by Georgie Lee
Whatever her feelings on the matter, Lady Camberline kept them to herself as she settled her hand in her lap once again. ‘The dinner party I’m hosting isn’t for my son’s benefit, but for mine. Long ago, I used to host them with my husband and I find I miss the engaging talk and lively conversation. I’m also eager for more news on the war with Napoleon, things one cannot gleam by merely reading the papers.’
‘They are so biased against him,’ Moira offered, trying to draw out the woman’s sympathies for the Emperor.
‘Incredibly so.’ Lady Camberline studied her once again and Moira resisted the urge to shift in her chair like a wayward child. The older woman’s cold air was disturbing and even when she was doing her best to be friendly she still came off like a cat ready to pounce. ‘Lady Allingford has had to bow out with her regrets and I find myself in need of one more person. I would very much like it if you’d attend in her place.’
Moira was careful not to show her enthusiasm or her surprise. She hadn’t expected it to be this easy, nor did she wish to give herself away by rushing to accept the invitation. ‘The dinner sounds lovely, but I have no idea what I’d contribute to the gathering.’
‘Since you’re acquainted with the Prince and not averse to discussing politics or Napoleon, I’m sure you’d be an excellent addition. Lord Lefevre and Lord Moreau will be there, too. I believe they were acquainted with your grandmother.’
‘They were part of the French émigré circle of her time, yes.’ And men her grandmother had held little respect for. Like so many others, they’d pined too much for a lost world instead of embracing their new life in England.
‘Then I’m sure they’ll enjoy the chance to speak with you. It would also be nice to have some pretty young blood in the group. I’m afraid everyone else on the guest list is much older than you.’
‘Something I’m quite accustomed to after my time with my husband.’ Moira struggled to hide her weariness at the thought of yet another evening surrounded by old men. She was young and wanted all the liveliness of life and love other ladies her age took for granted. She opened and closed her hand in her lap, picturing Bart as he’d stood across from her near Tyburn turnpike, his grip full of a force and energy she craved.
I never should have given him up.
‘Then you’ll attend?’ Lady Camberline pressed with a touch more enthusiasm than she’d demonstrated either during her invitation to tea or the tea itself.
‘I’d love to be there,’ she accepted with feigned enthusiasm. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve enjoyed rousing company and debate.’
‘Wonderful.’ Lady Camberline rose to indicate the tea and the discussion were over.
Moira gathered up her reticule and fell into step beside Lady Camberline who escorted her to the door of the sitting room, ready to hand her off to the butler to see her out.
‘Thank you for the interesting and enlightening tea.’ Lady Camberline smiled, but it did nothing to soften her steely gaze, and something in her gratitude and her friendliness rang false.
Moira raised her hand to her necklace, the uneasy feeling she’d experienced when Lady Camberline had remarked on her wound coming over her again, and, not for the first time, she wondered if Lady Camberline was involved in the plot.
‘Thank you for the invitation. I look forward to the dinner.’ Moira forced herself to stand still and act gracious. She was eager to place some distance between her and Lady Camberline, and to meet Bart and tell him everything they’d discussed, and her increased suspicions.
Lady Camberline smiled again in a way to make Moira’s skin crawl. ‘I assure you, it will be an unforgettable evening.’
Chapter Eight
Bart leaned against the large sarcophagus lying on its back at the far end of the Egyptian exhibit, drumming his fingers on the hieroglyph-covered sandstone while he waited for Moira. During their time apart, he’d made little progress in finding Mr Dubois. The smuggler hadn’t been at any of his usual haunts by the Surrey Docks, nor had he been seen frequenting them of late, leaving Bart’s informants bereft of any helpful information. Even the smugglers Mr Flint had rounded up had only possessed vague information about the Rouge Noir with nothing more specific than whatever was going to happen would happen this week. What it was and who in the aristocracy were involved continued to remain obscure, except for the Camberlines.
Bart traced a cartouche with his fingers, hoping Moira had discovered something. He needed some clue to lead him in the right direction and allow him to stop this plot.
