appeared this man was intent on hearing.
/> From what she could gather, there were two gentlemen. The Englishman said something about France. Letty couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Then the gentleman with a French accent, who sounded younger, raised his voice.
“Mon Dieu, Fraughton. We must act to find that cursed Journal Noir.”
“It was supposed to come to me, but never arrived. Lavalette intercepted it,” Fraughton said.
“If he survives the guillotine,” the Frenchman said, “he must be relieved of it and then silenced before he can give away too many secrets. Unless you wish to hang as a traitor!”
Laughter drifted in from the corridor outside the library.
“Quiet, Pierse!” the older man urged. “I fully understand the urgency. This was not a good idea. We might be overheard.”
He must have risen quickly for something heavy fell to the floor with a clatter. “Hell’s teeth! Pick up that table. You French have such short fuses. We cannot speak here. Whitehall could be closing in on us. We shall meet somewhere more discreet. The Anchor Tavern at the docks at eight Friday evening. No one will know us there.”
“But it’s a most unsavory area,” the Frenchman complained. “Filled with cutthroats with a deep-seated hatred of the French! I could end up with a knife in my ribs.”
“Come armed then.”
“Mon Dieu! You think I wouldn’t be?” A voluble string of French peppered with unfamiliar words followed the older man from the room. The door closed.
Silence fell. Letty had managed to control her breathing and attempted to climb to her feet.
“Sit still,” the gentleman ordered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re English then. Who the devil are you? Who do you work for?”
“I don’t work for anyone. This is my first trip to London. It’s my come-out.”
“Don’t give me that! Debutantes don’t hide in library cupboards.” The man’s voice might be pleasant if he wasn’t so accusatory.
It was odd, but she wasn’t a bit afraid of him. Perhaps the mellow tones of his voice misled her? Murdered in a library cupboard by a very well-spoken, well-dressed gentleman who smelled delightful? It seemed unlikely. “Well this one does,” she snapped. “I didn’t expect to share the cupboard with anyone. And I’m beginning to feel suffocated. Can we please leave?”
He opened the door, carefully looking out as candlelight flooded in. Then he reached down to help her up.
Letty ignored his outstretched hand. Gaining her feet, she left the stifling small space with relief. “I have told you the truth. Whether you choose to believe it or not is your affair.” She shook out her muslin skirts. “I must return to my aunt.”
She turned to go.
His hard grasp circled her arm again. “Not so fast. Who are you? And who is this aunt of yours?”
“I am Letitia Bromley, and Miss Edith Bromley is my aunt and chaperone.”
“Well, if she is your chaperone, she has her work cut out.” His blue eyes widened. “You’re either who you say you are, or a very clever spy, to dress in that prim fashion.”
“Prim?” She frowned.
“Rather like a…er, never mind.” He gave her a little push. “Best we leave here before someone comes and accuses us of a liaison.”
The prospect was obviously extremely distasteful to him. Was she so terribly unattractive? She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her white face looked slightly green. It was probably the ribbon!
He opened the door and waited for her to pass through. Instead, Letty turned to face him, finding herself so close she breathed in his sharp fresh smell again. She dropped her gaze to his mouth; his sculptured lips were firm. At an inexplicable and annoying sense of attraction, she almost stepped back. She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you? And why were you in the cupboard?”
He grinned with a flash of even, white teeth. “None of your affair. But I shall escort you to the ballroom, Miss Bromley. And will be watching you. So be very careful. Say nothing about this to anyone.”
“As if I would! No one would believe me!”
Letty’s heart thudded. He was snooping on those men. Was he a spy? Goodness, but London had suddenly become rather too exciting for comfort.
She did not intend for him to escort her and hurried down the corridor, aware the gentleman followed. His long strides kept him close. If she wished to lose him, she would have to break into a run!
As if he guessed her thoughts, he paused at the door. “Forget what you heard tonight.” With a small bow, he walked away.
Relieved, Letty entered the ballroom, comforted by the rush of heat and noise and laughter, patently aware that anything to do with spies was dangerous. But what alternative did she have? She was not about to scurry back to Cumbria! Well, she wouldn’t hide away again, although uppermost in her thoughts was the man’s criticism of her dress.
Letty gathered up the skirts of the offending gown and made her way to her aunt. Across the ballroom sat the two miserable looking debutantes. Perhaps they could get together, cheer each other up. Letty smiled at the red-haired girl, who quickly averted her gaze. Perhaps not. The Season must improve, she remained hopeful. Might she have a quiet talk with her aunt? Point out what the other girls wore and suggest another gown? But would a new gown change anything?
