Blackstone handed his hat and gloves to Stanway and headed directly for the library. A man who’d had an offer of marriage declined surely deserved a drink. Or five.
“Stan, get me back issues of the London Weekly Comment. I need every paper that contains a column by a Mr. Edward Markham.”
Manning was her target. But all she had to do was print one of those dratted columns suggesting the man was a slaver and the rest would take care of itself. What more did she want?
He sloshed several fingers of brandy into a glass and tossed it back a single gulp.
And what the hell had she been doing standing on Fleet Street just now?
The woman had been laughably easy to follow. He hadn’t even been planning to tail her, had just been across from her house, reeling a bit, truth be told, from her refusal. So he’d seized the opportunity she handed him when she appeared outside dressed in a cloak and bonnet. Hailing a hack to follow hers had posed no problem, and once they arrived in Fleet Street it had been simple enough to conceal himself in a doorway and watch her…stand there? For well near an hour.
“Damn!” He slammed the tumbler down and poured another drink. Though her anonymous agitating in the London Weekly Comment worried him, the fact that she had spent an hour simply standing alone among the notorious pickpockets at St. Dunstan’s enraged him. Yes, the place was a tourist attraction, thanks to the wooden giants who struck the bells every quarter hour, but she’d been in London long enough that such wonders should have lost their luster. Hell, she hadn’t even glanced at the automata as the rest of the crowd cooed. Meanwhile, she made a prime target for the unsavory types who frequented the area.
And, if her campaign against Manning wasn’t just limited to snooping through the man’s things and trying to bait him with questions, if she was out in the world doing…whatever it was she was doing, she might be closer to victory than he’d thought. Manning’s smuggling boats could not be interfered with. Le Cafard was not getting away this time, and certainly not because of Captain Mirren’s daughter’s abolitionist scheming.
“Fuck!” he exploded, pounding the desk with his fist. He was rewarded by the sound of glass shattering as his drink hit the parquet.
All right, that was quite enough. He was acting like a willful boy. It was time to be rational. He’d long since learned that letting one’s emotions run wild was not the way to succeed with a mission.
After pulling the bell, he moved to his chair by the fire. The library in his London house was set up exactly the way he liked it, allowing him to retreat into routine. Soon, a maid would come and clean up the mess. He would sit and stare into the fire and rearrange the items on his lists until the usual mixture of nightmares and broken sleep came.
And tomorrow he would meet Bailey, who was even now gaming with Mr. Manning. Blackstone had begged off, pleading an unbreakable engagement. An unbreakable engagement to have a proposal thrown back in his face.
Gradually, his pulse returned to normal. With any luck, tomorrow Bailey would have news they could use. He inhaled deeply, resisting the pull of his ghosts.
1. Answer the questions Denning sent in response to his report. Will probably have to make a visit to Whitehall in person.
2. Have Bailey press Manning about when the first boat will arrive.
3. Read every single one of those damned Edward Markham columns.
4. Miss Mirren. It would be good to see her married. Mr. Leighton, though he’d seemed a prospect, is probably too dull for a lady like her.
5. Speak to Bailey about other prospects for Miss Mirren.
6. No, speak to Catharine about other prospects for Miss Mirren.
7. Marry Miss Mirren.
…
His arm was on fire. He tried to focus on his surroundings, but his attention kept returning to the all-consuming pain from his right shoulder straight down to the tips of his fingers.
A figure sitting on a chair next to his bed resolved itself, but he could not make out enough to identify the visitor.
“Woodley?”
“Who is it?”
“Denning.”
Struggling to make sense of the name, his mind conjured a stooped, elderly aristocrat he’d met a handful of times. “The duke?”
The man moved his chair closer and struck a match. A candle flickered to life. “Yes,” he said. “What do you remember?”
“About the battle?”
The duke nodded.
Eric closed his eyes. It was all there, just below the surface. “I remember everything.”
