The Duke's Messenger

by Vanessa Gray

  “Yet,” Arthur retorted, “I cannot see you descending in lordly fashion at exclusive hostelries. Handing one’s gloves and cloak to your downtrodden valet…”

  Whern roared. “I shall fix mine host with a supercilious air and demand that the inn be cleared of all rabble lest they affront my sensibilities.” Suddenly he turned sober. “But I confess stealth does not suit in a civilian life.”

  Arthur nodded. “And yet the peace is vital to us.”

  “That’s why we shall see that this parcel gets to its destination.”

  He pointed to the small parcel, a hand span in width and perhaps three inches high, lying on the rough surface of the deal table. He regarded it without pleasure.

  “This is the — the object?” Arthur inquired.

  “This is it. Why on earth they don’t send it across Europe on a velvet cushion, in the charge of a platoon of Household Guards preceded by silver trumpets, I don’t know.”

  “It does look impressive, doesn’t it?” Arthur mused.

  “And disgustingly official,” Whern pointed out. “I wish I had the authority to unwrap it and provide it with a disguise.”

  Haveney lifted his eyebrows. He was a slender man, with ash-blond hair, long nose, and thin features, appearing more aristocratic than his superior. His aspect was coldly forbidding, until, on rare occasions, he smiled.

  Just now, his lips twisted in amusement. “Authority, my lord duke? When did it become necessary for you to seek permission to do whatever it struck your fancy to do?”

  “My lord duke, Arthur? I trust this does not mean you are displeased with me? Nevertheless, I am convinced that we can make this into an entirely innocuous parcel. The question is how, innocuously as well, can we get it to Vienna?”

  “By diplomatic courier? Castlereagh has arranged for a regular messenger service.”

  “Upon no account. This — this grenade, so to speak, would not have come to us to deal with had it been an ordinary message. Don’t, I beg of you, look at me in such a fashion. I have no secrets from you. This little bundle, looking as harmless as a spinster’s love letters — a spinster, that is, inordinately fond of red sealing wax — carries in it a load of explosives.”

  “Something to frighten the allies? Men who faced down Napoleon?” Arthur regarded the object with awe and shook his head. “I cannot fathom what could be in it. Secret treaties?”

  Whern shook his head. “I should judge the parcel not large enough. We are not told the nature of the contents, only that it must be delivered swiftly and in dead secrecy to Castlereagh.” He added drily, “I did not ask why.”

  Arthur nodded. In their line of work it was best to know nothing, if possible, for then no form of questioning could elicit details better kept private. He prodded the object with a slender forefinger. “Not pliant, at least. Wrapped in wash leather?”

  “Doubtless. But I can tell you this, Arthur. Castlereagh is in Vienna to settle the map of Europe. Britain wishes certain boundaries to be drawn, certain allies to be rewarded, and — ahem — certain other allies to be, if not punished, at least thwarted in what are after all excessively greedy, even, so to speak, covetous, demands and expectations.”

  Arthur smiled. “You sound like our esteemed foreign minister.”

  “Indeed, I was quoting him. But,” Whern continued, reverting to his normal brusque tone, “it is a prime belief — based upon whatever facts I don’t know — that Castlereagh, and therefore England, will have a decisive and vital negotiating edge if this very parcel reaches his hands by December.”

  “It is clear then,” said Arthur deliberately, “that this parcel may be valued by what we may call the other side?”

  “Excessively so,” Whern agreed drily. “Cherished, I should say.”

  “How shall we get it there safely, then?”

  “I don’t suppose you — no, no,” Whern interrupted himself, “that’s not possible. Every undercover agent in Europe may know you by sight. No, we must seek another way.”

  Arthur looked up in a kind of horror. “Not you, John? If this errand is dangerous for me, it is much more so for you. Your face as well is known in certain circles, you remember.”

  “No, not I,” said the duke, reassuringly. “I’m getting a little old to caper in disguise across half of Europe. Besides,” he added whimsically, “I haven’t time to grow a concealing beard. No, Arthur, I’ve done my last derring-do. And I’m not sorry. We’ve both stretched our luck too far.”

