“Good God.”
“Really, Stoddard, must you?”
“I’m only passing on what I was told,” the young man said with a defensive shrug. Pushing his chair back a few inches, he stretched out his left leg and released a soft groan.
Aidan noticed the silver- handled walking stick leaning against the edge of the table. “I say, Stoddard, rather young for one of those, aren’t you?”
“Sprained ankle. Had a bit of a riding mishap last week.”
“Give it a good soak.” Devonlea flashed a nasty leer. “Just not at the Cross Bath.”
“What I can’t help wondering is how Babcock could have remained all alone in the bathhouse after everyone else left.” Aidan raised a glass of port to his lips and waited for an answer.
“If you ask me, he’d been drinking and dozed off, perhaps in the corner of one of the dressing rooms.” Captain Geoffrey Taft considered his cards and tossed in the table’s minimum wager of 250 pounds. “Then upon waking, he stumbled into the bath and drowned.”
A retired naval officer who presented the very picture of stodgy English tradition with his serviceable suits and stoic, unflappable demeanor, Captain Taft had nonetheless scandalized the ton two years earlier. His wife had died, and months short of the proper mourning period the man had taken up quite openly with a much younger woman no one had ever heard of.
Her name was Margaret Whitfield—Mrs. Whitfield, though Aidan doubted she had ever been married. Like Fitz’s mother, Dorothea Jordan, the petite and pretty Mrs. Whitfield had once made her living as an actress, but unlike Dorothea Jordan, the stages this woman had graced were accessed through back doors in seedy alleyways. Apparently, Geoffrey Taft had wandered into a playhouse one night and come out smitten.
No one in society would know that, of course. Aidan knew only because he’d done a little checking up on Mrs. Whitfield. Taft had been a friend of his father’s and, quite simply, Aidan liked the man and hadn’t wished to see him cuckolded. So far, much to Aidan’s surprise, he had not been.
“So Babcock was an inebriate,” he commented to no one in particular.
“No more than any of the rest of us,” Devonlea said with a laugh. He gestured at Aidan’s hand. “Are you sticking?”
Aidan glanced at his ace and four of clubs and increased his stake by another five hundred. Deciding to play the ace as a one rather than an eleven, he bought three more cards and raised his wager accordingly.
As each of the other players bought cards, twisted, or stuck, he analyzed their facial expressions. Taft appeared tense, whereas Devonlea and Stoddard leaned casually back in their chairs. Henri de Vere, the dealer for this round, dealt his own final cards.
Aidan considered de Vere something of an enigma. Like Claude Rousseau’s father, de Vere had served as a spy during the wars, but he had chosen to aid the British and European forces rather than Napoleon’s. It was even rumored that de Vere provided Wellington with information that facilitated Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo, though de Vere had never confirmed or denied the claim. Still, his service record made him a hero in both the British and French courts, and instead of channeling this favor to his advantage, he chose to live quietly in relative obscurity.
The Frenchman turned his cards over one by one with a dramatic flair to reveal four cards totaling twenty-one. The other men around the table sighed in defeat.
“Well, Barensforth?” Lord Devonlea gestured at Aidan’s cards, still facedown on the table. Unlike either de Vere or Taft, Devonlea, a man whose expenses generally exceeded his income, left little to wonder about. Only a year or two older than Aidan, he was nevertheless a gentleman of the old school, with deeply entrenched Tory philosophies and a strict belief in the separation of the classes.
In other words, Arthur Steele, Viscount Devonlea, was as colossal a snob as could be imagined, but otherwise harmless and thoroughly predicable.
He also happened to be George Fitzclarence’s brother-in-law.
Remaining mysteriously silent, Aidan again reached for his port. In the past hour he had contrived to part with a considerable sum, a circumstance he loathed, not merely because losing grated against his competitive instincts, but also because the effort to lose taxed his brain to an even greater extent than winning did.
Yet ceaseless victories would raise suspicions and eventually lead some clever opponent to realize it wasn’t mere luck that filled Aidan’s pockets at the gaming tables. No, it was important to temper his successes with occasional failures . . . but damned if his pride didn’t sometimes ride roughshod over his good sense.
