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

by Mary Lancaster

  “Time for champagne.” Lord Chumley topped off their glasses. He was full of good cheer; his horse having won a race.

  Ladies in their flowery hats and gentlemen in their tailcoats and tall hats filled the cottage tent where afternoon tea was served while the tavern sold champagne, wine, and ale to the men.

  Letty, fascinated by the sights, took a deep breath of the cool spring air laden with the pungent smells of humanity and horseflesh. On the other side of the course, many were not so beautifully attired. They ate pies and more simple fare, while enjoying the prize-fighting, the gaming tents, and a singer who sang ballads. A juggler balancing a dozen spinning plates caught her eye.

  “I’ve seen Cartwright. Over there by the rail,” Arietta said. “He’s walking toward the Duke of Colchester’s coach.” She nudged Letty’s arm. “Quick!”

  Letty’s heart sank. “I can’t follow him. There are too many people. I’ll get lost.”

  Arietta removed Letty’s half-full champagne glass from her limp fingers. “Nonsense! You can easily find your way back to this tent. I shall stay here and wait for you, and then we’ll have tea.”

  As she hurried after Cartwright, Letty was jostled by the large throng of people. She fixed her eye on his black silk top hat and the broad expanse of his back garbed in a pale gray tailcoat. Fortunately, he was taller than many around him. He made his way purposefully through the crowd. Was he on the scent of a group of conspirators? Or was he one of them? With a glance over his shoulder, he approached a tent and disappeared inside. Unable to follow, Letty hovered while angling her blush-pink parasol to hide her face, far enough away to be inconspicuous. Or so she thought.

  Suddenly, when she raised her parasol, he was beside her.

  He swept off his hat. “Miss Bromley. How surprising to find you here outside the gentleman’s convenience.”

  “Was it?” Her face burned. “I…um, was looking for the ladies’.”

  He pointed to another tent some way off.

  “Thank you.” She turned to leave, but he continued to walk beside her.

  “What are you doing?” Letty glared at him. “You can’t accompany me there.”

  “No. But I shall wait outside. I have wanted to speak to you, and this seems the perfect time.”

  “I can’t imagine what about.”

  “Can you not?”

  She sneaked a glance at his patrician profile, noting the harsh set of his jaw. “I have nothing to say that might be of interest to you, sir,” she said doggedly, finding little to say in her defense.

  “Oh, I think you might.” He stopped and nodded toward the tent. “Don’t let me detain you.”

  Letty let down her parasol and hurried inside the large tent where screens were set up for the women’s privacy. Finding another doorway toward the back, she gasped with relief and darted through it.

  Cartwright waited outside, his arms folded.

  She glared at him as she walked past, eager to escape him and return to Arietta.

  Cartwright strolled beside her as if they were enjoying a promenade in the park. He seemed impervious to snubs.

  “I am disappointed you refuse to talk to me, Miss Bromley,” he said, his voice tinged with irony. “I fear I may be losing my charm.”

  “I shouldn’t think so, sir. I am doubtful you ever had a surfeit of it.” She bit her lip, now she was being most dreadfully impolite, what was it about this man? Really, Arietta did expect a lot of her.

  He laughed. “That’s not very polite. Don’t they teach you manners in Cumbria?”

  “In Cumbria….” She stopped to face him, surprised at the level of outrage that tightened her chest at the distressing rebuffs she’d received from some since she came here; most particularly Miss Somersby, who had made her spirits plummet. “We are nothing like the ton. Country folk are plain-speaking. We do not indulge in innuendo and veiled spite, not like some I have met since I came to London.”

  He nodded slowly as his blue gaze drifted over her. “Some members of the ton can be cruel. Has it been difficult?”

  Surprised to find sympathy in his eyes, she bit her lip. She’d been moaning, what was wrong with her? For the most part, London had been wonderful. She cast him a quick glance. This change in Cartwright’s demeanor was even more difficult to deal with. “Au contraire. I have been most fortunate. Lady Arietta is a generous, wonderful person. I am having a very enjoyable time.”

  “A Season can be a special time for a young lady,” he agreed. “I wonder why you don’t just do what the other ladies do, shop and attend dances, and so forth.”