The delicate click of a lady’s boot heel over the stone floor caught Bart’s attention and he straightened. He inhaled the faint hint of Moira’s lilac perfume before he spied her approaching from around an obelisk. She was as beautiful as one of the Grecian statues lining the corridor, her dress fluttering behind her and against her legs the same way the togas did on the marble muses. It offered a heady hint of her thighs beneath the muslin, the beauty covered up by the many layers standing between him and her like the numerous rules of society keeping them apart.
She glowed with the sunlight coming in through the large windows along the top of the hall. Her beauty resonated through him as it did with the many priceless artefacts lining the room.
‘I take it you had a successful tea?’ Bart remarked when she came to stand across the sarcophagus from him, a self-satisfied smile gracing her lips.
‘It was very successful.’ They kept their voices low despite the lack of other visitors in the room. At this time of day, with most people at home preparing for the fashionable hour, they had the Egyptian gallery to themselves. ‘I wasn’t able to find out much about the valet, but I did receive an invitation to her dinner. She believes my presence will help charm Prince Frederick.’
‘Well done.’ Concern tinged his congratulations. The royal sons had a bad reputation for seducing ladies and the idea Prince Frederick might try to have his way with Moira disturbed him, but he didn’t doubt she could hold her own. Yes, she might be going into a potential pit of vipers, but there would be many people about and she was clever enough to avoid danger. Also, one of Bart’s men had secured a position as a footman inside Camberline House. Bart might not be present at the dinner to watch her, but one of his men would be. ‘And the son? Any information on him?’
‘No, she didn’t discuss him much more than to complain about his lack of obedience. But there was something suspicious in her attitude.’ She picked at a hieroglyph of a bee. ‘I think we were right to suspect her involvement with the Rouge Noir.’
‘It’s possible. I chose you because people rarely suspect a woman. The Rouge Noir may have recruited her for the same reason.’
‘A dinner with influential men, especially ones who speak too much like Prince Frederick did the other night, would certainly be a good way to get information.’
‘Which she then passes on to her son who instructs his valet to give it to the Comte de Troyen?’
‘You still believe the Comte is involved?’
Bart tapped the sarcophagus. ‘Given what I overheard at the ball, he and Lord Camberline are certainly embroiled in something secretive. Until I learn what it is, I can’t dismiss him as a suspect.’
‘Maybe there are other Frenchmen Lady Camberline is sending information to. She’s good friends with Lord Lefevre and Lord Moreau. They were both at the gallery, and her ball, and they’ll be at the dinner, too. I have no idea what their politics are in regards to Napoleon, but Grandmother never liked them and she was rarely wrong about people.’
‘I’ll inform Mr Flint and have him investigate the two lords. Given their proximity to Lady Camberline, they might be involved. In the meantime, while you’re at the dinner, do your best to get into their good graces. You might be able to learn something much sooner than I can.’ Bart clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through the long exhibit h
all. ‘Enough work for one day. Come with me and we’ll have supper. There’s a respectable place not far from here I’m sure you’ll enjoy.’
‘A widow dinning alone in public with a man of your reputation will set tongues wagging.’ She joined him at the end of the sarcophagus, her warning only half-serious.
‘I doubt anyone you know will be there. It isn’t exactly a fashionable establishment.’ He missed the protection of the stone between them. Being with her was more dangerous than almost any of the guns he’d faced in Austria. It threatened his promise to himself to keep every interaction with her above board. ‘You walk away first, I’ll follow behind. Once you’re outside the gates, make for my carriage.’
With a saucy flick of her head, she turned and strode out of the gallery.
Bart followed at a discreet distance, admiring the swing of her hips beneath her dress, sure she exaggerated it for his benefit. He might be entirely professional when in her presence, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t admire the lush curve of her derrière. He’d have to be dead not to.