  Arthur could only agree. He thought for a moment. “Why can’t this parcel, after we disguise it, of course, travel with Foxhall?”

  Whern shook his head. “That idiot couldn’t find his way out of a rain barrel. Nor do we know anyone in his party whom we could trust. Besides, he is leaving at noon. We would hardly have time to make the necessary arrangements.”

  Haveney was in two minds. He wondered whether John knew that Miss Freeland was still unwed but had her trap set for Foxhall. Alternately, he speculated as to the advisability of informing John that Foxhall, according to Arthur’s informative sources, was on the verge of offering — if indeed he had not already done so — for Tom Aspinall’s sister, and therefore it was to be supposed that Miss Freeland might well be casting her eyes once more in the direction of John Darcy, now so much more desirable a parts’ than Foxhall.

  Arthur dreaded the thought that his greatest friend might succumb again to her hardened attractions. The rejected suitor had suffered savagely, had fallen into the blackest of moods, and had more than once, to Arthur’s certain knowledge, been driven by self-contempt to the edge of self-destruction.

  Never again, thought Arthur, if he could help it.

  In the end, Arthur mentioned neither. “But I could go.”

  The duke was firm. “You could not, Arthur. Your only function in this business is to provide me with a name. A man who can get this — this idiotic parcel screaming with official sealing wax and tape — into the hands of Castlereagh.”

  “That is my function,” said Arthur, deliberately provoking his companion. “And what is yours?”

  “Mine?” echoed Whern. “Mine is simply to rewrap this — this thing! — into an appearance of normalcy. That, Arthur, is my only function these days.” He lapsed into thought. “Our last chore, Arthur. Can you bear thinking about being without employment?”

  “I can sustain that eventuality better than the thought that we will have failed after all.”

  “Justly put. Now then, I suppose you have the right name to submit to me?”

  “Tom Aspinall.”

  “Just the man,” agreed Whern. “A more amiable fool never appeared in this world — an excellent disguise. He’s the one who can get through without suspicion.”

  Before long, thought Whern, I’ll tell Lord Liverpool he can run his government without us. The prospect of idleness stretched like a dun and fallow field before him.

  He smothered a deep sigh. “Well, then, Arthur, let us get this parcel altered and out of this office before it blows up in our faces. Where, by the way, is Tom Aspinall?”

  Chapter Five

  “Where is your brother?” demanded Lady Sanford, not for the first time. “I vow I have never been in such a coil! The offer of a lifetime from Foxhall, and Tom is not here to receive it for you. Nell, I do think — but then he never was accountable.” Her voice rose to a wail. “What shall we do?”

  Nell’s nerves had been stretched badly since the morning when Rowland had declared himself. She had to bear up under Rowland’s departure for Vienna and endure her aunt’s querulous moods. She told herself that if things got no worse, she could weather this crisis in her affairs.

  Now, she could discern, ominously looming, that the situation was about to deteriorate — rapidly. Her aunt had never before been clearly losing control of her emotions. Nell believed that she was one step from screaming hysterics. Nell herself resolved, in case of her aunt’s collapse, to do the same and let Mullins sort it all out.

 
“Dear aunt,” she said, striving to stave off disaster, “we’ve only searched for two days. And in any event, he could not now give permission for my betrothal, for dear Rowland must already have traveled beyond Paris.”

  “Suppose he cries off?” demanded Phrynie. “I have the gravest suspicions that everyone knows of his intentions.”

  “Oh, no! Do you think it?”

  “I think it,” said Phrynie severely. “And if he cries off, then I do not know how I will hold up my head. I would much rather have Foxhall bound by an announcement in the Gazette than simply trust that his affections do not suffer a change.”

  Nell, innocently secure in the recollection of certain words he had whispered to her, brushed aside such a possibility. “His affections could not alter, Aunt,” she said with an appearance of serenity. “But I confess I am worried about the journey for him.”