To the accompaniment of muttered oaths and exclamations of reluctant praise, he revealed his hand.
De Vere’s lip curled, yet with good- natured censure he observed in his lightly accented English, “A five-card trick beats my hand. Damn you again, Barensforth.”
“And to think, it seemed Lady Luck had abandoned you tonight.” With a snap, Devonlea summoned a waiter to replenish his brandy.
“Dev, old boy,” Aidan said, “our dear Lady Luck may run off for the occasional fling now and again, but rest assured she never stays away for long. Seems the old girl cannot resist me.”
Aidan drained his port and splashed another measure into his glass from the bottle at his elbow. In keeping with his reputed ability to drink all night without falling into his cups, he pushed smoothly to his feet. This was only his second glass since his arrival in the cardroom, but a few clever sleights of hand had made it appear to be his fifth or sixth. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure.”
He sauntered over to another table, where he hovered for the next twenty minutes conveying subtle signals to aid Fitz in his game of loo—a twitch of his brow, the quirk of his mouth, a deep or shallow sip of his port. If his own profits tended to run audaciously high, the opposite could be said of George Fitzclarence, evidenced by the dwindling stack of chips at his elbow. Aidan sought merely to give Fitz a fighting chance.
Aidan lingered long enough to ensure that ample spending money found its way into the man’s pockets. It wouldn’t do for Fitz to run out of cash and suddenly decide to cut short his visit to Bath. Aidan needed him here, performing whatever ill deeds the Home Office wanted investigated.
Stepping out into the centrally located octagon room brought to Aidan a shock of noisy bustle that contrasted sharply with the hush of the cardroom. Returning greetings, shaking and kissing hands as he went, he proceeded through to the ballroom.
A reel was presently under way, a colorful flurry of youthful energy. Tiers of seats lined the walls, from where the elders and infirm and those not lucky enough to have found partners looked on. Overhead, five massive cut-glass chandeliers blazed at full brilliance, and lively hearth fires warded off the March chill.
As Aidan made his way through the long room, scanning faces and taking mental notes, a number of bright-faced young ladies in colorful silks waved their dance cards under his nose. He stopped to offer a compliment here, chuck a curl there, and chat a moment with their fathers. In every case he left behind a trail of blushing disappointment.
“My lord, a word if you please.”
Ah. Smile in place, he came to an abrupt if somewhat reluctant halt. Lady Amanda Beecham’s tone matched the frosty diamonds glittering around her slender neck. A sliver of white blond eyebrow arched in disdain as she regarded him.
They stood not far from the orchestra. The lady slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and drew him behind the carved Oriental screen that concealed the musicians from their audience. In the relative privacy, she slid her hand from his elbow and let it fly open-palmed against his cheek.
The violinist missed a note. Although the blow left a rather commendable sting, Aidan merely tilted his head and frowned in puzzlement.
“That, my lord, is for ignoring my notes.”
In point of fact he hadn’t ignored them at all. He had dutifully read each carefully penned, scalding condemnation of his character and then tossed it into the hearth.
He also might have mentioned that by Amanda’s own decree, their affair had never been meant to last more than the fortnight her husband had been away from home, and that had been more than a month ago. Aidan had believed their liaison long over.
His work for the Home Office didn’t allow for more than brief affairs. When he took up with a woman, he always made certain it was someone who shared his aversion to permanent attachments. That typically meant married women of less-than-spotless virtue. He was neither Lady Amanda’s first paramour nor her last, and he suspected tonight’s outburst had more to do with her frustration in a loveless marriage than with his own conduct.
Ah well, this was not the first time one of his affairs had ended with the imprint of a feminine hand across his cheek, and he could think of several that had begun that way as well.
Amanda leaned in close and hissed, “I am not some old cloak to be worn when one feels a chill and cast off when the sun returns. How dare you?”
The question, it seemed, was rhetorical. She swept away without having secured an answer. Aidan adjusted his cravat, shot his cuffs, and exchanged an apologetic look with the musicians.