There was a long silence. “Is Bailey dead?” A part of him wondered why he expected Denning would know the answer, given that the aristocrat wasn’t a military man.
“No. But it was a bad one. You and Mr. Bailey and a handful of others are the only survivors from your company.”
“I can’t move my arm,” he said, trying to twist enough to see the source of his pain.
“The surgeon said that might happen. He hopes the effect is temporary.”
“Surgeon?”
The visitor stared at him with pitiless eyes. “He had to amputate your hand.”
“But I can feel it.”
The duke shrugged. “Nevertheless, it is no longer there.”
Writhing to try to see, Eric gasped when a bolt of excruciating pain shot through his arm.
“You have been heavily dosed with laudanum. I imagine you’ve quite the headache.”
His head did hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his arm, which was both searing and constant. “I want to see my arm.”
“That would serve no purpose.”
“I want to see my arm,” said Eric again.
After staring at him for a moment, the duke said, “Very well.” He helped Eric to a seated position and unwrapped the bandage that obscured the limb. Though Eric had steeled himself, the sight of his mangled flesh, of the still-bloody stump, shocked him to his core. He could feel the distinct sensation of wiggling his fingers through the pain.
And yet there was nothing.
He turned his face to the wall. After a long moment, he asked the obvious question. “Why are you here?”
“I want to know what your plans are.”
Eric’s laugh sounded bitter to his own ears. “My plans? You sound as if you’re asking which ball I’ll attend this evening.”
“I have my reasons for asking.”
The old man had an air of authority about him and, for some reason, Eric trusted him. “I suppose I plan to will this”—he nodded toward his arm—“back into service as much as possible. Then I plan to go out and get as foxed as possible.”
“Will you go home?”
“To Clareford Manor? No. My brother is the head of the family—such as it is—now. Clareford is no longer my home.”
The duke nodded. “I thought as much. Without the army, you think you have nothing.”
Of all the arrogant, presumptive things to say. He didn’t bother trying to conceal the hatred that must be visible on his face. And yet what the duke said was true.
“That’s why I’m here,” Denning said softly.
“You don’t know anything about me. If you don’t drop the riddling and tell me directly what you’re doing here, you can just sod off.” As an afterthought, he added a sneering, “Your Grace.”
“I run an intelligence operation that seeks to defeat Napoleon.” The duke paused, letting that sink in before adding, “And I want you to join me.”
Eric remained silent. He should have been surprised by this revelation, but he found he was not. He thought back to a promise made a few weeks ago. “End this war,” the captain had said.
“Now it’s time for you to speak, my friend.”
“Who gives you the authority?”
“I was asked by Wellesley himself.” Eric sucked in a breath. “Indeed,” said Denning. “We were acquainted before the trouble began. You will appreciate that I had no choice.”
“You run a spy ring, is what you’re saying.�
��
Denning bowed his head. “If you like. I prefer to think of it as a small group of gentleman—though some of them aren’t gentleman—leveraging their power in service of a greater goal.”
“Why me?”
“I need help. I’m too old and sick to keep this up indefinitely. I need a man I can trust. Someone with nothing to lose. A man so committed to the cause that he will sacrifice everything.”
“And you think I am that man.”
“Aren’t you?
“Yes.”
Chapter Ten
Emily rose before the sun, and her mind settled on the thought that filled it anew every morning: Maybe today will be the day.
Padding over to her desk, she sat with a thud. She’d been unable to sleep last night. When her mind hadn’t been reliving Lord Blackstone’s astonishing proposal, it had been fantasizing that he’d made her a real one, motivated by true feeling rather than by some misplaced sense of responsibility. She’d spent some time thinking back to her conversation with Gillian Smythe. Lord Blackstone was not kind. Though she saw flashes of wry humor in him, she couldn’t call him funny. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, so he didn’t meet Gillian’s criteria, either. And yet…
When she’d pulled her mind back from that fruitless avenue, it had rushed ahead to think about what she might wear when she next saw him, at the Hollingberry ball.
