Most Eagerly Yours: Her Majesty's Secret Servants

by Allison Chase

  Laurel nodded, her own concerns dissipating beneath her worries for that kind and generous lady. “You believe the letters Lord Munster stole from his father might provide that evidence?”

  “Think about it. First he steals those letters, and soon after, he establishes close ties with Claude Rousseau, ties to which he first admitted but later denied. Both men are heavily involved in the Summit Pavilion, a project that smacks of fraud.”

  Rising from the chair, she sidestepped him and stumbled past the hearth. Her back to him, she searched deep into her soul, drawing on the strength she had cultivated through all the years of serving as the mother her sisters had never had, when time and again she had put aside her own needs and concerns in order to focus on theirs.

  She drew a breath of conviction. “Whatever you require of me, I will do . . . for Melinda’s sake if nothing else. I would not for the world see her victimized in any way.”

  “I’d hoped you would say that. But I must be honest with you, Laurel. More is at stake than money and people’s good health. An MP named Roger Babcock might have forfeited his life in pursuit of the elixir’s false promises. If I can find the link between the elixir, the pavilion, and a warehouse on Broad Quay, I believe I will learn the identity of the killer.”

  He came up behind her, so close the heat of his body permeated her back in a way that was nearly torturous. “I had rather cut off my right arm than believe it, but that man might be Fitz.”

  Laurel spun around. “No, I don’t believe that. Financial fraud, scientific trickery, yes, he is capable of both. But when it comes to the pavilion, he is passionate and sincere. He sees the project as his legacy to the world. He truly wants it to succeed.”

  “He told you this?”

  “Yes, he was most adamant and . . . vulnerable.”

  “Then that means he has even more to lose should his plans fail to reach fruition. And having much to lose, Laurel, is often an irresistible motivator when it comes to murder.”

  George Fitzclarence, a murderer? When she had first come here, he had been a faceless entity and a thorn lodged deep in Victoria’s side. It had been easy then to despise him and wish for his downfall. Now that she had come to know the man—the brother, the friend, the king’s disappointed son—she pitied him and felt even a certain fondness for him.

  No, she did not wish him to be a murderer.

  “I hope you are wrong,” she said.

  “I hope I am, too. Perhaps in three nights’ time, we’ll know one way or the other.”

  “You still hobbling, old man?” Aidan clapped his hand on Julian Stoddard’s shoulder and gestured at the silver-handled walking stick the young man was presently thumping up and down on the Aubusson rug in Fitz’s drawing room.

  “Frankly, I’ve rather grown a liking for the thing.” Stoddard gave the cane a deft twirl between his fingers. “Adds a touch of sophistication, wouldn’t you say?”

  Even standing as close as they were, they raised their voices to be heard above the din of the crowd filling the room. A teeming crush packed Fitz’s town house, overflowing into the central hall and the two smaller salons that opened onto the drawing room.

  Upon arriving, Aidan had made a circuit of the rooms. He hadn’t seen Laurel and he wondered whether she had arrived yet, or would come at all. Perhaps at the last minute she had balked at the plan, albeit it had originally been her own. In the interim she had been attacked and then forced to face the ambiguity of her own background. Perhaps she had decided she’d had enough of uncertainty and danger.

  He wouldn’t have blamed her. Yet even given all the rational arguments why she should avoid tonight’s conspiracy, he would be greatly surprised if she broke her promise to come. She didn’t strike him as a woman who left matters half undone.

  He continued scanning the faces. The absence of one piqued his curiosity. “I haven’t seen de Vere here tonight.”

  “No, you won’t,” Stoddard said. “Didn’t you know? He left Bath the other day.”

  Aidan’s senses pricked. “Which day?”

  Stoddard shrugged. “Yesterday? The day before? Not sure, really.”

  Aidan had ruled out de Vere as Laurel’s assailant, but the Frenchman’s sudden departure from the city coinciding with the attack set him wondering again. If not the actual culprit, could de Vere nonetheless be involved? Both were French, and Aidan had thought he perceived a resemblance between the two men. . . .