  Her imagination provided her with an assortment of dire images. Dear Rowland beset by ravenous wolves, for one. She had no very clear picture of the fauna of France, but surely she had heard that in very severe winters wolves invaded the streets of Paris, battening upon its helpless citizens?

  Or, nearly as grisly, his carriage overturned on a mountainside, or attacked by bandits, or footpads, or thieves…

  “Nell, for heaven’s sake,” said her aunt with vigor, “no need to fall into hysterics!”

  “I? I am sure I am not, aunt. But the journey is full of hazards.”

  “No more than the accidents that can befall a gentleman on England’s roads. Forgive me, Nell, for mentioning your parents’ mishap. France must be as civilized as our own land. Besides, I understand there is quite a cavalcade traveling with Foxhall. Quite like a royal progress!” Lady Sanford entertained troubled thoughts for a moment and made up her mind. “Nell, do you know that the Freeland woman will be with Foxhall in Vienna?”

  Nell took a quick breath. Stoutly, she protested, “But I shall not be at all worried about that!”

  Grimly her aunt pointed out, “You’re not a fool, Nell. Trust me, she will have her hooks into him before the yearend.” She laughed ruefully. “She’d better take Castlereagh’s place in Vienna — she’s a better diplomatist.”

  The seed sown, Lady Sanford wished with all her heart that she could take it back. What need to worry the child? Time enough when Foxhall cried off. Phrynie, while not a gambling woman, would have bet a hundred guineas that, Penelope at hand, he would.

  Nell, heedless of all but her own thoughts, had considered the question that burned in the minds of both of them. Foxhall must be brought up to the mark, ran Phrynie’s thoughts, while Nell’s, with a different point of view, followed other considerations.

  Dear Rowland was quite indispensable to her continued happiness. There was no contemplating any alternative to marrying Rowland and settling down in a rosy life of paradisiacal bliss.

  Lady Sanford thought, If only we could lay hands on Tom Aspinall and send him to Vienna to settle things with Foxhall! Almost like an echo to her own thoughts, Nell said, “Aunt, we must ourselves go to Vienna.” Aiming with guile at Lady Sanford’s weakness, she added, “Surely there will be magnificent entertainments, I should imagine, with such important people there. I have heard that the Emperor has made palaces available to the delegation from England. Only fancy!”

  “Palaces or not, we are not going to Vienna,” said Lady Sanford. Only those who knew her best, like Nell, could have detected a note of wistfulness in her voice.

  Her aunt, still immensely attractive at the age of forty, had cut a wide swath in her day. Suitors by the score, so Nell’s own mama had told her, and then, unaccountably, she chose to marry the most ordinary of them all, Lord Sanford. That worthy had, quite without fanfare, succumbed to an ordinary kind of congestion in the chest. As Nell’s mama had said, “His taking off was quite in keeping with the rest of his life, which was distinguished most particularly by its obscurity.”

  Nell’s mother, Phrynie’s older sister, had been a notable belle as well, but had settled down happily in her marriage to Aspinall, produced a son, Thomas, the heir to his uncle’s baronetcy, and Nell, as lovely a child as one could wish. Nell’s wide gray eyes, fringed with excessively long black lashes, had something of her mother’s charm, even though her coloring was her father’s.

  It occurred to Nell for the first time that her brother Tom might not be the harum-scarum that she had always considered him. There was something mysterious, and in a way deliberate, about his comings and goings. And while there had for the most part been no pressing need to reach him, she knew there were times when he disappeared for several weeks on end. He was not a gambler, at least that she knew of, and yet she realized there was much about him that he did not divulge. A womanizer? She did not think so.

  She had never pried into his affairs, and she did not intend to start now. But she was developing a hearty irritation with his thoughtlessness. So much like her father, so Aunt Phrynie had pronounced. She resented such criticism, but she was forced now to admit the truth of it.

  If her father had not, after a night of ancient port, believed himself a veritable whip and insisted that his adored wife come along to witness his prowess, Nell would not now be waiting for her wayward brother to emerge from whatever low dive he was enjoying to give his blessing to her betrothal.