She strode out the front doors of the museum and descended the stairs at a leisurely pace, never once throwing a look back at him, confident he was following. He continued to watch her, but movement along the edge of his vision made him turn at the last moment. A man with a ragged scar on his cheek sprinted out of the shadows of a nearby alley and hurtled towards her, the long knife in his right hand glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. Bart jerked to the right and slammed into the attacker, sending him flying across the pavement. The knife clattered away from him and Bart snatched it up, facing the movement on his other side, ready to strike. He stopped when he saw it was Mr Smith, the man Joseph had assigned to follow Moira, taking her by the arms and pulling her to the safety of Bart’s nearby carriage.
Bart turned his efforts on the attacker who, recovering from his shock, scrambled back to get out of Bart’s reach. He failed and Bart grabbed him by his dirty lapels, hauled him to his feet and across the square and around the corner to a more isolated alley. He slammed him hard against a building.
‘Mr Roth, what a pleasure to meet you.’ Bart punched him in the stomach, making the man double over.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he coughed.
‘Someone who doesn’t like Mr Dubois sending cowards to stab countesses, especially ones who are friends of the Queen with powerful connections in the House of Lords,’ Bart exaggerated, wanting to place enough fear in the man to make him talk. He jerked him up straight to face him. ‘Do you know what they’ll do to you for trying to kill her?’
‘I didn’t know she was a countess.’ The man paled, making the pink of the scar on his cheek deepen. ‘Mr Dubois said she’d double-crossed him in a deal. He didn’t tell me who she really was.’
‘But you were still low enough to try and murder a woman.’ He’d confirmed Bart’s suspicions without him having to pound it out of the scoundrel. The slight victory didn’t ease the fury roiling inside Bart. ‘Where is Mr Dubois? I think it’s time I had a talk with him.’
Mr Roth shook his head. ‘I don’t know. He hired me through one of his messengers, he always does, I’ve never met him.’
The same instincts Bart relied on when questioning witnesses in the stand told him Mr Roth was telling the truth. Scum like Mr Roth were willing to do anything for coin and didn’t care how or why they were hired or by whom. Bart shoved Mr Roth at his man who’d come up beside him. ‘Take him to Mr Flint for a statement and to see what else he can drag out of him. Here’s his knife for evidence.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Bart’s man pocketed the knife, took hold of Mr Roth and dragged him off to another carriage parked near Bart’s. The man sitting next to the driver hopped down to help subdue a protesting Mr Roth. Mr Flint’s men would question him, but Bart doubted they’d get much out of him beyond a confession naming Mr Dubois as a party to a crime. This was the second time the arms-procuring smuggler had been careless, or overly bold, as if he knew the plot was about to unfold at any moment and he didn’t fear being caught. If Bart could find the smuggler, he could arrest him for attempted murder and use this charge to force him to reveal whatever he knew about the Rouge Noir. Finding Mr Dubois was the hard part. This failed attack was the closest Bart had come to the smuggler today and it’d been far too close to Moira.
Bart brushed the dirt off his hands and sprinted to his carriage, eager to see her. He gave instruction to the driver on where to take them, then pulled open the door and climbed inside. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m just startled, that’s all.’ Her voice shook, but her poise revealed the steely will hidden by her usually calm exterior. ‘I could do with a bit of your brandy.’
Bart opened the secret compartment, removed the bottle and splashed a hearty measure of the aromatic liquor into one of the crystal glasses. He handed it to Moira who took it with both hands before downing the drink in one gulp. She winced, but the drink had the desired effect as her shoulders relaxed with her easing tension.
‘More?’ Bart raised the decanter.
‘Please.’ She held the glass to him with a much steadier grip. He obliged and she took another hearty sip before lowering the glass. ‘Who was that man?’
‘Someone paid by Mr Dubois to try and kill you.’ His fingers tightened on the glass decanter. If the smuggler wasn’t so pertinent to this investigation, Bart would kill the man when he found him for daring to try and harm Moira. Bart eased his grip on the decanter, determined to remain focused. Lashing out in rage would help no one. ‘He must have recognised you last night and, through your connection to me, seen you as a threat.’