  He would make inquiries via the Home Office, but for tonight the question would have to wait. Seated on an ornate Louis Quinze settee at the east end of the drawing room, Beatrice held court, greeting friends and wellwishers with all the aplomb of the royal princess she might have been if not for her father’s indiscreet lifestyle.

  “She’s in her element tonight,” Aidan commented.

  “Ravishing. One would never guess her age to be above thirty.” Stoddard’s enthusiasm caused Aidan to give the youth a thorough looking over. Was the poor chap smitten with Bea? But the youth’s attention quickly wandered to a passing servant who held a tray of champagne glasses high in the air. “I wonder if there might be something a trifle more potent to be had. Care to join me in my search?”

  “I think I’ll pay my respects to our guest of honor.” He set off down the room.

  “Aidan, you naughty thing. Where have you been?” Beatrice beamed up at him and offered a satin-gloved hand for him to kiss.

  “Here and there,” he murmured as he leaned over her. “I never stray far from wherever you are, my dear.”

  “Oh, hush, or people will suspect us of conducting an intrigue.” By the way she used her full voice and laughed, it was clear she didn’t take the notion the least bit seriously, nor did she expect that the ladies sitting near her would, either. To have done otherwise, to have lowered her voice and issued a stern warning, would have set tongues wagging before the footmen carried in the next round of hors d’oeuvres.

  Still, standing a few feet behind the settee, Devonlea’s face turned away from the group of men surrounding him. A gaze simmering with derision settled on the back of his wife’s bejeweled coif, then flicked to Aidan. Over the glass of champagne the viscount raised to his lips, his eyes narrowed.

  It was all Aidan could do not to laugh outright. Did Devonlea truly suspect him of trifling with Beatrice?

  Though she could not have seen her husband’s enmity, she seemed intent on fueling the fire in the man’s gullet by coming to her feet and grasping Aidan’s arm. “Come take a turn about the room with me. Though with so many guests, one hardly has space to breathe, much less walk.”

  “It would seem, my dear Beatrice, that you are all the rage here in Bath.”

  “Hmm. Yet it appears I am not the only one.” As they passed the grand piano, Beatrice raised a finger to point.

  Silhouetted by the torchlight bathing the terrace beyond the French doors, Laurel cut a dramatic figure in wine red silk.

  The air slid from Aidan’s lungs as he took in the daring neckline, her bared shoulders, the wicked tilt of her breasts beneath the shimmering fabric. He had never seen her look more sophisticated . . . intoxicating. A garnet teardrop teasing the inch or two of cleavage visible above her bodice, her creamy skin glowed. And her hair . . . it had been piled high with tendrils plucked artfully free to float like curling sunlight about her shoulders.

  “You may stop staring,” Beatrice said with a chuckle that held little humor. “Goodness, but you’re as infatuated as on that first night at the Assembly Rooms. Oh, but look what has happened. It appears my brother has reined this filly in, at least for the moment.”

  If anyone had been reined in, it was certainly Fitz, who stood close at Laurel’s side looking hopelessly awe-struck. She in turn appeared thoroughly charmed by his attentions, and did not so much as blink when he stumbled over the edge of the rug in his haste to procure her a glass of champagne.

  So far, their plan showed every sign of success.

  “Mrs. Sanderson, how goo
d of you to come.” Beatrice embraced Laurel and kissed her cheek, but Aidan sensed restraint in the gesture and caught the envious flare of Bea’s nostrils. She didn’t like being upstaged, especially by someone who accomplished the feat with little apparent effort.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Happy birthday, my lady.” Laurel dipped a graceful curtsy, then slipped a hand around the forearm Fitz offered to help her rise. In that instant she communicated a message to Aidan from beneath her lashes. She was here, ready to assume the role he had assigned her, and she would utilize every alluring weapon in her arsenal to play her part to perfection.

  He should have been grateful. Instead, a fist closed around his heart, squeezing tight around a galling sense of his own stupidity.

  How had he ever believed he could bear to watch her entice another man?

