Mrs. Stokes dropped her gaze and shook her head. “Were we wrong to permit her so much liberty? I do wonder how much Ashford really knows.”
Higgins chuckled. “Most certainly, I am not going to be the one to bring it up to the duke.”
Mrs. Stokes peeked back into the library as Alexandra and Ian circled each other like playful predators. The corner of her mouth lifted into a reluctant smile. “Needless to say, there is never a dull moment with twins.”
Chapter 5
Northlander’s gaming club was packed like rats in lard. The club décor boasted dark velvets and bright brocades, done in an expensively garish fashion. Several high ranking officials were among the guests, so the authorities were doubtlessly looking the other direction.
Edward glanced down to his hand of cards. They held promise, but he just took a sizeable loss with his previous hand. He gulped some watered-down bourbon, wishing for more of a burn in his throat, but knowing better than to indulge. The stakes were far higher than his usual game. Actually, he was in over his head. Ashford would not be pleased. But Edward was goaded by that arrogant fop, Balfort.
Hodgkins and Balfort still remained at the table, covertly holding their cards. Sir Hodgkins was a known professional gambler, skilled, but not a cheat. The Earl of Balfort was as wide as he was tall, with full glowing jowls, and his breath reeked of stale gin. Edward didn’t trust Balfort farther than he could throw him.
“I say, Devon,” Balfort said, “what veritable idiot would fight the wretched French, when you can simply hire a bloody sot to go to battle for you?” His slurred high-pitched syllables grated on Edward’s nerves like a rusty carriage wheel. “One might actually get killed or some other unpleasantness. Damned messy business across the channel in these times.”
Edward clenched his jaw. The only way he could tolerate Balfort’s presence was to attempt to ignore his constant babbling.
“I daresay it’s bloody fortunate you’re not the first born, Devon!” Balfort rattled on with a careless flick of his stubby fingers. “No worries about losing the ducal title if you get shot down.” He snorted, lewdly gurgling on his bottle of gin and slamming it on the table. “That’s why I’m jolly well staying put right here on English soil. Can’t risk the earldom until I sire an heir—which I have no intention of doing while old Boney is on the march!”
Balfort laid down an insanely large wager. Onlookers gasped.
Hodgkins folded. “Too rich for me,” he mumbled. He shoved back his chair and stood, but his curiosity kept him hovering.
Edward eyed the wager. It was worth his entire yearly allowance, not the wisest move, but his own hand did look promising. One high card could win it. One low card could cost him more than he cared to think about.
Balfort leered and lifted his bushy brows. “Ye might as well fold, Devon. No chance your illustrious papa will allow you to take the wager anyhow.” He grinned. “I’ll do you a favor here, my boy.” He reached across the table to gather the chips.
A woman called Madeline rested a possessive hand on Edward’s shoulder. She gave him a familiar squeeze. It was evident she had once been exotically beautiful, with long dark hair and emerald eyes. But now her olive skin was pocked and her lips were painted cherry red.
Edward knew he was one of her favorite young bucks. When he won, he usually bought her an expensive bauble, which of course she would undoubtedly resell. Tonight Madeline ogled his pile of chips.
He felt her gaze drop to admire his groin. Leaning down, she whispered in his ear. “If you win, my strappin’ gent, I’ll truly make it worth your while indeed.” His cock pulsed at her words. He lifted a cheeroot to his teeth, biting hard, willing himself to regain focus on the game.
He glanced at Balfort and his temper surged. The bloody coward needed a thorough set-down. He would have preferred to break the earl’s jaw. His fist was virtually twitching to punch him. But he wanted to hit this simpering coward where it would hurt the most, which was right in the coffers. “I’ll match the wager.”
The crowd hushed and drew closer, placing their own bets on the side. Whoever took this hand would be the talk of London in all the gentlemen’s clubs tomorrow, much to Edward’s chagrin. His exploits when it came to women or gambling usually made the broadsheets for some inane reason. Oddly, he was reputed for his icy temperament.