  “No, no, of course not,” said Nell. “I know it is out of the question. I know I could never have gone on these last few months without your enormous help. Believe me, without you — I would never have set eyes on Rowland, and fallen so in love with him that very first moment!”

  Lady Sanford allowed herself to be soothed. The past Season had indeed been difficult for her. She was accustomed to being the center of a ring of masculine admirers, singling out one or two for later diversions, and not at all surprised to find that the fashions she initiated caught on in the ton within hours.

  Then, she had been forced by duty to launch dear Nell into society and for the first time in her life had to face the fact that she herself was no longer in the first flush of youth. Nell’s freshness, her undoubted beauty, her charming belief that all of life lay before her like a delightful buffet to sample at will, and above all her unfettered and wearisome exuberance, had taken its toll on Lady Sanford.

  She found it desirable at this point in her ruminations to look baldly at her own motives. Was she jealous of Nell’s youth, Nell’s boundless energy?

  Perhaps she was. But on the other hand, she enjoyed the intricacies of attracting men of mature years. She reveled in her own deftness in pulling their invisible strings, and most of all, she told herself in all honesty that dealing with young men of little experience and an overweening sense of their own worth was tiresome in the extreme.

  “Vienna?” she murmured, dreamily. Then, briskly, she continued, “No, no. It is quite impossible. Foxhall would not thank us for following him eagerly across the Continent.”

  “You think not?” said Nell, frowning. “I should not like to embarrass him.”

  “Depend upon it, Nell. If we two went after him, to keep an eye on him so to speak, he would cry off within the hour.” Returning to her primary source of grievance, she went on, “I can’t believe your brother is such an idiot! When did you see him last?”

  Nell reflected. “I think it was at the Victory Celebration. I recall he was near the pagoda when the bridge went up. Do you remember, Aunt? He came to tell us about it.”

  “But how totally irresponsible! That was August, and now it is November.”

  “So like Tom.”

  “So like your father!” retorted Lady Sanford with spirit.

  Nell allowed herself to think ill of Tom for a moment. She adored him, and never thought of condemning him for his incomprehensible ways. He was dear Tom, and there was no more to say.

  *

  In the meantime, the search for Tom Aspinall was thorough and unavailing. The Aspinall servants, even more familiar with their master’s proclivities than was his sister, return
ed empty-handed.

  It was difficult to impress upon Lady Sanford’s agents that Tom must be found without confiding too many details of the situation as it existed between Nell and Foxhall. It was not to be contemplated that the servants’ hall be abuzz with speculation on the outcome of Nell’s almost offer. Indeed, there was a strong possibility, which must be quelled at the outset, that given the intense interest in Nell’s affairs, there would be odds offered and taken on several headings… Mr. Tom’s reappearance; his likelihood of allowing Miss Nell to accept the suitor, considered by the under footman to be too much of a sour apple; and, most disastrously, the possibility that Lord Foxhall might, if Mr. Tom’s presence were not speedily felt, cry off.

  Lady Sanford would not condone such impertinent behavior in her servants. But Tom’s nearest kin were not the only persons who felt a great need for his appearance. _There was considerable bustle on Duke Street, in the back rooms of the Duke of Whern’s town house.

  Arthur Haveney gave instructions and inquiries were made, very discreetly, in dives, in Crocky’s gambling den, and in certain haunts in the shires where Aspinall lands lay and Aspinall’s were cherished. There was no recent sign of Tom. Arthur decided that there was nothing for it but to inquire of Tom’s own family. Surely someone must know where he was!

  So, the next day after Nell’s conversation with Lady Sanford, Mr. Haveney was announced. Whitcomb, in response to broad and monetary hints from the visitor, made sure that Miss Nell was alone.

  “A Mr. Haveney to see you, miss.”

  Nell, caught up in gloomy thoughts, said absently, “Lady Sanford is not receiving.”

  The butler was wounded. He knew, and he made it clear to Nell, that she need not tell him his job. “Mr. Haveney asked particularly for you, miss.”

  Nell opened her eyes wide. “For me? Do I know him?”