‘Impossible, it was too dark and I never got a good look at him. I can’t imagine he saw me.’
Each moment they were together, Moira began to sound more and more like Bart. It didn’t make him happy, nor did how close she’d come to sharing Lady Fallworth’s fate, and all because of him. ‘Then it must have been in the gallery?’
‘But he wasn’t present when I was with you.’ Moira touched her neck, her eyes widening with more horror than when Bart had told her why Mr Roth had tried to attack her. ‘Lady Camberline remarked on my wound today.’
Their gazes locked across the carriage seat. Neither of them needed to say it aloud.
Moira held up the tumbler.
He refilled the glass and she clutched it to her chest, but didn’t drink. Instead she stared at the floor of the carriage, their suspicions about Lady Camberline and her involvement in the plot growing larger in the silence. ‘You were right. I shouldn’t have gone to tea with her or continued on with this.’
Bart settled the stopper in the decanter and set it back in its compartment, not relishing being correct. ‘I won’t give them a chance to hurt you again. You’ll stay with me until this is settled.’
‘I can’t stay with you.’ She shoved the glass at him.
He took it, his fingers brushing hers across the smooth surface and making him pause before he set the glass in the compartment behind him. ‘You can’t stay at your house alone. Once Mr Dubois learns you’re still alive, he’ll try again.’
‘And if society discovers I’ve been alone with you in your house, I’ll never be able to show myself in London again.’
‘My servants are as silent as gravestones and where I live doesn’t attract a great deal of high society. Since your brother has returned to the country, most people will assume you’ve done the same.’
‘Until I appear tomorrow night at Lady Camberline’s dinner.’
‘You’re not going to Lady Camberline’s dinner. I won’t have what happened to Lady Fallworth happen to you.’ He tightened his hand into a fist and banged it hard against his thigh. This wasn’t the first time he’d watch someone he cared about face an attack. He’d seen friends in Austria rush into battle ahead of him, only to be struck down by bullets or b
ayonets. He’d done his best to protect them like he had Moira, but he hadn’t, and the guilt he’d faced after each death continued to haunt him. None of the measures he’d taken to shield Freddy and his wife had saved her in the end. Despite his best efforts, he’d failed them both. He couldn’t fail Moira or watch her belief in him turn to bitter blame the way it had with Freddy, his hard words as difficult to endure as Bart’s father’s insults.
* * *
Moira laid her hand on Bart’s tight fist and squeezed it, trying to draw him back from wherever guilt and regret threatened to take him. He’d vowed to guard her and he’d almost been forced to break his word by nefarious forces. It’d shaken his confidence in his own abilities, but not her faith in him.
‘You’ll keep me safe. I’m sure of it.’ She slid up beside Bart and rested her head on his shoulder, revelling in the warmth and strength of him as he held her tight. In his embrace there existed a comfort and surety she hadn’t experienced since before her mother’s passing. Bart’s world was full of uncertainties and yet he stood at the centre of it, the most certain thing of all.
‘I don’t deserve your faith in me.’
She looked up at him. The faint light from outside slipped through the crack between the curtains and cut across his face to highlight the light brown flecks in his dark eyes. ‘Of course you do. You’re the noblest man I know.’
‘No, I’m flawed, more than you realise.’ He slid one hand out from behind her to cup her cheek, his fingers firm upon her skin as he leaned down and touched his lips to hers.
She closed her eyes and savoured the heady taste of his tongue caressing hers and the whisper of his breath across her cheek. Moira wrapped her arms around his waist, her fingers brushing the hard butt of the pistol concealed by his jacket. Its presence marked the sharp difference between her life and his, and between her dreams and his reality. This clandestine intimacy was as dangerous today as it’d been on Lady Greenwood’s dark portico, except there was so much more at stake this time. Yet Moira wasn’t the petted and protected young lady Aunt Agatha believed her to be. She would stand beside Bart the way Helena had stood beside Freddy and face with him any challenge.