He shrugged off the interlude and returned his focus to the assembly. For the most part these well- heeled individuals were here on holiday, seeking cures for their minor ailments and hoping to acquire a feeling of youthful vitality. As for the young people . . . they were here because their parents were, and they seemed intent on making the best of the situation.
Yet a man from among their rank had recently died in one of the very facilities where many of those present tonight intended to soak their aching limbs. Though there had been no conclusive evidence of villainy, the circumstances of Babcock’s death remained suspicious. Aidan would have expected a dampening of merriment, a more somber demeanor, out of respect. Looking about, he saw quite the opposite.
Had Babcock been without friends here in Bath?
He once more considered Captain Taft’s theory that an inebriated Babcock had stumbled into the water. Aidan didn’t believe it. Babcock had a reputation for honor and responsible behavior in the Commons, and nothing the Home Office had dug up on the man suggested a tendency toward overimbibing.
Then again, some men were skilled at hiding their vices until, of course, those vices suddenly got the better of them. Had that been the case with Babcock?
Aidan had done enough mingling; it was time to ask more questions, and near the central fireplace he spotted the perfect opportunity.
“Lord Harcourt, what an agreeable surprise to find you here,” Aidan declared, drawing the aging marquess to his side. He adjusted his pace to accommodate the man’s mild infirmities.
“Barensforth, my boy. What brings a young buck like you to hobnob with the gout-afflicted?” Harcourt was limping slightly, favoring his right leg over the left, while at the same time appearing determined to keep abreast.
“News of a financial opportunity,” Aidan replied lightly. He nodded at a passing acquaintance. “Perhaps you’ve heard?”
“Indeed. The Summit Pavilion.”
“Tell me, what is this I hear about an elixir?”
Harcourt’s wiry eyebrows went up. “So news is spreading, is it?” He looked about and lowered his voice. “The research is still in its early stages, but should the elixir prove successful, it will be offered exclusively at the pavilion.”
“Do tell. Have you tried it?”
“Oh, indeed. I am on the list.”
“What list?”
“Rousseau passes out nominal samples from time to time, but to receive a full dosage, one must have a place on his exclusive list. Those of us who are on the list swear by the stuff. I tell you, I have never felt better.”
“Fascinating. How does one get on this list?”
“Ah . . . I am afraid for now the list is closed until Rousseau is ready to offer his elixir to all. I tell you, Barensforth, this elixir shall prove a revolutionary development to the field of medicine.”
“And a highly profitable endeavor,” Aidan added, contriving to sound impressed while wishing instead to warn the other man of the potential hazards, both to his health and his purse. Instead he said, “I hear Roger Babcock was a huge proponent of the project. An appalling shame, his death.”
Harcourt’s gait faltered; his nostrils flared. “I shall waste no energy mourning a rapscallion like Babcock. I am sorry for his family. Beyond that, I am little moved by his passing. If you will excuse me, sir.”
The liver spots on his temples showing starkly russet against the pallor of his skin, Harcourt limped off. A commotion on the dance floor ensued as he squeezed his unwieldy form through the lines of dancers presently engaged in a quadrille.
As much as Aidan would have liked to follow, he remained where he was, observing through narrowed eyes as Harcourt rejoined his equally stout wife. Aidan had learned something the Home Office had not previously known: Babcock had not been without adversaries, and even the feeble Marquess of Harcourt was not above suspicion.
Chapter 4
“Then I am to understand, Mrs. Sanderson, that your mother was a lady- in-waiting at Kensington Palace at the same time as Lady Fairmont?”
Viscountess Devonlea, formerly Beatrice Fitzclarence, sat facing Laurel inside the velvet- trimmed, luxuriously appointed barouche. Laurel could hardly believe her luck yesterday morning at the Pump Room when Lady Fairmont had introduced her to none other than George Fitzclarence’s sister.
The two women apparently cosponsored several charities and were both members of the Ladies’ Botanical Society in Bath. When Lady Devonlea had mentioned how tiresome it was that her husband would be arriving at the Assembly Rooms early tonight to play cards, Lady Fairmont had offered her a ride, a fortuitous circumstance that almost convinced Laurel that her mission here would be easy.