She hurried over to where her aunt sat frowning at her.
“Letitia, Mr. Montague expressed a wish to dance with you again. Where on earth did you get to?”
Letty trembled as she sat down. “I find the crowd a little alarming, Aunt. But I’m getting more accustomed to it.”
Aunt Edith clucked sympathetically and patted her hand. “My dear girl. It is very different to the country assemblies, is it not? But I assure you, there is nothing to fear. No thieves and rascals here! This is the haute ton! Decent law-abiding people, every one!”
Letty nodded and managed a smile. Now that she was safely ensconced with her aunt, she could relive the experience without alarm. But at that moment, she chanced to look up. The dark-haired gentleman, tall and broad-shouldered in his midnight blue evening coat and crisp white linen, his hair artfully tousled in that popular style that was so attractive, leaned against a column not far away, his thoughtful gaze resting on her.
“Ah, here comes Mr. Montague wishing to dance with you,” her aunt said as the elderly gentleman pushed his way through the crowd with a look of intent. “I believe a waltz is to be called. I’m sure he has that in mind.”
“May I dance the waltz, Aunt?” Letty hoped desperately that her aunt would refuse.
“But of course. This is a private ball, not Almack’s. I can foresee no objection.”
Letty’s heart sank, but before Mr. Montague could reach them, her partner in crime beat him by a whisker. He bent over her aunt’s hand. “Brandon Cartwright, Miss Bromley. I believe we met last Season. The Cuthbert’s rout, was it not? How nice to see you again.” He turned to Letty who was aware that her mouth hung open. “And this young lady? She is your sister?”
Letty glared at him. How corny! Her aunt wouldn’t fall for that! But to her surprise, her aunt tittered, grew pink and fiddled with her shawl. “My niece, Mr. Cartwright. I can’t recall our meeting, but I did attend that function. A sad crush, so perhaps you’ll forgive my lapse of memory.” Her aunt looked unconvinced, for no woman in her right mind would forget meeting Mr. Cartwright. But Aunt Edith recovered her manners beautifully and introduced Letty. While Mr. Montague hovered a few steps away, a scowl on his face, the spy invited her to waltz.
Her aunt had told her that if she refused a gentleman’s request, she could not dance again during the evening. While relieved at escaping Mr. Montague, she still expected a further grilling from Mr. Cartwright. Letty rose and bobbed, offering him a smile which she hoped hid her disquiet from her aunt. “Delighted, sir.”
Her hand resting on his arm, they crossed to the dance floor. “How well you charmed my aunt, Mr. Cartwright!”
He cast her a quizzical glance. “Ah
, so I am charming, Miss Bromley?”
“Charm is only to be applauded when it is sincere,” she said as they took their places on the dance floor.
“Shame on you, Miss Bromley. You don’t feel your aunt warranted my attention?”
Letty could only frown and shake her head at him as he took her in his arms.
Brandon gazed down at the young lady’s face as he swung her into the waltz. He hadn’t quite taken note of her in the library as the implications of Fraughton’s conversation flittered through his mind. As he’d expected, there was more to what Willard had told him. He needed to attend their next encounter at the docks and discover who this Frenchman was. A dashed intriguing business this, it had sparked his interest.
But now he had Miss Letitia Bromley to deal with. She had also listened to Fraughton. It appeared she was what she claimed, and now in the better light, he could see she was very young. She’d shown spirit, but her large, rather lovely brown eyes studied him as if he was about to tackle her to the floor, rather than lead her in the dance.
“I am not about to badger you, Miss Bromley,” he said, pleasantly, “But I would like to know what caused you to hide in the cupboard.”
She bit her lip and gazed somewhere over his right shoulder. “I was escaping.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Has a gentleman displayed an unattractive interest in you?”
She shook her head, a glossy dark lock escaping its ribbon. “No, of course not.”
When she glanced down, he suddenly understood. “Your dress? It’s a little fussy, but not ugly, you know. And does not detract from your charms.”
A flush warmed her cheeks. “There’s really no need to flatter me.”
“I don’t believe I was. But we shall speak no more about it.”
A moment passed while he reversed her as the music swelled. She was slim and light on her feet, and he realized he was enjoying the dance, when he often didn’t.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 25