Balfort’s eyes flashed and he snorted with delight. He pushed the chips back on the table. Then his next card was dealt. His full cheeks flushed scarlet from greed and the gin.
Edward slumped back carelessly in his chair, gritting his smoldering cheroot.
Balfort slammed his cards face up on the table and crowed with glee. “I say, Devon, let’s see if you can bloody well beat that.” A broad grin stretched across his ruddy face.
It was Edward’s turn to make his play. The crowd pressed closer in silent trepidation.
Edward showed his cards.
Balfort’s face turned chalky. His mouth dropped open and his chattering stopped cold. “What the hell?” His voice was a croak. His eyes narrowed at Edward. “You cheated, Devon!”
The crowd gasped. Being labeled a cheater was a dueling offense.
“There is no way you could have pulled that hand. I know for a fact—.” Balfort’s voice stopped abruptly, as if he realized he was admitting to cheating himself.
Edward gathered his chips and rose. His simmering anger was barely contained by the satisfaction that he had financially crippled the bastard. “I am many things, Balfort. But I assure you, I am not a cheat.”
An hour later, Madeline stroked Edward’s bare chest with her clammy fingers as they lay in the twisted sheets of her bed. She moaned at the pleasure he had just given her, although her true delight was more likely about the bauble.
Staring at the ceiling, he forgot she was there. He recalled the wager in his head. The stakes were far richer than he had ever risked before. His eyes closed in relief, vowing never again.
He managed to keep most of his rakehell activities out of the gossip mills. But undoubtedly Ashford will hear of this and be furious. He hated angering, or worse, disappointing his father. Fortunately, lady luck had favored him with a win once more.
Balfort was a selfish coward, a bloody embarrassment to England. Edward did consider his slight advantage in that he was hardly drinking, whereas Balfort was deep in his cups. Regardless, it was Balfort’s own damnable fault for losing. The loss would hurt him, but by all means not break him. In spite of his despicable shortcomings, Balfort had a good mind for business and would accrue more profits within the year. Edward would use his winnings to contribute to the very war effort Balfort so blatantly ridiculed.
“So what ‘re you goin’ to do with all the blunt you won?” Madeline asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.
“I shall purchase a couple sloops,” he answered absently, more to himself than to her.
“Ain’t a sloop a boat? Why would you ever want to get somethin’ like that, luv?”
“To fight the pirates.” Untangling himself from the sheets, he rose to dress and smiled. He allowed himself to gloat at how fitting it was to win a treasure trove from a vain vapid coward like Balfort.
Captain Edward Devon stood on deck of the H.M.S. Invader, a massive British warship. It sailed southward towards France, slicing through the choppy waters of the English Channel. He wore the British naval uniform: a dark blue longcoat trimmed in gold buttons and braiding denoting his rank insignia, over white breeches and polished black boots. The uniform was topped off with a white queue wig and black bicorn hat edged with gold. Edward felt stiffly out of sorts, not being used to wearing a uniform.
The wind whipped up and the crew trimmed the sails, pulling on long lines, to keep the ship on a steady course.
Edward drew the brisk salt air into his lungs. It was exhilarating to be on such a mighty ship with almost four hundred men aboard. The wind blew from behind and the multi-tiered sails were tacked slightly to the starboard side. The British
Union Jack flag flapped from the mizzen mast at the rear, the shortest of the three towering spires which made up the backbone of the ship.
It was wonderful to be at sea, even with the biting cold of late October. Edward reveled in the steady rolling motion of the ship as it was hurled by the wind across the murky water. Despite skies so gray, a wonderful rugged sort of beauty unfolded on such a day, filling him with a sense of rightness and belonging.
Edward thought of his own sloops-of-war under construction in Woodstock Harbor. They would be completed in a few more months, although they might not be put to sea for quite some time, depending on how long he remained in France.
Commodore Trumbridge was in command. Edward was merely a passenger in transport to the coast of France where he would then travel by coach to Paris.
Edward recalled his vague orders. He would assist in intelligence gathering. Upon reaching the French coastline at the small port of Ameret, he would change out of his uniform for the rest of the journey to Paris. Henceforth he would work under cover in plain clothes.