Almost.
Now, as they traveled north into the stately environs of Bath’s Upper Town, she hesitated before answering the viscountess to be certain she had her “facts” straight.
Her fictional mother, the wife of a baronet, had once attended the Duchess of Kent, but—oh, dear—was that supposed to have been before or after the Countess of Fairmont served as a companion to Princess Sophia, who had also occupied apartments in Kensington Palace?
So much to remember, so many lies to tell. A slight ache blossomed behind Laurel’s eyes. At the same time, the silk gown Victoria had supplied, along with the satin slippers and stunning jeweled reticule, brought an odd sense of reassurance. These borrowed trappings of wealth and privilege provided a confident second skin, like a protective covering, that rendered Laurel Sutherland safe from all the falsehoods the widowed Mrs. Sanderson must say and act upon.
Even her hesitation worked to her advantage, as the Countess of Fairmont, sitting beside her, offered Lady Devonlea what she fully believed to be the correct answer. “Mrs. Sanderson’s mother and I never actually had the pleasure of meeting, for I left the palace the year before she arrived.”
Though in her middle years, Laurel’s social patroness was nonetheless a stunning woman, with glossy dark hair only slightly threaded with silver. Faint lines fanned from the countess’s slanting gray eyes as she covered Laurel’s hand with her own and gave a squeeze. “Apparently your mother was a great favorite of the household. I do wish I had known her.”
As the coach turned the corner onto Bennett Street, the vehicle fell in behind a host of costly carriages rumbling along the cobbled street. Laurel peeked out at the elegantly attired guests making their way toward the Palladian facade of the Assembly Rooms and listened to their animated banter.
Her fingers clenched and unclenched around her reticule as she anticipated the next several hours. She had little inkling of what to expect, for she had never before attended a ball, much less in borrowed clothes and under an assumed name—Mrs. Edgar Sanderson, lately from the village of . . . oh yes, of Fernhurst, in the county of Hampshire.
Recruiting her sisters’ help, sh
e had practiced dance steps all the previous week. Should she happen to step on a gentleman’s foot, he would, with any luck, attribute her lack of skill to her having spent the past two years in seclusion, mourning the death of her “husband.”
The carriage pulled into an empty space at the curbside. When the footman opened the door, Lady Fairmont slid over to allow the tall, red- haired fellow to hand her down. Lady Devonlea went next, and Laurel followed suit, resisting her natural inclination to step down on her own initiative. Ladies, after all, never descended from carriages unassisted.
The doors to the building’s columned portico opened onto a bombardment of colors and textures, faces and voices. Soaring ceilings, carved pillars, and a dizzying array of candelabra made Laurel giddy with nervous excitement.
Breathe. Relax. Believe in the role you are playing.
“Ah, Lady Fairmont. Lady Devonlea. How splendid of you both to grace our assembly tonight.”
An elderly gentleman with graying muttonchops and a shaggy mustache bowed smartly over the ladies’ hands. With a tap of his heels he straightened. Through silver-rimmed spectacles, his gaze lit on Laurel. “I see you have brought a charming new friend.”
Lady Fairmont drew Laurel closer. “Mrs. Sanderson, I should like you to meet Major Calvin Melrose, a dear old friend of my husband’s and master of ceremonies here at the Upper Rooms. Major, Mrs. Edgar Sanderson.”
“Enchanted, madam, enchanted.” His practiced eye appraised her tawny silks, pausing only briefly on the jet brooch pinned to her bodice to signify a lingering sentiment of mourning. Apparently satisfied, he raised her hand and kissed it. “Now let us see, to whom shall I introduce you first? You do mean to dance tonight, Mrs. Sanderson, do you not?”
“She most certainly does,” Lady Devonlea supplied before Laurel had the chance to answer. “Mrs. Sanderson is most accomplished in the art of dancing.”
Laurel swung a startled look in the woman’s direction, then sent another through the expansive archway into the ballroom where countless couples moved in flawless rhythm.
Most Eagerly Yours: Her Majesty's Secret Servants Page 5