“Not sure what you’ve been doing, gel, but I don’t want any trouble at my ball.”
Freddie groaned. “Good grief, mother, we’ve spoken of this. They are just rumors, there is no substance to them. Agatha is Harriet’s aunt… you know.”
Dowager Sutherland’s face softened slightly although she sniffed again and looked suspiciously at Agatha.
Victoria reached a hand round Agatha’s elbow and gently tugged her towards the ballroom. “Let’s get a drink. I’m parched.”
At the champagne table Agatha picked a glass and cradled it in her hand. Gently she put it back on the table. It reminded her too much of Charles.
“There she is! They say that she threw over her fiancé because he wasn’t rich enough!”
Agatha gasped. Leaning on the white linen of the champagne table, she pushed herself up on tiptoes. The gossips were easy to see, seated in a small enclave, two matrons wearing garish turbans waiting for their daughters to come back from dancing.
“Never! I heard she had moved to the country and brought up a child which she said was her brother’s but who is well known to have been her own!” The matron’s purple turban bobbed up and down as she waved her finger in the ear.
Puce turban grimaced slightly. “I heard that she took many lovers amongst the smugglers on the coast. Just look at her relationship with that jumped up blacksmith.”
“Nooooo!” Purple turban seemed to groan in delight at the salacious details. “I must tell Mrs. Weatherby, she’d love to hear this. I see her now, Elissa! Oh Elissa!”
Agatha rocked back on her heels. It was as bad as Henry had said. But despite the rumors being insufferable, they did not break her bones, or bruise her body. Just her heart, and her reputation.
“Aunt! Aunt Agatha!”
Agatha shook her head, and smiled warmly. Harriet floated towards her, supported by Freddie, her small stature and head of bright red hair the perfect foil for Freddie’s harsh features.
“I thought I might see you here,” she said happily, grateful for the distraction.
“You look wonderful.” Harriet reached out a hand and stroked at the soft material of Agatha’s dress.
Agatha colored slightly. “Yes, it’s a great change from Devon.” She stared at Freddie, wondering at his easy smile. Did he not know of Harriet’s obsession?
“If you will excuse me, Miss Beauregard, I promised this Miss Beauregard a dance.” With a bow and a laughing goodbye, Freddie led Harriet off to the dance floor.
“I heard those awful women talking as I left.” Victoria grasped her by the elbow and pulled her away from the drinks table. “Don’t say another word. They are bird witted rattlepates. That Mrs. Weatherby is the worst.”
Agatha pulled distractedly at the neckline of her dress. “I’ve never felt so on show.” She sidled sideways towards the wall of the ballroom, dragging Victoria with her.
“Ah, Lady Colchester,” purred a voice. “Would you be so kind as to introduce me?”
Victoria gripped Agatha’s hand tightly. “Oh, err, why of course, ah, Mr. Daventry.” Victoria turned to Agatha, raising her eyebrows and wiggling her nose as she did so. “Mr. Daventry, my friend, Miss Beauregard.”
Mr. Daventry was of medium height, oiled back hair, a grease-stained coat and small potbelly. “Please grant me a dance, Miss Beauregard, I have so been looking forward to meeting you.”
Wordlessly, Agatha held out her dance card. Don’t make a scene. Follow what the ton dictates.
“I see you still have the waltz unspoken for, allow me.” Grabbing the dance card with his hand, Mr. Daventry scrawled his name next to the dance. “I so look forward to seeing you in a while, my dear.”
Agatha shuddered as he strutted away. But she had no time to contemplate him, as a veritable rush of gentlemen followed, from young blades of the ton to the lofty Earl Harding.
Victoria gazed at his name on Agatha’s dance card. She tapped at it and raised her chin, staring into the dancing crowd. “Be careful with him. Even though he is a friend of my brother’s, he is rumored to be quite a fast one, watch yourself.”
Agatha stared at her dance card. Every single dance had been signed for. And none of the names meant anything to her. Who was she really looking for on there? Henry? Mechanically she folded the dance card and thrust it into her skirts. She’d never seen him dance. In fact she rarely saw him among the debutantes and ball goers at all.