“Captain Devon!” Commodore Trumbridge called out, approaching Edward. “I must apologize on behalf of the weather, for not giving you a better reception. As sailors, we are all at the mercy of the whims of the wind. Although, as dreary a day as it may seem, we are making jolly good headway and should arrive in Ameret ahead of schedule.”
“She is a fine ship, sir,” Edward said.
The commodore grinned. “I’m fortunate with an able crew to sail her. Aye, she’s mighty fine indeed. She can hold four hundred twenty men all told, and thirty cannons. I’ve never sailed anything faster. These clippers can outrun a clumsy frigate any day.”
Edward’s brows rose. “Indeed.”
“So what is your direction when we reach landfall?”
“My orders are to meet up with Colonel Withers,” Edward replied.
“Ahh, Colonel Charles Withers.” The commodore nodded. “Fine Englishman and demmed fine officer. Didn’t know he was still in France. Good to know he’s still about, if you know what I mean.”
Edward nodded in understanding with so many English soldiers already lost.
“Rest assured. He’s a fine commander to have in your corner in these trying times.”
“Good to hear, Sir. When will we arrive at Ameret?”
“We’ll wait to put in at dawn due to rough seas. Need the daylight. Those shorelines are the very devil to navigate. The cove is secluded, a good one for slipping out of in a hurry.”
Donned in his plain brown coat and trousers, Edward was rowed to the beach of Ameret in a small dinghy. Gray clouds hung low in the heavy sky, and the frigid breeze was a stinging whisper across his face. Edward flipped up his collar and tugged his coatsleeves further over his gloves.
This was France, the scourge of England. The land of war and violence. During his previous tour on the continent, his party had prudently avoided France. It appeared to be a beautiful land, despite his misgivings, with shadowy dunes and craggy cliffs beyond. His senses were filled with the pungent scent of damp soil and kerosene from the small lantern lighting their way.
By the time they reached shore, the sun was slipping gently over the horizon in hues of pink and purple with streaks of yellow. His heart raced, as if he expected an immediate barrage from French snipers. Yet all he heard was the slapping sound of waves, teasing his ears, taunting him with its own rhythmic threats.
Two men in the dinghy jumped into the knee-deep frigid water and dragged the boat to shore. They directed Edward to a nondescript coach with four horses which waited at the top of the dune. The door of the coach swung open and a young red-headed man in plain clothes stepped out. As he approached, Edward recognized his face.
“Thomas McPhee,” Edward said. “What the bloody hell are you already doing here in France?” Reaching out, he heartily shook his hand.
“Edward Devon!” McPhee exclaimed. He wore a wide toothy grin. “I’m yer ride to Paris. We’ll be set to leave in a trice.” Once he affixed Edward’s trunk on top of the coach, he gestured for Edward to climb inside and followed in behind. “When I heard ‘twas yerself coming in today, I volunteered to be the one to fetch you,” McPhee said in his lilting Scottish brogue. “Haven’t seen ye since last year before I returned to Scotland.”
“So how are things?” asked Edward pensively. Within the protective shelter of the coach, his heart had slowed a bit. His thoughts went to the two drivers on top of the box and he felt like a coward.
“Not good at all, Captain,” McPhee replied sadly. A pensive gaze met his. “I have to get used to calling you Captain now.” McPhee rubbed the side of his neck. “Paris is complete bedlam. So many people getting killed and taken prisoner, mostly for no good reason at all.”
But then McPhee’s face lit up, taking on more of the boyishness optimism Edward remembered about him. “The colonel was sure happy to hear you were coming. Much of our work has been smuggling people out of Paris and safely back to England. And of course, any information we come across, we try to send back.”
Edward noticed muskets lying on the floor.
“Aye, we must ever be on our guard. Most of the roads are patrolled by the French, who don’t take kindly to English troops using them. The two drivers are also armed and crack shots. I trust you’ve kept up your own shooting skills.”
