Letty tried to think of a reason to refuse, but her mind went blank with distress. “Very well, Arietta,” she said reluctantly. “But I’m not at all sure I can be of any help.”
Arietta smiled. “Good girl. I knew I could depend on you.”
Brandon rode back to his townhouse in Brook Street. So, Miss Bromley was now under Arietta’s patronage. An unwelcome development to say the least. Arietta and her husband Sir Gareth had quite a history, which had at one point become entwined with his. A murky business concerning an act of thievery from the Foreign Office. Kendall had accused him of it and attempted to plant the evidence on him, but he had failed on both counts, for not only did the Home Office disbelieve him, they began to look into Kendall’s activities. Brandon had little time to dwell on it. He was to rendezvous with Willard Fraser, who had interesting information to impart, since he’d been in contact with the Comtesse de Lavalette.
Once he’d changed from his riding clothes, Brandon made his way to a tavern he and Willard used on occasion.
Willard was waiting in the busy taproom, and he joined him at a table in a corner where they drank tankards of ale. “The French are vacillating on whether to send our French friend to his end, and his wife grows nervous,” he said. “She has reported a break-in at their chateau.”
“Was anything taken?”
“No. But she writes now of this Journal Noir. Lavalette had it secreted away. He entrusted it to her when he began to fear for his life.”
“Does she say what the book contains?”
“She does not. Whether she wishes to keep an ace up her sleeve, or she genuinely doesn’t understand the significance of what is in her possession, is moot.”
Brandon put down his tankard. “Does her request to us still stand?”
“Yes. She is to put her plan in motion if Lavalette’s appeal fails. I have sent Borrowdale to Paris with the passport. He will assist Lavalette over the border into Belgium if, and when he is freed.”
“And in the unlikely event that this comes off, will the comtesse pass the journal on to us?”
“Lavalette will come to London and personally deliver it.”
Brandon gave a doubtful shrug. “Is there a way we can get our hands on it should his escape bid fail?”
“None presents itself as yet. But I remain hopeful.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Continue to investigate Fraughton. Learn who his cronies are. It is urgent that we understand just what they are up to. Whatever is in that journal is of great importance to the government, otherwise these men would not be so fearful. If they discover that the comtesse plans an attempt to free Lavalette from the Conciergerie, they will stop her by violent means. And should she succeed, and her husband reaches England, these men will attempt to kill him before he sets foot in London.”
“It appears that Lady Fraughton wishes to rid herself of her husband. She has agreed to assist me.”
Willard nodded and put down his tankard. “We need to keep one step ahead of these men. It’s not just about this smoky business they’ve been involved in, it’s what they plan to do next.”
They left the tavern and stood on the pavement waiting to hail a hackney.
“If Comtesse de Lavalette doesn’t know what the journal contains, might you have any idea?” Brandon asked with no real expectation of Willard telling him.
“It would be pure conjecture on my part,” Willard replied, never one to speculate.
“Then I hope it falls into our hands. I, for one, am consumed with curiosity.”
Willard grinned. He raised his cane to hail a cab rattling down the road.
Uneasy, Brandon walked away down the street. How desperate were these men? He didn’t trust Susan Fraughton’s discretion. And he didn’t like Fraughton. He didn’t tell Willard, for the man would disapprove of letting a possible good source of information go, but he planned to put a stop to her involvement.
Chapter Eight
Letty sipped her tea. Earlier, she had been toiling over a letter to Cumbria, finding it difficult when she had to exclude so much. If Uncle Alford learned the truth, he would be on the doorstep within days.
Arietta came into the breakfast room. “Tonight, we are to attend a rout in Hampstead at Lord and Lady Willcox’s home. You are sure to enjoy it, Letitia.”
Letty put down her teacup. “What is a rout?”
“A rout is a house party,” Arietta said. “Guests fill the reception rooms to listen to music, discuss books and art, and enjoy a nice supper. There might also be card tables.” She nodded to the footman who hurried to attend her. “Your jaconet muslin dinner dress with the embroidered roses will be perfect.” She cocked her head. “Tell Adele to place a plume in your hair, they are de rigueur.”