“I say, Miss Beauregard, I believe it is our dance.” Agatha looked up. A young man in military uniform bowed to her. She couldn’t remember his name.
“Is everything alright?” The man put out his hand.
Agatha took in a deep breath and shook her head. Taking his hand, she allowed herself to be led onto the dancefloor.
Unfortunately the time soon came around for the first waltz. As the violins started, Agatha heaved a sigh of relief, and sank into a chair by several large potted ferns. It seemed that she might escape the odious Mr. Daventry.
“Dear Miss Beauregard, I believe this is our dance!” Mr. Daventry stepped out in front of her. Taking her proffered hand for a longer than usual kiss, he led her to the dance floor.
Clutching her into his embrace, Mr. Daventry began to waltz jerkily around the floor. As his arms drew her in tighter and tighter, Agatha gasped and turned her face away from his ever approaching chin.
“That’s it, just like that.”
Agatha nearly missed a step as Mr. Daventry’s potbelly rubbed sinuously against her hip.
“You know, Miss Beauregard, we can get a whole lot closer chez moi.” A waft of garlic curled under Agatha’s top lip. “I’ve heard you are ever so experienced, and have no qualms in collecting a few more men for your delectation.”
She stumbled round a turn, shocked into silence. She should have stayed in Devon. Perhaps they could return there, it was a mistake to have come back. What was she thinking that the rumors couldn’t hurt her—?
“I can assure you,” the waft of fetid garlic continued, “that I may not have a blacksmith’s size, ahem, but that I can please you in many other ways.”
“I beg your pardon?”
In the corner of her eye, Agatha saw the string quartet move into view through the spinning couples. Mr. Daventry’s hand on her back inched lower towards her bottom. As they whirled past the ladies sitting at the edge of the hall, more than one matron followed their progress, mouths agape. A well of despair filled her; she hadn’t even done anything wrong and still she was causing a scene.
Agatha tried squirming but she was held rigid in Mr. Daventry’s odious embrace. The dance was nowhere near ending; they had only made one circle of the floor.
Agatha sighed. Thank god Henry wasn’t there. “I have no choice.”
“What’s that my lovely?” Mr. Daventry looked down at her, his face only inches from hers.
Rapidly calculating, Agatha jutted her hip out, stumbled slightly and swept her arms in a circle as if to continue the dance. Sometimes there were advantages to being a little clumsy.
Mr. Daventry flew into the musicians forming the string quartet, his too close potbelly pivoting on her hip as a fulcrum. His wandering hands hung outstretched in front of him as his bottom squeezed itself firmly into the space between the closely sat cellist and violinist.
“Ow! You bitch!” he cried as the angry cellist poked him with her bow. The violinist stood up in disgust, causing the hapless man to fall to the floor with his chin wedged behind the chair.
All dancing came to a stop.
“I’ll get you for that!” Mr. Daventry pushed at the chair that had wedged him in place.
Agatha was not sure if he was talking to her, or to the cellist who had moved her cello so that the spike upon which it normally rested now pinned Mr. Daventry and some of his leg to the floor.
Agatha glanced worriedly to her left and right. Oh dear. Why did scandal follow her everywhere?
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Daventry.” She wrung her hands, wishing to e
scape. “Can I help you get up?”
“Noo!” he howled as the cellist removed the spike, “Go back to Devon you, you, you…”
“My dear, would you care for a breath of cool air?” Earl Harding broke in. He strode towards her, motioning towards where Freddie leant against his cane in the crowd.
“That would be very nice, but…” Agatha looked round blindly for Harriet, Victoria, but neither were in sight as more couples whirled in the dance around them.
The earl placed a firm hand on her back and propelled her away. “Shut up, Daventry, you are making a scene. Freddie, help the man up, would you.”
Limping to the string quartet, Freddie lifted Daventry jerkily up by his collar and set him in the corner, still shouting.
Smoothly, the earl swept her towards the terrace doors. “Now then, my dear, I think a walk in the cool air would do you good.”
“No… I’m fine really—”
“Think nothing of it. I like rescuing damsels in distress, as well as such pretty ones as you.”
