The Miss Mirren Mission (Regency Reformers Book 1)

by Jenny Holiday

  His body blocked the candles on the desk, and shadows flickered across his face, obscuring some of his features and exaggerating others. His eyes, always so dark, disappeared into the night. She could feel them, though, slanting down to take in her face. She licked her lips and had the distinct sensation that his eyes followed. “Heaven knows how late it is. I should—”

  Before she could finish taking her leave, his hand left the door, and two fingers came to rest on her forehead, just between her eyebrows. Despite the chill in the air, they radiated heat.

  “Why is there always a furrow here?” he whispered, making a small circle with his fingers. The gesture seared like a brand. “Is it worry? What about?”

  Though he stood several inches away, and the only point of contact between them was his two fingers on her forehead, it felt as if he were using those fingers as a conduit to channel warmth into her. It pooled in her belly, making her limbs tingle and feel heavy at the same time. “I should go,” she managed.

  Disappointment shot through her when he dropped his hand.

  “Yes, you should.”

  But then he was back—his whole face this time. She swallowed her shock as he lowered his lips to the same spot his fingers had rested a moment ago. They were a surprise. Soft, though they looked so hard and grim as he scowled his way through the day. Gentle, though they were so often pursed in anger. He smelled like the sea—a salty tang, mixed with a hint of something sweet and tart she could not place.

  He wasn’t kissing her, not precisely. His lips just rested against her, quietly burning her skin. She didn’t dare move, wouldn’t risk a breath. To do so might urge him on. Or make him stop. Both possibilities seemed equally dismaying.

  A few heartbeats, then an almost inaudible curse from him. “Goddamn!”

  Then it was over. He cracked the door and stuck his head out, looking both ways. “Good night, Miss Mirren,” he whispered. A hand came to the small of her back and gently pushed her into the corridor.

  Chapter Seven

  It was time to reveal themselves to Manning, and Blackstone was nervous. He always was, when he approached the moment that could change the fate of a mission. He thought of those moments as hinges. He would open a door, and his target would either walk through and the mission would succeed—or the target would balk, and the mission would come to naught. He closed his eyes and thought back to Badajoz.

  Everything depended on this moment.

  “It’s one mission, Blackstone,” Bailey said—was he a mind reader?—peering out the window at the green expanse of lawn. “One mission.”

  “You know as well as I do that’s not true.”

  “It is. Smugglers carry all sorts of things—goods, intelligence.” Anticipating Blackstone’s objection, his voice rose. “And, yes, sometimes even spies.”

  “Le Cafard isn’t just a spy. We get him and the whole French operation crumbles.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I do know it. He’s the linchpin.” He hated when Bailey tried to put things in perspective.

  “Perhaps,” Bailey said, unperturbed by Blackstone’s ire and still looking out the window. “But we don’t know for sure that Manning is the one transporting him. We have to think of this as a mission like any other—it’s the only way forward. If we don’t get Le Cafard this time, we’ll still have shut down a smuggler.”

  “We’ll get him, dammit!”

  The outburst finally caused Bailey to turn from the window. “People die, my friend,” he said gently. “It’s something that happens.” When Blackstone didn’t answer, Bailey raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Not everything is your fault. That’s all I’m saying.”

  It was difficult to argue, because Blackstone knew his friend believed his own words. There was no way to make him see that the responsibility was real. He didn’t have the words to say that the burden was part of him, and in fact, that he needed it in order to do what needed to be done. The only thing that would ease it was to deliver what he’d promised—an end to this war.

  A tap on the door broke the standoff. Stanway held the door for Mr. Manning and wordlessly backed out. The door clicking behind him sounded like the cocking of a gun.

  “I’m told you wanted to see me, gentlemen?”

  “Please sit down.” Blackstone gestured to the same pair of chairs he and Miss Mirren had sat in that first night in the library. As Manning lowered himself into the chair she had occupied, Blackstone couldn’t help but see, instead of the older man’s thinning gray hair, Miss Mirren’s majestic, unkempt tresses. Instead of an evil man who chose profit over loyalty to king and country, he saw a kind, good woman, untainted by bitterness. She wanted to help him, for God’s sake, when anyone could see he was beyond help.