That evening, their carriage traveled down a long driveway lit by flickering lanterns, to the stone mansion set amongst formal gardens. Letty stepped from the carriage with mixed emotions. While she hoped that Cartwright wouldn’t be here, she admitted to the desire to see him again. Did he spy for the French? She remembered the Frenchman with Fraughton in the library whom Cartwright obviously hadn’t met. But that told her nothing. How frustrating!
“There will be music but no dancing,” Arietta said as they climbed the steps to the portico and the tall front doors. “A harp or pianoforte, perhaps.”
Routs seemed an odd thing to Letty. To be crammed in a drawing room with so many people? Some of the behaviors and rules the ton lived by made little sense to her. The world her mother and father inhabited had never been hers. At seven years old, she had watched from the staircase as they left the house in their elegant clothes to go to a party. Her beautiful mother had looked like a fairy queen, and her father so handsome in his evening clothes. But during the night, a snowstorm hit, and they did not return. A bridge had given way, and their carriage plunged into the icy waters.
Letty was left crushed with loneliness. Uncle Alford tried to help, but having never married and therefore, no children of his own, he really didn’t know quite what to do. His idea of comfort was to read the Bible and invite her to pray with him. It took her a long time to become content with her life in Cumbria. But she still yearned for something more. A sense of freedom, perhaps, to choose the life she wanted. And yes, the love of a good man. But she doubted marriage would provide what she sought. Wives were even more constrained by their husbands. Yet, what else was there for her but marriage?
Following Arietta’s example, Letty handed her evening cloak to a footman, and they moved into the stuffy, overcrowded drawing room where guests stood shoulder to shoulder. The noise greeted them like a blow. A harpist played in a corner but could barely be heard. Even though the night wasn’t cold, a fire crackled in the fireplace. The smoky air blended with the scents of warm bodies seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room. She was glad of the glass of wine a footman gave her. As she sipped, Letty studied those around her, searching for a familiar face.
Arietta whispered in her ear from behind her fan. “Cartwright is over in the corner talking to Lord Fleetwood. Watch him. I wish to know whom he seeks out this evening.”
“But I don’t know anyone’s names.” Letty turned to find Arietta had been swallowed up in the crowd.
With an eye on Cartwright, she gulped down her drink and placed it on a waiter’s tray. Cartwright had left the gentleman he’d been talking to and purposefully made his way to a door. He disappeared through it.
Excusing herself left and right, Letty followed him out.
She found herself in a wide corridor, the walls hung with gilt-framed paintings and tapestries. Her heart beating fast, she crept along it, glad that her silk evening slippers made little sound on the hall runner. Voices reached her. She edged forward and paused at a doorway, then peeked into the room. In the small study, Lady Fraughton talked to Cartwright. She leaned back against an oak desk and laughed, running a hand over his waistcoat. “What has caused this change of heart?” she asked in a low s
eductive voice.
Cartwright caught her wrist. Letty couldn’t catch his low reply.
Afraid he would turn, or Lady Fraughton would peel her eyes away from Cartwright’s broad chest and see her, Letty pulled back. She checked the corridor, but thankfully no one had entered from the busy reception rooms beyond the door. Was Cartwright intent on some covert mission as Arietta suggested? Or was it a liaison? The way he whispered to the lady suggested they were on intimate terms. Letty’s blood boiled to think he would have an affair with a married woman. She had thought better of him, though any reason why she should, escaped her, since she knew absolutely nothing about him.
She chanced another quick glance with the excuse of seeking the withdrawing room, should she be discovered. Lady Fraughton removed a letter from her reticule and handed it to Cartwright. He unfolded it and held it up to the candlelight. After a quick scan, he handed it to her. “Put it back where you found it, and quickly, before it is missed,” he said in a sharp tone. “And let that be the end of it. I shall require no further assistance from you, Lady Fraughton.”