  Chapter 22

  Aidan had been gone for nearly half an hour before he turned up in the drawing room again, a lean hip propped against the curve of the grand piano, a brandy in hand, and a carefree expression lightening his chiseled features. For a moment Laurel pondered how he had managed to slip away so entirely unnoticed and then reappear, taking up as though he had never been gone with the finesse of an accomplished spy. Where and why did an earl learn such skills?

  His cousins the Lewes-Parker twins stood one on either side of him. With a wistful expression their mother looked on from nearby. The girls, as elegant as ever, were laughing, clearly flirting, and he just as clearly seemed to be enjoying their repartee.

  Laurel quickly reminded herself that they had come to playact tonight, and that his flirtations were merely a form of camouflage. Before he had disappeared, they had exchanged a few brief words at the punch bowl. “I’m going now to search the study. Be sure to keep him in the drawing room.”

  “I shall not leave his side.”

  His departing look had acknowledged what she had not been able to prevent: the sardonic edge to her voice. She had little liking for this night’s work, and even less for how easily Aidan had requested her assistance, as though he had not at the same time asked her to compromise her integrity.

  He wished her to distract George Fitzclarence? Then she would do so to the very best of her ability, and she hoped each simpering smile and each coquettish touch struck Aidan’s conscience as sharply as it did her own.

  No, she didn’t mean that. She wasn’t angry, not really. She was hurt, though not so much by him as by the circumstances in which she found herself ensnared.

  Now, over the swarm of feathered and beribboned headdresses and the gleam of the men’s pomade, he caught her eye. The signal he sent her came with a nod and a lift of his glass.

  Without hurrying, she extricated herself from between Lord Munster and Lady Harcourt.

  “But where are you g-going, my d-dear?” the earl said as he reached out to clasp her hand. He nearly missed, catching the tips of her fingers and dislodging her elbow-length glove from its snug fit around her elbow.

  An excess of alcoholic spirits had sent his aim awry, and Laurel inwardly shuddered to consider what fate she would meet in his drunken arms had she intended to follow her flirtations to their logical conclusion. If only the man would temper his vices, how much more agreeable he would be.

  She searched the crowd for her excuse. “Why, there is Margaret Whitfield, sir, and I have not yet had a moment to speak with her.”

  He released her with obvious reluctance. “D-do hurry back.”

  “Indeed I shall, sir.”

  Lady Harcourt’s sly chuckle followed Laurel as she started away. “She is a delight, Munster. A pity you aren’t unattached. . . .”

  Aidan, too, had managed to escape his cousins. He and Laurel met in the center of the room and walked several feet together before parting and moving in separate directions. In those brief moments he said in an undertone, “I searched all the probable places in his study and turned up nothing.”

  Earlier, she had relayed to him Victoria’s description of the documents, including a depiction of the old king’s seal while he had yet been the Duke of Clarence. “Did you search thoroughly?”

  “I know his hiding places, including which picture frames to look behind. I’ll search his bedchamber next, during the entertainment following supper.”

  Without another word they parted, and Laurel slipped an arm around Margaret Whitfield’s waist and bade the woman walk with her. “I understand you were with Lady Fairmont when she took ill the other day. . . .”

  Supper stretched on interminably. In breach of etiquette, Laurel found herself seated at George Fitzclarence’s right at a dining table reserved for the highest-ranking guests, while those of lower status were dispersed among smaller tables set up in the corners of the room and the adjoining antechamber.

  Her cheeks burned at the low twitter of speculation that bore her name. Lord Munster seemed oblivious or perhaps indifferent, but Laurel felt the brand of numerous furtive stares. This, she realized, was what it felt like to have one’s reputation compromised, and she was suddenly grateful for her assumed identity and the obscurity to which she would eventually return; grateful, too, for the arrival of the soup course—a rich seafood concoction—which subdued the whispered gossip.

  That did not, however, make the situation much easier for her. Diagonally across the table Aidan laughed and flirted openly with the ladies on either side of him, at the same time carrying on a disdainful if silent discourse with the icy blonde Laurel had met earlier, Lady Amanda Beecham, who happened to be seated directly opposite him.

