Prologue
May, 1813, London
Leaning back in his chair behind a large oak desk, the Duke of Blackmoor studied his second son, Lord Maxwell, Baron Aldwyn. It was like looking in the mirror thirty years ago. Since leaving two years ago to become a member of Wellington’s staff in Portugal, Max’s tall, lean, gawky physique had developed into broad shoulders. Now, his broad shoulders strained against the confines of his dark blue clawhammer jacket that narrowed considerably at the waist. His black curly hair, hawkish nose, square jaw, and sherry colored eyes, so like his own, lent a devil-may-care attitude. “So, now that you’re back, what are your future plans, Maxwell?”
“Delightful as it is to be home, Fenton, my valet, is at this very moment acquiring a small townhouse for me,” Max said, looking from the Duke to the Earl of Lenwood. “Otherwise, I have none except to become a man of leisure for several months before retiring to Sowerby Manor come autumn.”
Blackmoor nodded. He understood his son’s desire to observe how his estate on the Norfolk coast had progressed during his long absence. Along with a keen intellect and ready wit, the boy always had a good head on those sturdy shoulders, and Blackmoor suspected Wellington and his staff already regretted Max’s defection from the field.
“You could work for the War Office,” said the Earl of Lenwood, an intimate of Blackmoor, who was seated next to Max.
“It would have to be something useful,” Max answered. “Couldn’t stand being a paper pusher.”
The Duke met his son’s inquiring eyes and sat forward. “We have a problem. There’s a mole in the War Office, and it’s imperative we flush him out.”
“Got a possible suspect?” Max asked.
Lenwood shook his head. “Not a one, but we believe his contact is Pierre Arnaud, a French expatriate. Arnaud and his wife have been on the social scene for six months or so. It was shortly after he appeared that certain documents with sensitive information would disappear for a day.”
“We’ve had him under surveillance,” Blackmoor said. “As to be expected, Arnaud is shifty, and we’ve been unable to catch him.
“Why not confront the Frenchman?” asked Max.
“We want the entire spy ring, including the mole,” Lenwood replied. “The only way to do that is to put someone in Arnaud’s sphere of friends to watch him.”
“That’s where you come in, Max,” Blackmoor said. “Arnaud’s a social climber of the worst sort. If you, the son of a duke, were to befriend him, he’d see it as a feather in his cap.”
“Won’t he be suspicious?” asked Max skeptically. “After all, everyone knows the Duke of Blackmoor runs the War Office.”
Shaking his head, the Earl of Lenwood chuckled. “Haven’t I always said that very thing to you, Blackmoor?”
Blackmoor skewed a look at Lenwood before saying to Max, “Maybe at first, but you’ll have a cover.”
With his sherry eyes alight with amusement, Max raised one dark eyebrow. “How can I be myself and still have a cover?”
“Maxwell’s right,” Lenwood said. “Arnaud is no fool.”
The Duke leaned back in his chair and considered this for a moment. “You don’t know my son very well, Lenwood. He’s quite inventive and can be the consummate actor. It’s one reason he spent so much of his time spying for Wellington in France.”
“Out of curiosity,” Max interjected languidly, “what have you told people I’ve been doing for the past two years?”
“Only a handful of War Office personnel know you have been a member of Wellington’s staff,” Blackmoor said. “Grandmère and I put it about that you’ve been making the Grand Tour.” Blackmoor paused, leveling a look at his son. “This could be dangerous, Maxwell.”
Max made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Not much worse than fighting on the front lines.”
Satisfied, Blackmoor nodded, then cleared his throat. “One more thing. It involves a bit of a ticklish situation,” he said, slewing a glance at Lenwood.
“Right.” As Lenwood sat up straighter, his blue eyes shifted from Blackmoor to Max. “Only one way to say this, Maxwell. You remember my Penelope? She’s making her debut this Season, so we’ll be hosting dinners, a ball, the usual.” The Earl shifted uneasily in his chair. “Thing is, Penelope’s engaged to Victor Bynes, has been since she was fifteen. Looked like a good match three years ago to his father, the Viscount Newton, and me, especially since Newton’s lands march along the western border of Lenwood Hall. But then Bynes set up a bachelor apartment in London and started playing with the ivories and pasteboards. Point is, I wouldn’t be adverse to Penelope breaking off the engagement.”