“Have I not been helpful?” she murmured.
“You have. I am grateful.”
“How grateful are you, Cartwright?”
Fearful of discovery, Letty reluctantly left them and hurried back to the drawing room. Whatever that letter contained had been of great interest to him. However, none of this meant he was working for the French. Arietta must be wrong. Letty realized she made excuses for him. She supposed she must be that naïve country miss Arietta said she was.
She waited for Cartwright’s return by taking shelter behind the broad back of a portly gentleman who talked disparagingly of Lord Byron’s recent marriage and his latest poem. She did not have long to wait. Cartwright walked into the room alone with a serious mien, but when a man clapped him on the back, his expression lightened, and he was drawn laughingly into a group. Letty admired his expertise. Such skill! So untrustworthy! With a polite smile, she edged away through the throng as erudite discussions swirled around her peppered with witticisms and laughter.
A few moments later, Lady Fraughton emerged. Without glancing at Cartwright, she joined an older man whom Letty assumed was her husband. Fraughton’s long narrow face bore a humorless expression. He would be some thirty years older than her, tall and lean, his hair white, but with a kind of upright wiry strength, which gave the impression of a good deal of self-consequence. Might Lady Fraughton’s interest in the younger, more handsome Cartwright merely be prompted by desire? Yet, she could not discount the letter. What did it contain? Lady Fraughton had replaced it in her reticule which now hung on her arm. Arietta would be interested to learn what it contained. Letty stared at the bag, hoping the woman might put it down somewhere.
As she considered this, Fraughton left his wife’s side and walked out through the French doors leading to the gardens. Letty spun around to watch as Cartwright immediately excused himself and went after Fraughton.
Anxious to seize the opportunity to follow him and discover just what his interest was in this man, she hurried in his wake.
Outside, braziers burned along the terrace and the garden paths, their fiery glow casting light and shade over the manicured grounds. Neither Cartwright nor Fraughton were anywhere to be seen.
She walked along the path, taking deep breaths of the welcome fresh air scented with flowers and trees in their new spring green, the breeze cool on her face.
Men’s voices drifted over the lawn from a gazebo along with a faint tang of cigar smoke. Was Cartwright there? As they may spot her if she ventured farther, she decided to stay where she was, in the hope they’d come her way. She might pick up enough of their conversation to relay to Arietta. She peered through the branches of a flowering tree while finding it difficult to keep her balance on the uneven ground.
Suddenly, a hard hand gripped her arm as if to steady her. Cartwright drew her around to face him, and not gently.
“Dash it all, Miss Bromley! What in God’s name are you doing here?” He sounded as if he’d clamped his teeth.
Her heart beating hard, she shook herself free of his hand, determined not to let him see how rattled he made her. “I was enjoying the peace and the night air, until you came and spoiled it, sir. I planned to stroll over the lawns, but there are people in the gazebo, and I didn’t wish to disturb them.” She glared at him. “What gives you the right to manhandle me? And what might you be doing here, Mr. Cartwright?”
His face partly in shadow, enough light revealed his rigid jaw and deep scowl. “I knew you’d be trouble. I’m beginning to wonder if you are who you say you are.”
“It would not be hard to find out all about me,” Letty said. “I have no secrets. You, on the other hand.…” She raised her eyebrows.
“You are entirely too inquisitive. I wonder why?” He gripped her sleeve again and pulled her into the deep purple shadow cast by a high hedge.
She tried to resist, not quite sure what he had in mind for her, her heart skipping a beat, but her slippers skidded over the grass and she was obliged to grab hold of his arm.
“Sir!” Once she’d regained her balance, Letty released him with a gasp of indignation.
He ignored her protest, his presence so close that she inhaled his familiar spicy cologne and was compelled to step back. She could feel the sharp prickles of the hedge against her spine through the thin fabric of her evening gown. “Ow! Do you mind?” She moved away, fearing her gown might rent.
“Be quiet. Explain, yourself. Why are you following me?”
