She wanted to curse at him, to curse at him roundly, as His Grace could do when the idiots in the Lords fiddled while Rome burned. She wanted to rant and bellow and carry on—to sound out her misery for all to hear—but instead, she pitched hard into her friend’s chest and silently cried into his handkerchief.
***
“Miss James, a pleasure.” Archer bowed over Morgan’s hand and held it in his when she tried to snatch it away. Under the guise of imparting some tidbit of gossip, he leaned closer. “Unless you want to spend the rest of the evening without one of your gloves, you will dance with me.”
She nodded, which was fortunate. Even holding her gloved hand had Archer’s vitals in an uproar. He winged his arm at her and led her to the middle of the dance floor.
He bowed. “You do not look rested, Miss James.”
She sank into a perfect curtsy and came up with a glorious smile. “You look exhausted, Mr. Portmaine, and as if you’re off your feed. Perhaps this is why you’re ignoring my request that you not approach me under any circumstance.”
They swayed into the rhythms of the waltz. “I’ve missed you, Morgan.” He made sure to look directly at her as he spoke, because the ballroom was noisy and they were turning down the side nearest the minstrel’s gallery.
She tramped on his foot, which didn’t hurt so much as it disturbed his rhythm.
“I cannot say the same, Mr. Portmaine. I am perfectly content without you bothering me at all hours.” Her usually steady alto bore a hint of tension and was pitched higher than normal.
Archer turned her through the first corner, and it seemed to him she might have clung to him a bit for balance.
Or something.
“You are going to marry me,” he said quietly, clearly, and very near her ear. “Though first, I have to get other matters tidied up.”
“I cannot marry you, no matter how many other matters you tidy up. Stop being absurd, or I’ll leave you here in the middle of the dance floor.”
“That would actually help matters, but before you stomp off in a rush, please be aware that things might get sticky before this night is through, and I want you well away from here.”
“You’re sending me home?”
She might have tried for indignation, but Archer heard worry in her voice. He leaned a bit closer, gathering the scent of roses and spices. “I am asking you to leave early, or if you must be stubborn, then at least do not believe what you see, Morgan. We’ll have His Grace home by dawn, even if the Home Office indulges in unnecessary dramatics.”
“But what—?”
He gave her the same slow wink he’d offered the first time she’d laid eyes on him, and then fell silent. As the music moved them along, he could see her mental mill wheel turning.
“Archer, are you in danger?”
Ah, to see the concern in her eyes and hear his name on her lips. “You would care if I were?”
Her eyes narrowed, and the worry vanished. “Of course, I would care.”
“One wondered. Not for very long, but one did wonder.”
“Whatever that means.”
If he said one more word, he’d be down on his knees before her, proposing publicly, and tonight of all nights he needed to focus on the task at hand rather than the woman in his arms. All too soon, the music drew to a close, and Morgan asked him to return her to Ellen’s side.
Except Lady Ellen was nowhere to be seen, which meant Archer would part with the woman he loved most in the whole world under the sternly watchful eye of Valentine Windham.
Archer hung about and chatted inanely until Ellen came swanning along from the card room and collected Morgan to make a fourth at whist.
“I need to talk to you.” Lord Valentine fairly spat the words.
“I most assuredly do not need to talk to you, my lord.” Not tonight, most especially not now, possibly not ever.
“Yes, you do.” Windham aimed a glower at the ladies’ retreating backs. “You’re going to marry Morgan James if I have to kick your sorry arse up the aisle at St. George’s.”
“That might suffice to motivate me and bruise your toes to a significant degree, but how do you propose to gain the young lady’s cooperation?”
Windham’s brows drew down, but before he said a word, the Duke of Moreland’s voice rang out over the din of dozens of conversations.
“You want to question me? You want His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, to voluntarily present himself at the Home Office? You, sir, are impertinent and a damned fool if you think a peer of the realm is going to submit to the tomfoolery that passes for state business at the Home Office. The secretary himself shall hear about this.”
“What in God’s name?” Windham started off in the direction of His Grace so quickly Archer barely managed to lay a hand on the taller man’s arm.
“Let it play out. His Grace’s liberty is not at risk.”
“Not at risk? You heard that imbecile,” Windham whispered furiously.
“You interfere now, and His Grace will not thank you.” Something of the truth of that sentiment must have penetrated Windham’s thick skull, because he turned an emerald glare on Archer.
“Mind you be right, Portmaine, or there won’t be enough of you left for Miss James to marry.”
Musicians were reported to be a flighty lot.
Windham fell silent as His Grace proceeded to dress down the Home Office functionary who’d been so foolish as to confront the Duke of Moreland in a public setting. Before His Grace concluded, the entire ballroom was listening to the exchange.
“…mine hostess will surely forgive me if I take premature leave of a gathering where such as yourself are permitted access to their betters.” His Grace turned to survey the ballroom with a gimlet gaze. “My lords, my ladies, I bid you good night.” He swept away from the dance floor, pausing only long enough to deliver a magnificent scowl and an audible sniff in Archer’s direction.
“Threat to the realm, indeed.”