  She caught her lip between her teeth again. She owed him an explanation, she supposed, but not if it betrayed Arietta.

  “Why do you pursue me, Miss Bromley? Is it with a view to marriage?”

  She drew in a horrified breath and stared at him. “Oh! Of course it isn’t,” she cried, incensed. The man was incorrigible. “I would never employ such tricks. Not if you were the last man in London.”

  “You have no need to make it so plain,” he said with a wry lift of his eyebrow. “Tell me then please, what attracts you to me.”

  She opened her mouth. Then shut it again. “But you are mistaken, sir, I’m not,” she said finally, horribly aware of how rude that sounded. A bit of a lie, too. Unable to meet his serious blue gaze, she looked down at her dusty half-boots.

  His silence forced her to look up. “Much as I might enjoy a charming young woman’s attention for whatever reason, please listen to me, Miss Bromley,” he said, his voice lowered. “You are placing yourself in danger. If your patroness tells you to follow me, say no!”

  Her eyes widened. He knew! All this time he knew Arietta was behind this. What was the truth of their association? She’d begun to feel like a pawn in some horrid game. Was it dangerous, or was he merely trying to scare her?

  He offered her his arm. “Come with me and watch a race. My good friend, Lord Downing, has a horse called Sweet Minx running,” he said. “Appropriate, I feel.”

  “Appropriate? I can’t imagine why.” She fought to resist his undeniably attractive smile. His behavior and quite possibly his morals were sadly lacking. Because it would be discourteous to refuse, and she remained curious about him, she took his arm and walked with him to the rail where the majestic thoroughbreds cantered past toward the starting line.

  Once the horses were lined up, a man whom Cartwright called the starter, dropped the flag and the horses leapt forward.

  Despite herself, excitement built. She cheered like those around them as the horses thundered around the final turn in a riot of colored jackets.

  “Which is your friend’s horse?” Letty called above the crescendo of sound.

  He put his head close to hers, affording her a glimpse of a smoothly shaven, olive-toned cheek and a whiff of spicy cologne. “The roan ridden by the jockey in a yellow coat.”

  “But surely he rides too heavy!”

  He chuckled. “That is my friend, Lord Downing. He always rides Sweet Minx.”

  “Does he ever win?”

  “Not often, but by Jove, they’re in front! Well, look at that!” he cried. “They are going to win!”

  Caught up in the excitement, Letty began to cheer Sweet Minx on.

  As the horses crossed the finishing line, Cartwright snatched her up with his hands at her waist and swung her around. “Sweet Minx won!”

  Letty laughed with him.

  He set her back on her feet, slightly giddy at his masculine strength and the warmth of his hands. Heaven’s! What if anyone she knew saw them? She would be labelled a dreadful flirt, or worse!

  Before she could object to his impertinence, he sobered, his gaze seeking hers. “Best return to your party. You will be missed. Don’t forget my warning, Miss Bromley. It was heartfelt.”

  “I have nothing to fear whilst in Lady Arietta’s care,” Letty said firmly, despite her heart still fluttering.

  “Are you sure?” Cartwright looked skeptical. His gaze wand
ered over her, taking her in from her white satin hat in the latest mode trimmed with white dyed ostrich feathers to match her spencer, down to her green kid boots. It wasn’t an admiring glance, and a deep crease had formed between his dark brows.

  Still slightly flustered, she raised her chin and smoothed the skirts of her French cambric dress. “Of course, I am sure.”

  “You should not be wandering around a place such as this on your own without even a duenna to accompany you,” he said shortly. “This is not a ton ballroom or Almack’s. Your patroness is not so caring in my opinion. What’s her game, Miss Bromley? Are you sure it’s a noble one? Think on it if you will.”

  With a brief bow, he left her.

  Letty looked after him until he was swallowed up by the crowd. Then she hurried back to Arietta. Might whatever Cartwright was up to have some connection to Arietta’s husband? It seemed unlikely when Kendall had been gone for over a year. Cartwright’s criticism of Arietta might be justified, but until there was proof, she had to remain loyal to Arietta, after all she had done for her. No one could mistake the despair Arietta suffered concerning her husband’s unfair treatment, which drove her to uncover the truth. And Letty was firmly committed to aiding her in any way she could.