  Bailey cleared his throat as he settled himself on an adjacent sofa, pulling Blackstone back to the present. That mental diversion had been sloppy—dangerously so. He pushed the water nymph Emily Mirren out of his mind, one part of his consciousness noting that to do so was harder than it should have been.

  “Mr. Manning,” Blackstone started, “you seem like an intelligent man, and I greatly admire your business sense.”

  Manning smiled at the praise, but his eyes darted around.

  “I’m going to level with you. Are you smuggling goods across the Channel?” He paused for effect, enjoying the panic flickering across Manning’s face. “Because if so, I think I could be very…helpful to you in this regard.”

  “Helpful?” Manning echoed, his tone all innocence.

  Blackstone could tell by the way their target leaned forward slightly in his chair that they’d hooked him. “Yes.” He leaned forward, mirroring Manning’s action. “I’m going to be honest with you, but I’d appreciate your discretion in this matter.”

  “Of course, my lord,” he said, sounding breathless.

  They had him twisting in the wind now. All that remained was to reel him in. “The estate is nearly bankrupt.”

  Manning smiled, and Blackstone forced himself not to look at Bailey in triumph, even as he spun the story of an estate in decline. “I don’t have a head for business, I confess,” Blackstone concluded. “So, knowing my friend Mr. Bailey was a successful businessman, I asked him to recommend a few avenues of investment.” He sat back and spread his arms wide. “And here we are.”

  Manning looked to Bailey. “You recommended smuggling?” There was a hint of disbelief in his tone, but Bailey would play his part expertly.

  “Not exclusively. I merely presented a few options to his lordship, taking into account the assets he had available. And, frankly, it’s difficult not to look at that shoreline and think—”

  “It’s ideally suited!” Manning effused. “So sheltered. And of course, belonging as it does to a peer, a decorated war veteran at that, it’s unlikely to ever be the object of scrutiny.”

  There. It was done. The rest would fall into place. “I can’t pretend to be thrilled with the notion of following years of military service with a career in smuggling, but I do enjoy the fruits of other smugglers’ labors.” Blackstone nodded toward the brandy decanter on the table between them. “I would have to be a hypocrite to condemn the practice altogether.”

  “And I’ve told him,” Bailey added, “that the waterways around here are positively clogged with boats. Probably his neighbors are in on the game, too.”

  Manning nodded. “I guarantee many of them are.”

  “Since we are speaking frankly,” Blackstone said, “how much would you pay me for the use of my shoreline?”

  “Wait a minute, now.” Manning held his palms up. Good for him—the man wasn’t as stupid as all that. “Most gentlemen in your fix would marry their way out of it. You could have your choice of title-hungry heiresses.”

  “I may yet have to marry,” Blackstone said, “but I prefer not to.” It was the one hole in their story. Blackstone cared little for his reputation. He had, in the name of the cause, allowed himself to appear stupid, we
ak, and destitute. He had lied, stolen, betrayed. Killed. And he supposed he would even marry if it came to it. But he meant what he said—he preferred not to. A wife would want children, and he’d already decided he would be the last man to carry the tainted blood of his line. He had a second cousin in Surrey who would make a perfectly fine earl.

  It didn’t take long to come to a settlement. Manning would use the cove, and in order to provide cover, Blackstone agreed to spend more time on the estate. Even though smugglers operated under cover of night, if any of the boats were discovered, the presence of the earl would go some ways toward providing an alibi. In return, Manning would pay Blackstone fifty pounds per month, and keep the brandy and champagne flowing. Of course, he had no way of knowing that thanks to Blackstone’s investments in Bailey’s various—legitimate—ventures, fifty pounds was merely a drop in the vast sea of the earl’s wealth.