“Arrg!” Her thoughts spun out of control, running off in useless directions. She had things to do today! Important things! In her few moments of productive thought last night, she’d made some decisions about how she was going to move forward with Mr. Manning, because clearly she was getting nowhere as it was. A change of strategy was called for. It was time to start going after what she needed. Even if it meant stretching the boundaries of the law.
She got out a sheet of foolscap. A list was just what she needed to refocus herself on her mission.
1. Break into Mr. Manning’s study. Find incontrovertible evidence of slaving.
2. Continue to visit St. Dunstan’s to wait for Billy. Try to do so without upsetting Sally.
3. Write speech for Friday.
4. Write next column.
5. Prepare a bedchamber for Angela.
6. Tell Lord Blackstone about slaving.
Intensely focused on her list, Emily jumped a little when Molly entered bearing a tray. The maid left the usual assortment of newspapers and opened the curtains before leaving her mistress to her morning meal. Emily went back to her list. Yes, number six. She’d decided to give Lord Blackstone the benefit of the doubt and assume he did not know that Mr. Manning was a slaver. One had to give people the opportunity to do the right thing, didn’t one, before one judged them too harshly? This number six she would accomplish at the Hollingberry ball, assuming she could steal a moment alone with him. It wasn’t going to be like at Clareford Manor, where it had been laughably easy to sneak about. Her cheeks heated at the memories that came rushing in.
Enough! She was making a list to get away from these kinds of thoughts. She tapped her quill on the desk. Was she forgetting anything? Well, why not?
7. See if Madame Marceau can finish the blue gown by Thursday.
Satisfied, she folded the list into a small square and placed it in her reticule.
Would Lord Blackstone like the blue dress? Catharine had noted, as she made her case for the daring dress, that it shimmered like a sunlit ocean.
She caught herself before she could do any more woolgathering. It didn’t matter whether Lord Blackstone liked the dress. Taking another sheet of parchment out of the desk, she set about making a second list, just to remind herself what was important.
…
“You’re here,” Blackstone said, as Bailey appeared at his table at Brooks’s, stopping himself from adding, “finally.”
“A problem at the site detained me.”
A twinge of guilt ate at Blackstone. Bailey was preparing to open a hotel—his most ambitious venture yet. He sometimes forgot that his friend had a whole life outside of spying. And he always forgot to ask about it. He resolved to do better. “Not an intractable problem, I hope.”
“I’ll sort it out, never mind. You said you had news. I do, too. But you first.”
Blackstone sighed. He did have news, big news. Though it wasn’t about the mission, it was going to change everything from here on out.
Bailey must have sensed a change in the air, for he silently waved off the approaching waiter. “Tell me.”
“Denning is dead.”
Bailey emitted a low whistle of disbelief. “The king is dead,” he whispered. “Long live the king.”
“You mean me?”
“Of course. Who else?”
Anyone else! Blackstone wanted to shout. He was a foot soldier, not a puppeteer. And no matter what Bailey or anyone else said, he had promises to keep. It would be awfully hard to do so once he was ensconced behind a desk at Whitehall.
“How did you find out?” Bailey asked.
“I was summoned early this morning.”
“He wasn’t well. I suppose this shouldn’t be a surprise. And yet it is, isn’t it?” When Blackstone didn’t answer, Bailey fixed him with an assessing stare. “You don’t want to be in charge, do you?”
Blackstone sipped his brandy and stared at the fire. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”
“It does, though. You just never allow it to matter. There’s a difference. Some men live their entire lives governed by what they want.”
They weren’t going down this road. Just because he’d resolved to be a better friend didn’t mean they needed to examine the contents of his soul together. “I’ve been given leave to finish the mission before I have to take over. You said you had news. So let’s have it.” He’d spoken in his “Lieutenant Woodley” voice, the sharp one that brooked no opposition.