A tingling chill slid down his spine and he shuddered. The reality of war washed over him like a bucket of seawater. He was a soldier. He would kill men. He would be shot at and possibly killed. His father’s worried face flashed in his mind. He recalled Alexandra’s pale concern the last night at Devonwood Hall. He realized he had not imagined her worry. Despite their animosity towards each other, she had truly been fearful for him. For some inexplicable reason, the thought warmed him.
“How soon will we get to Paris?” Edward asked.
“If we don’t run into trouble, hopefully three days on back roads. The direct route is too heavily guarded and the roads are muddy.”
Colonel Wither’s small austere study was a room meant for private meetings, with heavy draperies drawn, making the room seem even more clandestine.
“Glad to see you made it through from the coast without a hitch, my boy. We’ve had the devil’s own mayhem on the roads lately,” the Colonel said. His voice was brisk yet friendly, but his gray eyes were puffed and lined with weariness. He was a large barrel-chested man in his fifties.
“So Lieutenant McPhee has mentioned, Sir.”
A servant brought in a tray of pastries, cheeses and fruit. “This is Pierre.”
Edward gave a friendly nod.
“He is my personal manservant,” Colonel Withers said. “He has been with me for twenty years. I should mention even though he is French, you can trust him implicitly, unlike the rest of the servants. But by all means, do be extremely wary of what you discuss and where, even inside these walls.”
“How many people are working in your operation here?”
The Colonel paused as Pierre exited and closed the door. “Including you, thirty-nine men under my command within the city walls. Although we lost twenty-three this year past.” Colonel Withers sat for a moment in silence. “You and Lieutenant McPhee are the only reinforcements the War Office has sent since. McPhee is a fine soldier. I understand you both were in Oxford together.”
“Yes, Sir. He was a welcome surprise to see when I was rowed ashore.”
Colonel Withers lowered his voice, which Edward gathered was his usual business tone when discussing confidential matters. “Most of our operations involve gathering information by whatever means necessary. Unfortunately, many times it can result in loss of life. My job has been to make the decision whether the information is worthy of pursuit, and if so, whose life to risk. It is not an easy task, as you can well imagine.” He exhaled. “But hopefully this war business will soon be ended.”
The Colonel’s candid admission chilled Edward, a dark aspect of leadership.
“Another ma
jor part of our operation,” the Colonel continued, “is getting certain people slated for execution to safety, which means smuggling them out of France. We keep a few ships hidden off the coast, prepared to flee. Occasionally we will be chased even once we are at sea, especially if it is an individual of high importance. You come with fine recommendations from the War Office, young man. How’s your French?’
“I speak it fluently, I’m told, although I’ve never actually used it in France.”
“That is about to change. You’ve been through the encryption training?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“By the bye, I understand you purchased a couple of sloops-of-war.”
“Indeed, you heard?” Edward raised his brows in surprise. He had kept that bit of news to himself.
“On occasion, news arrives from the shipyards. Commissioned in Woodstock, one of the finest.”
“Aye, sir. I haven’t taken delivery of them yet, but I’m looking forward to it, perhaps before the year is out.”
“Splendid. Ships are a rare commodity these days. A curious thing that you would have two sloops-of-war built, not that it is any of my business, of course.”
“Lieutenant McPhee mentioned that you change residences frequently,” Edward said, shifting in his chair, anxious to change the subject.
“Unfortunately, he is correct. If word gets out about our operations and sites, we must be prepared to relocate at a moment’s notice. So far we’ve been fortunate. Can’t say as much for some of the other regiments. Five months ago, our LeBlanc house was raided at three in the morning, and everyone including the servants was either arrested or shot.”
Rage washed through Edward, even without knowing the victims.
The Colonel face clouded over and he rubbed his forehead. “Ghastly business. Usually it’s some damned blackguard extorting the servants. So as I mentioned before, do watch yourself. Don’t disclose anything more than you must to anyone, even to the other men. On the other hand, come to me with anything, especially if it seems suspect or even odd. Use Pierre for messages, no one else. Take every precaution whenever possible.”
Leigh Sparrow Page 4