Lenwood shared another look with the Duke, who picked up the conversation. “Lenwood and I both agree that you might be able to persuade Penelope to, er, look around some, maybe find someone more suitable.”
His face void of expression, Max looked at Lenwood. “I suppose you’ve discussed this with your daughter?”
Lenwood nodded. “Several times, but she doesn’t see what I see. Neither does her mother for that matter. Victor Bynes is amiable enough, but the fact is he lacks character. Gambles too much, for one. Has his father worried about the welfare of the estate once Victor gets his hands on it.” He leveled a sapient eye on Max. “I want better for my daughter.”
“So you two have decided I make the perfect sacrificial lamb?” Max asked glancing at both gentlemen.
Blackmoor held up a hand. “It’s not like that, Maxwell. Of course, Lenwood and I would be happy to see such an alliance between our two families. But for now, I thought you might use your considerable skill with the ladies to, you know, pay some attention to Penelope. Talk to her, maybe point out Bynes’s faults, that sort of thing.”
“Nothing more?” Max asked, his expression still unreadable.
“Nothing more,” declared the Duke of Blackmoor and the Earl of Lenwood in unison.
Chapter 1
“Fenton, you have outdone yourself again!” Max exclaimed as he halted his team of matched chestnuts before fifty-one Upper Brook Street, the small townhouse rented by his valet. Of course, he’d expected a comfortable abode where he and the fastidious Fenton could bachelor it for the Season. But what his valet had procured was just short of a mini palace.
Tossing his reins to the groom, Max hopped down from the curricle and led the way into a small foyer tiled in black and white marble. To the right, double doors opened onto a drawing room. With a veined, Italian marble fireplace as a focal point, the furnishings included a dark green, damask sofa, several chairs done in yellow and green chintz, and creamed damask on the walls. Across the hall was an intimate study with bookshelves above walnut wainscoting that complemented a black marble fireplace. A dining room, adequate for entertaining on a small scale, and kitchen made up the rear of the house.
Taking in the top-notch, sophisticated décor Max turned to his valet. “And your accommodations?”
“Most adequate, my lord,” Fenton replied phlegmatically. “I have taken the liberty of hiring a cook, and several servants--all male.” Though Fenton possessed an inclination for the dramatic, he deplored female histrionics.
Max congratulated Fenton on his fine work, then taking up a seat behind the walnut desk in the study, began to fill in his valet on his latest assignment. “Having given some thought to the matter,” Max continued pensively, “I need to become a malleable person, the sort of individual who does not inspire trust but still does not give off hostile vibes. So, Fenton, your next assignment will be to make me over into a dandy, perhaps even a fop, Pink of the Ton, if you will.”
A meticulous dresser himself, F
enton was a small man who wore his dark hair combed straight back, just touching his collar. His small hazel eyes, pressed thin lips, and short, straight nose, which always projected upward, gave his round face a pinched expression. “You jest, my lord?” He sounded most offended.
Shaking his head, Max said, “I’m afraid not. My father has told everyone that I’ve been doing the Grand Tour for the past two years, which considering the traveling we did for Wellington, is not a complete lie. So I’ll appear more refined in my attire and add a few affected mannerisms.”
Fenton’s thin dark eyebrows pinched together. “Affected mannerisms, my lord?”
“Yes, perhaps I’ll carry a lace handkerchief. Scented, I think.”
“Scented, my lord?”
Rather enjoying his valet’s discomfort, Max smiled. “I’ll need a cane, maybe several. And dress up my boots with silver tassels, new shoes with silver buckles. In general, spruce up my wardrobe with velvet and satin lapels, gaily colored waistcoats, and . . . whatever.”
Fenton’s expression seemed pained. “Will that be all, my lord?”
“You’re a dapper dresser, what do you think about a pink satin suit?”
Fenton winced. “My lord, you wound me.”
“Au contraire,” Max said with exaggerated exuberance, “my first appearance as an arbiter of fashion will be tonight!”