“Oh.” Agatha stared back at the terrace doors as they swung shut behind them.
“So tell me of yourself,” the earl said, leading her with an iron grip towards the balustrade, his hands tugging at her as she dragged her feet.
“I’m staying with Lady Colchester. Don’t you think we ought to—”
“I don’t want to hear of her,” the earl said a little roughly, pulling her more sharply. “More on you,” he continued smoothly as if the past comment hadn’t happened.
“I used to live in Devon. Really I do think that we should return to the…”
“Wonderful place, Devon, have you ever lived in France?” The earl’s left hand had, unnoticed to Agatha, started to stroke the upper parts of her shoulders.
“Earl Harding, it’s not true.”
“Mmm, what my dear?” The earl stared down at her.
“I’m not what you think!”
“No one’s what anyone else thinks, Madame. Least of all the naughtiest ones.”
Earl Harding was so much bigger and heavier than Mr. Daventry—the seductively stroking fingers covered a vice-like grip.
“But I’m not…”
“Ah, Harding. There you are. I was looking for Miss Beauregard and was told that you’d both headed out to the terrace.”
Agatha froze. Henry stood in the shadow of a large urn, his well-muscled shoulders nonchalantly leaning against the plinth. His dance trousers stretched across his lightly crossed legs. Not again.
“Anglethorpe,” the earl said shortly. He shifted his feet on the stone terrace, straightening to square up to Henry.
“I would like to talk to Miss Beauregard if you don’t mind, Harding.”
“I do mind, Anglethorpe, so buzz off, old man. I was just finding out a little more about the Mademoiselle.”
“I don’t think you quite understand, Harding.” Henry stepped out of the shadow of the urn. “She belongs to me.”
Agatha’s mouth dropped open. “Now look here…”
Neither of the men listened to her, both glaring at each other across the stone terrace.
“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Beauregard.” Agatha shivered as the earl stepped away from her. “A misunderstanding, please accept my apologies.”
He nodded at Henry. “Hawk,” he said abruptly. Turning on his heel the earl strode off down the terrace and into the garden, melting into the darkness.
Agatha wrapped her arms around herself. First the whisky and now this.
“Why can you not go one evening without getting yourself into trouble?” Henry caught hold of her hand. “Damn it, you are shivering, what did he do to you?”
“N… n… n… nothing,” Agatha stuttered. Unbuttoning his coat, Henry drew it round her exposed shoulders and pulled her into him. The smell of spice and cigar smoke swirled around her.
“Devil take it, Agatha,” he muttered into her hair. “You’ve made me do this.”
“I…” Agatha dropped her head back to look at him. “What…?”
With a groan, Henry dropped his face to hers and took her mouth in a searing kiss. Agatha sighed gently as his hand dropped to the small of her back and drew her gently against his hard body. Sweet heaven.
CHAPTER 24
Henry sprawled in his favorite chair in the drawing room, draping his frame over the chair arms in an effort to find space. A fire roared in the drawing room grate, yet still he felt cold. The rest of the house in Mount Street was empty. More empty than he’d ever known it since his sister had married Lord Colchester and moved to his house in Brook Street.
He still felt cold, yet his lips burned.
“Where’s Stanton?” Granwich pushed at the papers in front of him.
“Not certain. Last I heard he was recovering.”
“I’ve been told reliably that he’s back.” Earl Harding sat down in the chair nearest the door. Five men sat around the large mahogany table that was positioned squarely in the middle of the wood paneled room. It covered nicely the large hole in the carpet that Henry had never bothered to repair since the phosphorous incident. Oh Agatha. After kissing her, he hadn’t been able to think straight. She’d stared at him as if he had dropped from the moon. He’d dragged her protesting to the Colchester carriage and sent her home for her own good. To protect herself from him.
“Who’s back?” Freddie yawned and tapped his cane against his chair.
“Monsieur Herr—Mister Mister.”
Freddie still looked nonplussed. “Didn’t know you had a stutter. Who’s he?”