  When Manning stood to take his leave, Blackstone rose along with him, feeling quite satisfied. They were one step closer to the end. It was all he could do not to grind his heel on the floor, as if he had Le Cafard beneath it now.

  He reached the library door before Manning. It was cracked slightly. He narrowed his eyes. He had heard the door close behind Stanway after he’d shown Manning in.

  “It has been gratifying doing business with you, my lord,” said Manning.

  “Likewise. And remember, I’m holding you to your promise to keep knowledge of my new business venture to yourself.”

  “Of course. I must tell my son-in-law, you understand. I’m grooming him to take over the business.” Blackstone nodded. “But other than that, you can rely on my discretion. In fact, we are bound to each other in this regard. I must depend equally on your silence.”

  Blackstone opened the door, performing a slight bow. A flash of white against the dark parquet floors caught his eye. He waited until Manning had disappeared around a corner before stooping and picking up a letter. He squinted, angling it so as to better make out the seal in the dim light of the corridor.

  “What have you got there?” Bailey started toward him.

  Blackstone shoved the letter into his waistcoat. “Nothing. Just a letter I dropped.” He ignored his friend’s quizzical look. “That went well.”

  Bailey nodded, still eyeing Blackstone’s pocket. “And not a day to spare.”

  “Mmm.” He hoped Bailey wouldn’t want to stay and parse the conversation they’d had with Manning. His pocket felt warm, as if the paper inside it were emitting heat.

  “I, for one, will be glad to get back to town. I’m drowning in work on the hotel.”

  Blackstone walked to his desk and tried to make himself look busy as he shuffled some papers.

  Bailey followed.

  “If you will excuse me,” Blackstone said.

  Bailey allowed a moment of silence to elapse before nodding curtly. “Of course.”

  Alone, finally. Blackstone slid a penknife under the letter’s seal, careful to keep the wax wafer in one piece.

  15th July, 1813

  Dear Mr. Todmorden,

  You will have already received my latest column, in which I return to the topic of the sugar boycott. I may be on the verge of a significant investigative breakthrough regarding an illegal slaver that will provide the fodder for several columns—and, I assure you, sell a great number of papers. It may, however, require a decided investment of my time in the coming weeks, and so I enclose now the column for the next edition.

  Yours,

  Edward Markham

  He shuffled the papers and spent a few moments reading a well written and logically argued case for a mandatory slave registration, which abolitionists believed was the only way to chart the full impact and extent of the slave economy in the Indies. Well. Edward Markham certainly was prolific. Hadn’t “he” just posted another column yesterday?

  He had to admire her sheer audacity. It seemed he wasn’t the only one at the party interested in Mr. Manning’s unsavory shipping activities. The only difference was that “Mr. Markham” was focused on the other coast.

  This was a problem, though. A big problem.

  He pocketed the letter and ran his fingers through his hair. If “Edward Markham” exposed Manning as a slaver, that would mean the end of Manning’s smuggling, too. And that would mean starting over with Le Cafard.

  And that was, simply, unacceptable.

  It shouldn’t have mattered to Emily that Lord Blackstone was going to help Mr. Manning with his smuggling, that he was going to sell his lovely beach for so vile a purpose. She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, just to return a book she’d borrowed. But as she’d cracked the library door, she’d heard the men making their plans—and her heart had nearly broken. Lord Blackstone might have his flaws, but she’d believed that beneath his cold haughtiness he had an honorable heart. Leave it to Mr. Manning to taint everything—and everyone—around him.

  When Mr. Manning entered the library that afternoon, interrupting Emily’s writing, it was all she could do not to stab her quill into his eye. She began gathering her things. Somehow, she’d managed not to be alone with him since that awful night at Manning Abbey.

  “Don’t leave on my account,” he said, crossing to the small writing table she’d been using.

  “I’m finished anyway.”

  “Let me rephrase that.” A heavy hand settled on her shoulder. “Don’t leave.”