  She tried to ignore it all—the gossip, Aidan’s dalliances, even the ankle Lord Munster attempted to rub against her own beneath the table. He had been drinking heavily all evening, evidenced by the increased stutter in his speech and his unsteadiness in handling his fork. Though he might not remember much in the morning, her success in capturing his regard for the remainder of the evening seemed all but assured until, during dessert, the splatter of a bit of raspberry florendine on his neckcloth threatened to undermine her and Aidan’s plans.

  What if he happened to pass a mirror and saw the violation to his snowy cravat? Might he rush upstairs to change it at just the precise moment Aidan tore through his bureau or clothespress or bedside table?

  “Do you c-care for s-sailing, my dear?” the man asked her a second time, and Laurel realized that in staring so intently at that small but conspicuous stain and pondering its significance she had neglected to respond.

  “Oh . . . I cannot say.” She affected a neutral expression. “I’ve never sailed.”

  Perhaps she should mention the stain herself, but when? Supper was ending. In another moment the ladies would adjourn to the drawing room for tea while the men remained here for brandy and cigars. Lord Munster might not care about the state of his neckcloth without the ladies present, and wait until just before the entertainment began to visit his bedchamber. Laurel might not be able to warn Aidan in time. . . .

  Too late. The gentleman all came to their feet and held the ladies’ chairs as they rose to leave the table. Laurel found herself swept along in the tide of rustling silks and excited giggles. Apparently the Countess of Rockingham, newly arrived from Brighton, had a scandalous morsel to report and had been waiting to have the women alone to impart the tale. Laurel tried not to think of herself as the future topic of such accounts.

  When the men rejoined them some twenty minutes later, Aidan was not among them. Several footmen brought extra chairs into the drawing room, and people began finding seats. Lord Munster drew Laurel to his side on a settee placed close to the doorway.

  “Do you p-play, madam? Or s-sing?” he asked her.

  “Not well enough for this gathering,” she replied honestly. She began to relax. He had apparently not noticed the raspberry stain, leaving Aidan free to conduct his search.

  Amanda Beecham went to stand beside the piano while an older woman took a seat on the bench. They conferred for a few moments, then appeared to reach an
accord, and the first notes were struck. Amanda Beecham’s clear soprano floated through the air.

  Sitting across the room, Lady Devonlea sent a solicitous gaze around the room, undoubtedly making certain that each guest had found an agreeable place from which to enjoy the performance. Her eyes lingered on her brother, and then she made a face. Her hand came up, moving over her neck as if, like him, she wore a cravat. She waggled her fingers in the air.

  “Whatever is she c-carrying on about?”

  “I cannot imagine,” Laurel said. “Lady Amanda’s voice is superb. Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”

  “My n-neckcloth? Is that what she is s-signaling about?” He fingered the starched linen and attempted to angle his chin so he could peer down at the knot. “Oh, d-damn me, I’ve s-spilled something.”

  “Did you, sir? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “If you’ll exc-cuse me, my d-dear.”

  Before she could protest, he stood up and disappeared into the hall. Laurel came to a swift decision. Scurrying after him might ruin her in the eyes of all present—and all of Bath society by tomorrow—but she could not abandon Aidan when he needed her.

  “Lord Munster . . .”

  Laurel arrived at the foot of the stairs in time to witness a small miracle. Lord Munster had ascended halfway up when his butler came hurrying out from the service corridor.

  “Milord, a word if you please.”

  The earl looked quizzically down at Laurel, then flashed an impatient frown. “Yes, R- Rimsdale, what is it?”

  “It appears the champagne is running low, milord. Would you like us to serve wine with Lady Devonlea’s birthday cake or shall we delve into the reserved stock?”

  Lord Munster expelled a breath. “No, Lady D-Devonlea would not like it if we s-switched to w-wine.”

  On his way back down the stairs, he fished a small set of keys from his coat pocket and with a jingle dangled them between his fingers. “S-some things one should not trust to one’s s-servants,” he said to Laurel, “and reserves of f-fine champagne is one of them.”