Moreland brushed past both Archer and Lord Valentine, collected the duchess, and bellowed for his coach, while the ballroom erupted into a roar of conversations.
Windham shot Archer a look worthy of the duke himself, then stalked off in the direction of the card room. Pausing only long enough to be sure Lady Braithwaite was being watched by other eyes, Archer followed after Windham, not caring who saw or what they thought of his unseemly haste.
***
“Some commotion has interrupted the dancing.” Ellen craned her neck to look, but didn’t put down her cards. “The orchestra has fallen silent.”
Morgan couldn’t have heard much of the music at this distance, but she could see people crowding into the doorway to gawk in the direction of the dance floor.
“My dears, you’ll excuse us.” The two dowagers who had no doubt been cheating their way to a victory at whist hustled away, turbans huddled together in anticipation of some wonderful gossip.
“That’s His Grace,” Ellen said, putting her cards down. “He’s in a taking about something. Oh, I must find Valentine this instant. Will you be all right?”
Morgan waved her away with one hand and started collecting the abandoned cards. “I’ll find you.”
If being deaf spared one ballroom dramas, maybe losing her hearing again would not be such a terrible thing. What did gossip ever contribute to one’s life after all? Morgan stacked the deck tidily and caught sight of the only other people in the room who were not pressed in the doorway or trying to push through the crowd into the ballroom.
One was Lord Braithwaite, whose demeanor Morgan would have characterized as benign and avuncular. The other fellow would have been altogether nondescript—sandy hair, medium height, unremarkable evening attire—but for the grip he had on Lord Braithwaite’s arm and the fire in his eyes.
“It must be tonight!” Morgan did not hear the words, so much as she saw them forming on the man’s lips. “Now is the perfect opportunity, when suspicion has fallen on no less than the Duke of Moreland h
imself.”
Lord Braithwaite’s words were harder to discern, because he was in profile to Morgan, but his posture and the shake of his head suggested he was not agreeing with the other man’s importuning.
“My lord, we must act tonight. We could wait months for another chance like this. Suspicion will follow Moreland and his family, and the thing will be done. His Royal Highness will reward our quick thinking, mark me.”
Braithwaite’s indecision crumbled, as evidenced by the nod of his head and what might have been an admission that, “Now is the time.”
His Royal Highness would reward them? The Regent was styled His Royal Highness, but what could George have to do with any underhanded business? While Morgan mentally sorted through the various monarchs and dignitaries who might be suborning treachery on English soil, the nondescript man spoke again, but try as she might, Morgan could not discern every word.
“…small… Vichy… wet… coast.”
Lord Braithwaite nodded again while Morgan tried to divide her attention between shuffling the deck of cards and watching what was said in the dimly lit corner.
Her mistake was the result of nerves. She’d learned to play cards only after she’d lost her hearing. Until her hearing had been restored, she hadn’t known that cards shuffled between two hands made a loud, slapping sound, then a softer riffling noise as they were manipulated back into a single stack.
At the louder sound, the shorter man glanced up sharply. “Who the devil is that, and why isn’t she out gawking at the debacle in the ballroom?”
***
Archer found Morgan in the card room several minutes after His Grace had made such a stirring exit. She sat off in a corner at a little lacquered escritoire, scribbling furiously with a pencil on some foolscap.
“Miss James? Have you taken a sudden notion to catch up on your correspondence?”
She apparently hadn’t heard him, because she kept writing. Archer went down on his haunches, determined not to let her ignore him. “Miss James, is aught amiss?”
Her expression was not the vaguely irritated mask Archer had expected. Her eyes held panic, for all her features were calm and intensely focused on the paper.
“I’m almost done. Give me a moment.” She wrote a few more words then sat back. “I must speak with you privately, Mr. Portmaine. Now, if you please.”
“I thought you never wanted to see me again?”
“Archer, please. This is urgent.”
So was finding Lord Braithwaite, who had last been seen in the card room. Archer studied Morgan’s features. So pretty, and so worried.
“Come.” He rose, held out a hand, and assisted her to her feet. The only hope of quiet was out-of-doors, so he led her through French doors to a side terrace. “Now what is this urgent matter?”
“I heard Lord Braithwaite and another man speaking a few moments ago.”
“What did they say?” And where the hell had Braithwaite gotten off to?
“I’m not sure. I was watching them speak, you understand. I could not hear much, I could only see, and I can’t be sure what they said, but I’m sure that I must tell you.”
While Morgan recited what she’d caught of the conversation, Archer paced before her, four strides this way, turn, four strides that way. “And they said tonight? You’re sure they said tonight?”
“Several times. I could hear somewhat, but mostly I saw.”
“And Vichy?” What had a spa town in central France to do with anything?
“I’m almost certain that’s what he said, but again, watching people speak is not an exact business. Is this important?”
“None of the royal dukes are planning a progress through Auvergne, are they?”
Morgan nibbled a thumbnail. “I don’t know. They’re of an age to do that, but I doubt the Duke of Kent would leave his duchess so soon after her confinement.”
“Vichy…”
Something was struggling to emerge from the back of Archer’s tired brain. Something important, something that would get this infernal business taken care of.