~~~~~
The Lady Penelope Lenwood sighed quietly as she sat before the dressing table’s mirror. Lucy, her lady’s maid, stood behind her arranging Penelope’s long chestnut curls in an upsweep for tonight’s dinner party. “Is everything all right, my lady?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” Penelope quickly replied. And, of course, everything was all right. After all, she was the only daughter of an earl, privileged, and experiencing her first London Season with her coming-out ball scheduled two days hence. Furthermore, she was engaged to a handsome gentleman who was the son of Viscount Newton. Yet, she felt no excitement, at least, not like her mother hinted at for a young woman entering into the ton.
Oh, the glittering balls, elaborate dinner parties, and different soirees were enjoyable, especially when her friend Lady Anne Stanburke also attended. And Penelope loved visiting the modistes and conferring on her new gowns and their accessories. But where was elation? The fact was she realized she felt more like a person her mother’s age who had spent a lifetime participating in the beau monde’s Seasons.
Tonight’s dinner party her parents were giving to welcome Lord Aldwyn back from an extended Grand Tour was no different. Of course, Victor would be there, and it was nice to have an escort wherever she went. Only, he didn’t act like a fiancé, that is someone who was courting her.
Penelope longed to be wooed. Although she and Victor had been engaged for three years, she’d dreamed about the start of the Season when they had been thrown together and saw each other almost daily.
Not that she wanted someone who’d fawn over her. Heavens no, how tiresome. But it would be lovely if Victor and she shared more than just . . . a casual relationship. After all, they were not brother and sister. They were engaged and would most likely wed at the end of the Season.
Looking at her lips, Penelope made a pout, then frowned at her image in the mirror. It puzzled her why Victor had only bestowed light pecks on her lips as he ran his hands slowly up and down her back. Sometimes, he looked like he might really kiss her. But he never did. Then too, it seemed that they were never alone, for Lucy or her mother was always hovering about nearby.
And Victor was some five years older than her. She understood that he must have had mistresses. Maybe he still did, and that was why he showed so little interest in her. Would he continue to see his mistress after they were married? From gossip, she knew many husbands of the ton did, and she feared Victor might become one of them.
Maybe he didn’t want to marry her. But unlike her, he’d, at least, been old enough to voice his opinion when their betrothal had been arranged three years ago.
“You don’t like your hair, milady?”
Penelope focused on Lucy’s image above hers in the mirror. Seeing her maid’s questioning look, she glanced back at her own image--and quickly erased her scowl with a smile. “Oh yes, Lucy,” she said. “It is not you. I was just thinking.” Praising Lucy on her hair, Penelope added, “I will wear the pale blue silk shawl tonight, please.”
~~~~~
“Fenton, you’re a marvel!”
For his part, Fenton appeared frayed. His dark hair hung about the sides of his flushed face, his own jacket was unbuttoned, his waistcoat askew, his cravat limply tied.
But Max was truly awed by the valet’s sartorial flair as he surveyed the image in his cheval mirror. The black tailcoat hugged his shoulders with wide satin lapels under which he wore a blood red silk shirt with the ruffled cuffs and a red and black striped, silk ascot. The black satin, silver embroidered waistcoat enhanced the jacket’s many pewter buttons. Matching black trousers hugged his thighs, and his black leather pumps were adorned with large pewter buckles studded with diamonds. Running a be-ringed hand through his black curls, airily arranged with a few falling upon his brow, Max was actually looking forward to his debut as a dandy extraordinaire. And now that he had Fenton’s help, it was a role he felt he could sink his teeth into.
A short while later, tapping his black silk tophat with the pewter handle of his ebony cane, Max alighted the carriage before twenty-three Grosvenor Square and looked up. The Earl of Lenwood’s townhouse was a beacon with the first two floors of the four story townhouse blazing with lights. Ascending the flagstone steps, Max slowed his pace, remembering Fenton’s admonition to amble rather than advance with a purpose. “All the better for the populace to take in the splendor of your attire, milord,” Fenton explained.