“Do you want me to be quiet or explain that I’m not following you?” She glared at him. “I can hardly do both.”
“Don’t get cocky with me, miss,” he said grittily.
“I wasn’t aware the gardens were exclusively yours,” she said smartly, fairly confident he would not hurt her.
He cursed under his breath. “What a minx you are, Miss Bromley.”
“Please don’t mind me,” Letty said with a frown. “Curse all you like.”
“Are you going to explain your presence here?” There was no trace of irony in Cartwright’s voice now. He sounded very cross.
“The rooms are so crowded and hot,” she said in a beseeching tone. Suddenly very conscious of being alone with him in the dark, she began to edge toward the welcome light flooding out the French doors. “But I believe I’ll go inside.”
She had gone two steps when Cartwright moved to block her way to the terrace. He arched an eyebrow and studied her for a moment. “An excellent idea, Miss Bromley.” A hand against her arm, he gave her a gentle push. “Let’s make sure you do. Please proceed. I shall see you safely inside.”
“You are no gentleman, Mr. Cartwright,” Letty said over her shoulder as she hurried up the path.
Outraged at his ordering her about in such a careless manner, her face hot with embarrassment, she reached the terrace, then turned, but he’d disappeared. Where had he gone? He was nothing better than a rake and mixed up in goodness knew what. But she would have to get better at this spying business, for she felt sure Arietta would expect her to continue.
Candlelight and chatter flooded out through the open doors. Bracing herself, she entered and searched over gentlemen’s heads and the ladies’ waving feather headdresses, then wended her way to the adjoining salon where guests played cards at tables set up for the purpose. What would she tell Arietta? Cartwright hadn’t done much worth mentioning, except for his clandestine meeting with Fraughton’s wife, and his obvious interest in Fraughton. He’d been defensive, too, and wanted her to stop following him. Perhaps Arietta would assume it was a romantic liaison. Should she mention the letter? It could be anything. Letty was torn with indecision, and struck by a puzzling sense of loyalty to Cartwright, who certainly didn’t deserve it.
“There you are,” Arietta linked arms with her and guided her into the supper room where a tasty array of food was served.
Letty discovered herself in need of sustena
nce. Shadowing Cartwright made her hungry, and she needed some strengthening before she faced Arietta’s questions. She ate a portion of delicious tender chicken and sliced beef, and two rout cakes, which were sweet and richly flavored with fruit.
“I saw you follow our quarry into the corridor. You must tell me everything later,” Arietta said, sotto voche, as they drank wine. “I hope it’s something that will aid poor Kendall’s memory,” she said. “He wasn’t buried in his family’s crypt, you know.” Her gaze over the rim of her glass looked desperately sad.
Letty caught her breath as the inner struggle to keep faith with both of them tightened her ribs.
“But the night is not yet over,” Arietta continued. “You might discover something more. Come and meet my friends, and when it is prudent to do so, you can slip away.”
The tart wine went down the wrong way, making Letty cough. “Yes, of course,” she said feebly. Arietta had obviously not given up.
Once Brandon made sure that Miss Bromley returned to the house, he entered the shrubbery. He circled the gazebo and came up behind it, hidden from view by the broad trunk of a chestnut while close enough to hear what was said. He feared he was too late to glean much. They had stamped out their cigars and were preparing to depart.
“Lavalette’s wife might know more than we think,” Fraughton said. “She could be persuaded to reveal it.”
The other man, who was shorter and broader in stature, shook his head. “What? And then kill her? We might as well put a notice in The Times. Patience, Fraughton!”
“How can I be patient when you came back empty handed from Paris, Descrier? Lavalette has hidden it somewhere. It was his intention to blackmail us before he was thrown into prison, but he may well still intend to do so.” There was a note of anguish in Fraughton’s voice.
“Lavalette will soon face the guillotine. It changes the game, does it not? We shall have more time to find this Journal Noir at our leisure. And with luck on our side, it will never be found.”
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 29