“Not necessarily Vichy,” Morgan said, her gaze following him as he paced. “It might have been victory without much emphasis on the o, or Vickery, or Vicky, or—”
“Vickery? I doubt Lord Vickery is plotting against the Crown.”
“Archer…” Morgan brought him to a halt by virtue of grabbing both of his hands. “I don’t know if this means anything, but Kent’s new daughter, Alexandrina Victoire, is called Vicky by her doting family. Her Grace went to see the baby not two weeks ago and said Princess Vicky was such a dear, darling little thing one could hardly see her as an addition to the royal succession.”
God in heaven. “She might never rule. There could be other possibilities.” Please, God, let there be some other possibilities.
Except this had the feel of a brilliant insight, the feel of something that put all the puzzle pieces into a single, coherent picture of mischief and mayhem in high places. “His Royal Highness might refer to Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. If he’s grieving the loss of Princess Charlotte and their son badly enough, such a scheme might appeal to him.”
“Archer, Princess Vicky is a tiny baby. A tiny, helpless baby. You must stop this.”
“I shall.” But he had to do something else first.
He gathered Morgan into his arms and brought her close, then slanted his mouth over hers. For an instant, for a blessed, intoxicating instant, she yielded and kissed him back. Then a large hand clamped onto Archer’s shoulder and spun him away from Morgan.
“By God, I ought to meet you.” Valentine Windham’s palm walloped across Archer’s cheek, leaving a stinging welt in its wake. “You don’t take such liberties with a decent young woman where any telltale or gossip might see you.”
“Valentine, damn you,” Morgan bit out. “It isn’t like that. Why for once couldn’t you go play your infernal piano?”
Windham’s face showed consternation. “Because this idiot needs to be taught some manners if he’s to join the family.”
Morgan cradled Archer’s cheek against her palm. “He is not joining the family.”
“I am too.”
“He is too.”
Both men spoke at the same time. Morgan dropped her hand and looked like she was about to fly into a scold. Archer could only hope Windham would get the brunt of it.
“Morgan, where did Braithwaite go?”
“He and the other man left through the door we just used, possibly headed for the mews.”
“Tell His Grace what’s afoot, and have Windham take you home. I love you.” He planted a smacking kiss on her mouth, offered Windham a slight, ironic bow, and left his musical lordship warily regarding Morgan’s mulish expression.
Six
“A plot to kidnap such a young child had to have been undertaken with much forethought,” Her Grace observed. “What could Leopold have been thinking?”
His Grace accepted a tumbler of whiskey from the duchess, though the hour was indecently early—or indecently late if such a thing could be said of a summer dawn. “Leopold’s hands are spotless, of course. That poor young fellow from the Home Office never knew who exactly was behind the scheme, and his contact probably disappeared back across the Channel before cockcrow. His wife, however, had an infant at the breast.”
“I still don’t understand.” Morgan was perched on the sofa beside Her Grace. The girl looked tired and wore a distracted air, though the all’s well had been received from Portmaine’s superiors fifteen minutes ago. “Why kidnap a child who might not even inherit the throne? What would Leopold have to gain?”
“I can hazard a guess,” said Her Grace. “If Leopold is behind this, and if his intention was kidnapping his niece rather than something worse, then in a few weeks’ time, when the entire nation and half the Continent were in an uproar, he would be the one who ‘found’ the child. His poor sister, mad with worry, might beg her husband to keep the girl with Uncle Leo, where she’d be ‘safer’ than on E
nglish soil, and Kent, for reasons of his own, might allow it.”
“Either that,” said His Grace, passing the whiskey back to his duchess, “or at some point later in her life, dear Uncle Leopold might use the leverage of having saved the princess’s life for his own ends. The man is brilliant, in his own way, and patient for a young fellow. It’s an interesting combination.”
Her Grace’s smile was impish. “Puts me in mind of another man in his younger years.”
Morgan took to fiddling with the cuff of her night robe.
“I’m not young any longer, and staying up the entire night waiting on word of some distant drama is a taxing business.” He rose and extended a hand to his duchess. “Morgan, I advise you to take a tray in your room rather than come down for breakfast. I’ve no doubt before this day is through, you’ll receive some correspondence from Carlton House, and you’ll want to be well rested when it arrives. Your Grace.” He patted his wife’s arm. “My thanks for standing vigil with us, but you will accompany me above stairs now and cancel your appointments for the day.”
He did not like to leave Morgan alone, looking about eight years old in her night robe and slippers, but there was nothing more to be done.
Or was there? His Grace entwined his fingers through his wife’s and paused at the door to the sitting room. “Morgan, do you know what the hardest thing was about recovering from my heart seizure several years ago?”
The duchess cast a curious glance his way and held her peace.
“The fear of another, Your Grace?”
“That would be a nuisance, of course, and an inconvenience to Her Grace, but no. The hardest thing was realizing that I’d gone my entire lifetime believing that if I cared for someone, I need not suffer them to care for me in return. I alone could feel responsibility, loyalty, patience, affection, and so forth as the simple expedients of warm sentiment. It doesn’t work like that. The greatest challenge is not loving faithfully, but accepting a reciprocity of such sentiments.”
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