  Arietta waited outside the cottage tent. “Come and have a cup of tea,” she said. “And tell me what you’ve discovered.”

  The tent was filled with patrons partaking of tea and the delicious selection of cakes, the air sweetly scented with lemon, honey, and spices. “There is nothing to tell. Cartwright is here to watch a friend’s horse race.”

  “Oh? Well, no matter. There’s always next time. Would you care for cake or a strawberry tart?”

  Letty followed her to a vacant table with Cartwright’s foreboding message ringing in her ears.

  Pretty Miss Bromley reminded him of early spring snowdrops. Fresh and new and filled with promise. He rather wished she didn’t. She was bound to be hurt if she continued in this vein. And he seemed powerless to stop her, without approaching Lady Arietta directly, which would be unwise when he wasn’t sure what that lady’s motive was.

  It appeared that Miss Bromley’s loyalty to her knew no bounds. He doubted even his bald suggestion that she was attempting to snare him failed to deter her. She merely raised her chin at him and went on her merry way. Was this how they raised girls in Cumbria? It was his policy to avoid debutantes. If one for some unknown reason cast out a lure for him, he was always careful to distance himself without bruising their tender sensibilities. Miss Bromley was nothing like them, she cast no lures, and it appeared that she didn’t bruise quite so easily.

  He took out his pocket watch. Replacing it in his waistcoat pocket, he returned to the men’s convenience, his intention disrupted by Miss Bromley’s appearance. When he emerged again ten minutes later, he was dressed in a groom’s garb. He entered the area where owners, trainers, grooms, and stable hands milled around the rows of horse stalls. The gentlemen he sought stood in front of the stall allocated to Dancer, Lord Elford’s thoroughbred, which had just raced.

  Brandon tugged his hat down and found a pitchfork in the empty stall next to theirs. Working swiftly, he ducked his head, breathing in the strong odors of horse manure, urine, and dusty straw, as he transferred hay to a corner where he could better hear their conversation.

  “Do you know how the journal came into Lavalette’s possession?” Elford asked.

  “Not conclusively. After Waterloo, I asked for it to be sent to me for safe keeping, as our arrangement was at an end, because I feared it might fall into the wrong hands,” Fraughton said in a pained voice. “I inquired after it failed to arrive. Couldn’t get a definitive answer. Napoleon’s man Bouvier assured me it was sent in a diplomatic bag. I finally concluded the only one who could have accessed it was Lavalette. It was he who examined the mail to ferret out any plots against the general.” He sighed heavily. “He must have intercepted one of the mounted couriers and searched the bag. His loyalty to Napoleon prevented him from using it, I suppose, but then the game changed when Napoleon was incarcerated on St. Helena. Then Lavalette’s blackmail letter arrived. I suppose he hoped it would finance his escape from France after others were put to death, and he began to fear for his life.”

  “His appeal will be denied, and he’ll face the guillotine like the others,” Marston said. “So, I fail to see why we should concern ourselves with this journal. We need to deal with the change in our arrangements, now that Napoleon is no longer able to support our venture. I’m told he’s a spent force. I doubt he’ll escape a second time.”

  A murmured consensus followed this statement.

  “Certainly, changes need to be made,” Descrier said. “We will need to think long and hard about it.”

  “I have sent Pierse to France,” Fraughton said. “He will deal with the Comtesse Lavalette. If she has the journal in her possession, it shall not be for long.”

  “What? You sent that violent fool to attack her?” Lord Elford growled. “We already have a death on our hands which could lead authorities to us.”

  “Nonsense. That was some time ago. His death cannot implicate us. My instructions to Pierse were to make another search of her apartments,” Fraughton said coolly. “Not to confront the comtesse.”

  “I had Lavalette’s properties searched thoroughly,” said Descrier. “It is pointless and could well expose us. Pierse is about as reliable as a faulty pistol.”

  “We shall see.” Fraughton said grittily. “No doubt you will stop complaining if Pierse returns with it.”

  Descrier groaned. “But we can’t rely on it. We must come to a decision. We are like headless chickens. Let us talk again at the Moncrief’s ball. We shall organize our journey to your Kent estate, Elford.”