After a slight pause, Bailey sighed. “We spent the night at a hell. He plays deep. Very deep.”
“He can afford to, I suppose.”
“A boat is due late next week—probably Thursday. He’ll be there to meet it. He doesn’t generally do so, but plans to for this first one. He wants you to be there, too.”
“Do we know what’s in the boat? Or, to put a finer point on it, who?”
“I probed a bit. I asked about the size of the crew, how many men we could expect. He was vague, assuring me they wouldn’t need to take refuge in the house—neither the men nor he. He has local arrangements, apparently. You just have to be at the house in case they run into any trouble. Then, suddenly, he’ll be a houseguest and the boat will be a pleasure craft gone astray.”
“A pleasure craft full of what I imagine will be hardened sailors.”
“That’s why you’re such a catch for him. A peer can say anything to a magistrate and not be questioned.”
Blackstone nodded. It sounded like it was all well in hand.
“Shall we leave tomorrow?” Bailey asked. “We may as well get there as soon as we can, keep our eye on local happenings.”
“I can’t.”
The younger man raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got a previous engagement?”
I don’t have an engagement, that’s precisely the problem. “The Hollingberry ball,” he said in a withering tone designed to forestall further questioning.
“Will Manning be there?”
“Not to my knowledge.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, there’s no hurry. We’ve more than a week till the boat is due. If Manning isn’t staying at the house, there will be nothing to do. And I despise rusticating.”
Bailey just continued to regard him, eyebrows raised. “Is this about Emily Mirren?”
Blackstone ignored him. “Anything from Mr. Talbot that could be of use? Did he wager as profligately as his father-in-law?”
“He wasn’t there,” said Bailey, capitulating to the change of subject. “I gather that he’s out of the city on business.”
“I wonder if he’s back in Bristol.” Blackstone tho
ught of Miss Mirren’s columns. “Some would argue that slaving is a more severe moral offense than smuggling.”
“Once we plug up the pipeline and charge him with treason, he won’t be able to run slaves, will he? Two wins for the price of one. He stops smuggling and slaving.”
“Don’t forget Le Cafard. He’s the win—he’s the whole point.”
“What if he’s not on the first boat?” Bailey asked.
“We know he’s due to make the crossing soon.”
“But not necessarily now. The intelligence was vague as to precise timing.”
Bailey was a like a canine who wouldn’t let go of a bone. “If he’s not on this one, he’ll be on the next.” Blackstone tried to keep the exasperation from his voice.
“So if Le Cafard doesn’t arrive now, we’re just going to let Manning keep smuggling God knows what kinds of intelligence?”
“That is correct.” Hell, if he was going to be in charge, they were doing it his way. He tossed back the remainder of his drink. It was almost three o’clock. “I have urgent business in town. I can’t leave until at least Sunday. Possibly later. That still puts us at the estate several days before the boat is due.”
Bailey looked like he was going to protest, but Blackstone cut him off. “The king is dead. Long live the king. Remember?”
…
“I’ll come with you.”
Drat! Emily reluctantly came to a halt in the foyer. She’d almost made it. Pasting on a smile, she turned to find Sally tying the ribbons of her bonnet.
“There’s no need, dearest. I’m quite happy to go alone. It’s part of my routine.” Please don’t let this escalate into another argument.
“Still, I’d like to keep you company today, Miss Emily. I could do with the fresh air.”
“There’s no ‘miss’ anymore, dearest!”
“I keep forgetting.”
“I know, and I’m a beast for scolding you, but I can’t abide it. We’re not at Manning Abbey anymore.”
Sally smiled. “Thanks to you.”
“Isn’t it wonderful to be free? In all senses of the word?” She took the older woman’s arm and led her into the street. “I know you think I’m being unreasonable with my daily trip to Fleet Street. You’re probably right. It’s just that this is what we always agreed. This is where we’re supposed to find each other.”
The Miss Mirren Mission Page 13