“More like who’s Him. He’s a French spy. He caused untold damage five years ago by passing British military secrets to the French.” Earl Harding banged his hand on the desk. “We nearly lost thousands of men at Corunna because of him.”
“And Talavera,” Granwich interposed.
“And most importantly Burgos. We have no idea who he is. He must have access to military information, and the ability to easily pass them to the French.” Henry looked into the fire as he answered.
“Damnit. I was at Burgos.” Freddie picked at his trousers. “It was the first place my hair turned white.”
“Why wasn’t he caught before?” Anthony Lovall asked quietly.
“There has been no sign of him. I looked for him everywhere.” Henry dropped his leg to the floor and sat up. “That’s why I asked you all here today. You have all run missions for me. He must be stopped.”
Granwich nodded and spoke quietly. “If the Hawk has not been able to find him, then the man must have been as wily as a ghost.”
“Hmm, access to military information. And contact with the French. It can’t be any of us. Although it could be someone close to us, I suppose,” Freddie said thoughtfully.
The other men in the chairs sat silently for a few moments, contemplating the idea that their nearest friends and family might be passing secrets to the French. They hadn’t thought to look at themselves.
“Who’s new since five years ago?” Freddie sat forward and placed an elbow on the table.
“Lord Fashington’s back,” murmured Henry
“Hmmm. Government man, access to secrets alright.” Granwich cocked his head. “But always struck me as a bit of a bounder. I don’t think a spy would try to do that as a disguise. Attracts too much attention.”
The other gentlemen nodded their heads in agreement.
“Doesn’t he always have a problem with the ladies?” Freddie obviously did not realize he was sailing in dangerous waters. “In fact wasn’t there something between him and Miss Agatha Beauregard at… some… point?” His voice trailed off as Henry glared at him. But Freddie was tenacious and did not shut up that easily. “She was around five years ago as well, wasn’t she? And then she dropped off the scene, only recently to come back at the same time as Monsieur Herr? Bit of a coincidence…”
If looks could have killed, Freddie would have been a pile of smoldering ash in his seat.
“He’s right, you know.” E
arl Harding stood slowly. “She’s been in Devon for the last five years and that area is notorious for its dealing with the French. It is strange that there are all those rumors of her activities down there. Plus the timing fits exactly.” He turned to face Henry. “What do you think, Anglethorpe, after all she is yours.”
“She is not a spy.” Henry sat rigidly in his chair, his relaxed muscles now tensely vibrating. “I know she is not a spy.”
“With all respect, dear boy, what makes you think that she isn’t?” Granwich bounced his cane idly on the floor between the fingers of his right hand.
No spy could kiss so innocently.
“She led you a merry dance when she first came to London.” Earl Harding said with a sideways glance. “Seemed quite happy to lead me on the other night, you know…”
Henry rose to his feet slowly and leaned across the table, his head pounding. “Because I have watched her all the time for that following five years that she was in Devon.” Knuckles taut, he grasped at the table before taking a deep breath. Happy to lead him on… Agatha didn’t do that kind of thing. Drawing back his arm, he thrust out his fist and connected roundly with Earl Harding’s cheekbone.
“That is for Agatha.” As the earl’s head swung back, Henry thrust out his fist solidly again. “And that… is for last night.”
“Steady on!” yelled Freddie, grappling with Henry’s arm. “He was only saying…”
“He knows exactly what he was saying.” Henry sat down as suddenly as he had stood. The earl sat still in the chair at the head of the table, his lip bleeding from where the first punch had split his skin.
Henry cradled his bruised hand. “I have spent five years watching her and wondering.” It had nearly killed him. “Ever since I saw those letters written in French burning in the grate of the room in which I caught her and Fashington. Ever since she took up with Fashington. Ever since she came under my roof and refused to abide by the rules of the ton.”
Henry bowed his head, pressing his hand against his waistcoat where his watch pushed against the small ring he carried with him everywhere. Agatha had all the qualities of a beautiful spy. She had heard him ascending the stairs in Hope Sands, she had nearly killed him with her potato bowl, and if Ames hadn’t been keeping an eye on her, he would never have known that she had successfully masqueraded as the Grand Salvatore.
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