  Annoyance turned to trepidation. “If you’ll excuse me.” She shook off his hand. She was done showing him her fear. Hopefully, one day soon, she wouldn’t have to playact because she wouldn’t be afraid anymore. Until then, she was not giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’d unsettled her.

  “No, I will not excuse you.” A vein bulged in his neck. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She moved toward the bellpull—she could always summon a servant if it came to it.

  “I’m attending a house party. What are you doing here?” She stood at full height, knowing that when she did so, she came eye to eye with him.

  “Why don’t you just ask me what you want to know? You’re obviously up to something, just like you always were. If you think you’re going to be able to catch Lord Blackstone for a husband, you’re sorely mistaken, my girl.”

  She almost laughed. “Marriage is not my goal—to Lord Blackstone or anyone else.” He should know that, considering the number of times he’d tried to marry her off.

  His milky-blue eyes narrowed in anger. “You must be the only girl in the realm who doesn’t want to get married.”

  “I suppose one’s views on the institution are affected by the model one sees growing up.”

  He bristled at the insinuation, and she was glad.

  He took a step toward her. “Tell me why you’re here.”

  Forcing herself not to recoil, she answered with a question. “Where is Billy?”

  Mr. Manning’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Somewhere you’ll never find him.”

  The idea that he might be right hit her like a physical blow to the chest, and she had to turn away. She’d clung so long to the belief that she and Billy and Sally would all be together again someday. But she’d forgotten how coldly calculating he was. Who was she to think she could prevail against a man like this?

  “Don’t turn your back on me.” He grabbed her shoulder and roughly spun her. “Is that any way to treat your guardian?”

  She willed her voice not to shake. “You’re not my guardian anymore. I’m a grown woman.” A grown woman who didn’t have to listen to this. She yanked the bell.

  Mr. Manning recoiled as if she’d struck him. “I took care of you for years, you ungrateful bitch.”

  “You gave up any moral authority you had over me that night.” He opened his mouth as if to argue, but she kept speaking, her tone rising to drown out anything he might say. “A footman will arrive momentarily. I plan to order some tea. Will you join me?”

  A murderous look in his eye, Mr. Manning shook his head. “No.” He
turned on his heel and left.

  Emily sagged against the door, swallowing the sobs that threatened. She blinked tears away, but she could not hold back the tide of memories that Mr. Manning had triggered.

  “The boy should be allowed to eat with the other servants.”

  It was unusual for Mrs. Manning to say anything to contradict her husband. Because of that, all heads swiveled to the woman, who had been sitting quietly—as she always did—at the foot of the table. Emily didn’t know whether to cheer for Mrs. Manning taking a stand or to regret it, for surely the usually unassuming woman would pay the price after she and her husband retired.

  “He’s not a boy anymore,” Mr. Manning spat, “He’s fifteen. And he’s not a servant, either.”

  “Regardless,” said Emily, wanting to come to Mrs. Manning’s defense as much as Billy’s, “he shouldn’t be made to eat in the barn like an animal.”

  “He should be allowed to eat with his mother.” Mrs. Manning looked at her soup as she spoke.

  Emily glanced at Sarah. She felt the worst for Sarah when these confrontations occurred. Emily could tell from the way she bit her lip that she was trying not to cry.

  The room had grown silent. There was always a moment after someone said something to oppose Mr. Manning, in which he seemed blank, emotionless, as if he were waiting for his signature fury to be poured into him by some unseen force.

  When it came, as it always did, he shot up from his seat and was at Mrs. Manning’s side in an instant. Upending her soup, he grabbed her elbow and yanked her out of her chair, but not before she cried out—the scalding soup had spilled on her bare forearm.

  “Jackson!” he bellowed, hauling Mrs. Manning toward the dining room door, past the unmoved countenances of well-trained footmen. “Jackson!”

  The butler had barely opened the door before Mr. Manning gave his wife a rough shove out of it. “Mrs. Manning prefers to eat in the barn with the livestock, Jackson. Please facilitate this.”

  The soft clicking of the door pulled Emily from her memories. She managed a smile for the footman answering her ring.