Tonight’s dinner was a small affair, hastily put together to introduce Max to Pierre Arnaud in his new role. Thinking about his father’s reaction to his strategy, Max chuckled to himself. He was an actor playing a part and intended to have fun with it. So when the Earl’s butler flung open the drawing room door and announced his arrival, fashionably late, of course, Max stepped inside and struck a pose with one hand on a hip.
Lenwood and Blackmoor immediately made their way over to him. Maxwell noted with satisfaction his father’s eyes examining his new togs. As a consummate diplomat, Blackmoor’s face revealed nothing, but Maxwell observed the small intake of breath, the subtle flare of his nostrils.
Lenwood was easier to read with his outstretched hand and laughing eyes. “Welcome, Maxwell. We’d almost despaired your showing and are about to go in for dinner.”
“Sorry to be late, but my ascot gave me prodigious trouble,” Max drawled while watching his father’s mouth tighten along with a slight lift of one graying eyebrow.
“Your behavior borders on being rude,” Blackmoor growled under his breath.
Max chuckled. “Surely not, mon père, as an arbiter of fashion can never be considered such.”
Making quick introductions, Lenwood led Maxwell around the room, pausing when they came to a middle-aged couple, whom he introduced as Monsieur Pierre Arnaud and his wife Claudine.
Of medium height and slender, Arnaud’s dark brown eyes seemed to take in Max’s measure. From the harsh line of his long face and thin lips, Max concluded that the Frenchman found him wanting. Not so his wife, however, for though Claudine possessed sharp features, a narrow nose and pointed chin, her hazel eyes watched him speculatively as she extended her hand for him to kiss. “The Duke has told us of your accomplishments, my lord, but he failed in his description. You are as handsome as your father,” she said, giving the Duke a quick glance.
Giving Claudine Arnaud a broad smile, Max said, “Ah, you flatter my father.”
Stifling a chuckle into a cough, Lenwood quickly moved Max along and introduced his daughter. Lady Penelope possessed a small straight nose and heart-shaped face similar to Lady Lenwood. A glorious mass of chestnut curls framed her face and large,
clear blue eyes smiled at him through thick black lashes. While not an incomparable, Lady Penelope still was a most attractive young lady, Max decided making an elaborate bow over her dainty hand and kissing the air above it.
Her fiancé, Mr. Victor Bynes, appeared as an affable chap with sandy-colored hair styled a la Brutus, a longish face with a round chin, and brown eyes. A slight paunch explained his fair complexion. Obviously, Bynes was not a sportsman.
With a glint of mischief in his eyes, Lenwood asked Max, “As our honored guest having at last returned from an extended Grand Tour, would you lead my lovely daughter in to dinner?”
The none-too-subtle reminder of the secondary role as interested beau the Duke and the Earl had planned for him had Max slipping a finger between his neck and ascot. But though a symbolic marital noose suddenly felt excessively tight, it was not a fait accompli. Lady Penelope might well develop a repugnance to his role as a dandy. In fact, that idea so appealed to Max, he decided to help it along as he guided the young lady to her place at the table next to his.
His other dinner partner was Miss Lydia Heaton, the daughter of the Baron Heaton. Miss Heaton was on the tallish side and slender with a long face, dark brown hair, and lovely hazel eyes. Unfortunately, throughout the multi-course dinner, she peppered Max with questions about his Grand Tour. Since he’d made copious diplomatic trips for Wellington, he managed to maintain his cover. Still, he felt like he’d been quizzed by his history professor at Oxford. She did help him in one respect, though, and that was to perfect his lie.
“What interesting colors for a shirt and cravat for a formal dinner party,” Miss Heaton said.
“Ascot,” Max kindly corrected her.
“How did you come by them?” she asked. “Was it Paris?”
Max raised one eyebrow imperially. “So one would be inclined to believe, as Paris is the center of fashion. However, it was in Rome where I had the pleasure of staying with Comte Jean Beauvais, who possessed exquisite taste along with his lovely Comtessa. They, of course, fled France at the start of the Reign of Terror. Comte Beauvais taught me to be bold with the color palette yet always maintain a patina of elegance and sophistication.”
A Lady's Dilemma Or The Dandy and Lady Penelope Page 1