  “Good, a decision of sorts at last,” Marston growled.

  “Very well, we’ll go to Kent and deal with the problem there. But as there’s not a lot we can do about this journal, I vote we do nothing. Just let the cards fall where they may. I have to be careful. The new Lady Elford is a wily woman.” There was a cautious note in Elford’s voice.

  “Can’t afford to wait,” muttered Marston.

  “Well, if that’s it, gentlemen? I see this has been a complete waste of time, and I need to be elsewhere for the next race.” Elford’s voice faded as he strode away.

  After several minutes of silence, Brandon tossed down the fork and emerged. The stall next door was empty. Outside, a groom raised his head from bandaging the legs of a glossy-coated chestnut. He glanced at Brandon with mild curiosity before going about his business.

  Brandon walked swiftly away. The one thing he took from that meeting was the likelihood that these men were mixed up with smuggling. What interested him most was in what way they’d been in cahoots with Napoleon. It was no secret that Bonaparte turned a blind eye to smugglers. He had associations with some Englishmen, because he benefited from the information sent across to France during the war, which helped shore up his empire. It was a piece of the puzzle perhaps, but not the whole.

  If these men incriminated themselves during the Moncrieff’s masquerade, he’d alert Willard and organize the customs and excise men in Kent, and with a bit of luck, catch them red-handed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Arietta had hired costumes especially for the Moncrief’s masked ball, to be held at their estate in Richmond. Letty in white and gold was Titania, Queen of the Fairies, from Shakespeare’s play A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Arietta in crimson and black, a lady from a fifteenth century Venice masked ball.

  Letty turned before the mirror, admiring her flowing white gown, smoothing the long, full sleeves. A wide gold braid belt defined her waist, and narrow gold cord crossed over her bust. Artificial flowers and leaves of rose, gold, and green, decorated the low-cut bodice. Holding up the folds of the gown with a broad gold border at the hem, she slipped her feet into the gold sandals. More flowers circled her head, while wisps of her long hair framed her face, the rest wa
s pinned loosely in a bun. She thought it a pity to cover such a lovely gown with the loose, hooded white cloak lined with yellow silk, called a domino. She stood ready, holding the cream and gold demi-mask which would tie at the back of her head.

  “Titania!” Arietta greeted her at the foot of the stairs, dressed in her voluminous crimson gown revealing a slim waist and a dramatic black domino lined with crimson draped over her shoulders. Her crimson and black Venetian-styled mask looked exotic and mysterious.

  When they entered the Moncrief’s ballroom, Letty gasped with amazement at the swirling tableau of color, riotous noise, and heavily scented air. The atmosphere was unlike anything she had yet experienced, or indeed ever imagined. It appeared that the masks lent the guests a sense of freedom as decorum and manners seemed to have deserted many of them.

  The dancing was less ordered, the laughter louder, and displays of boisterous behavior made Letty stare openmouthed. A woman dressed as Bo-peep, held a crook with a satin bow, and led a lamb by a blue ribbon. A man, his legs bare beneath a tunic, wore a knight’s armor and a metal helmet which sported pink feathers. Another man in brightly colored silk trousers wore a turban on his head, and his slippers curled up oddly at the toes. There were several men in black dominoes, their masks like crows with elongated and fearsome beaks.

  A man in green and gold with a high ruff around his neck in the manner of Shakespeare claimed her for the quadrille. “’Tis I, Miss Bromley,” said Mr. Boyce, his eyes warm behind his green mask.

  “Heavens, sir, I would never have guessed,” Letty said. “How did you recognize me?”

  “A mask does not hide your beauty, Miss Bromley, if I may be so bold,” her faithful and undeterred suitor claimed, before they were parted by the steps of the dance.

  Letty waltzed with a gentleman in purple hose and black satin, whose hands moved lower than they should on her back. His leg pressed between hers as he turned her. She attempted to ease away from him, but he gripped her tightly. Arietta was dancing with their host nearby but not close enough for Letty to gain her attention. Nor would she welcome it. Letty would have to deal with this herself. “You are crushing my hand, sir,” she said loudly enough to be overheard by those around them.