Her Ladyship’s
Man
Joan Overfield
In memory of my father, Rexal Overfield
"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
—Dylan Thomas
"Are you all right, Melanie, I mean really all right?"
He asked in a husky voice, his fingertips gently caressing the curve of her cheek. "You've been through a horrifying experience tonight."
A tremor shook Melanie, but she wasn't certain if the trembling was caused by the memory of the brutal attack, or the gentleness of his touch. His eyes gleamed down into hers, the topaz highlights catching and reflecting the golden glow of the fire. For a moment she forgot everything—the threat to her father, the terror she had just passed through, even her promise to help trap Barrymore; nothing mattered.
Nothing save the wild emotion that slowly flooded her body . . .
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Prologue
London, 1812
"The Earl of Terrington?" Captain Andrew Davies Merrick raised a light brown eyebrow in amazement as he considered what he had just been told. "Surely there must be some mistake, Sir. You cannot possibly suspect his lordship of treason!"
Sir leaned back in his battered chair, his hard blue eyes never leaving Drew's face. "Do you question my evidence, Merrick?" he drawled, his voice deceptively mild.
"Of course not, Sir," Drew answered quickly, his cheeks flushing at the cool censure in the blond man's deep voice. He had been in the spy master's employ for a little over ten months since resigning his commission, and he knew well his superior's mania for accuracy. If he suspected the earl of any wrongdoing, then the case against him had to be very strong. Very strong indeed.
"It is just that I am somewhat taken aback," Drew expanded cautiously. "His lordship has been with the Foreign Service for over twenty years, and there has never been the slightest hint of any impropriety attached to his name."
Sir nodded silently, then cast a wary glance about the smoky taproom where he had arranged to meet Drew. "You were assigned to our diplomatic mission in Alexandria, were you not?" he asked, raising a mug of ale to his lips.
"Yes, Sir. I was quartered there in 1807 prior to joining the general's staff on the peninsula," Drew replied, stretching out his booted feet toward the indifferent fire flickering in the sooty grate. It was late in March, but despite the sharp bite in the wind the innkeeper hadn't seen fit to build other than the most meager of fires. Doubtlessly he was hoping his patrons would seek to warm themselves with strong drink instead, Drew thought, crossing his arms beneath his green redingote.
Sir, as usual, seemed impervious to the cold, looking as warm in his claret velvet jacket and nankins as if he were still in the overheated rooms at Carlton House. "Terrington was also in Alexandria," Sir said, his dark blue eyes resting on Drew's face. "Did the two of you ever meet?"
"No, Sir." A slight smile tilted the edges of Drew's mouth. "I was but a junior lieutenant attached to the mission, and I was seldom invited to join in the festivities at the Embassy. I saw his lordship at a distance a few times, but I am certain he would never recognize me."
Sir reached into his jacket, extracting a folded piece of paper. "I trust you know what this is," he said, handing the paper to Drew.
Drew's hazel eyes widened as he recognized the personal seal of the Foreign Secretary. He unfolded the paper, his face remaining expressionless as he read the missive. "A diplomat ought to have better care of his papers," he commented, handing the set of orders back to Sir. "If this is your proof, I can well understand why you should question his loyalty. May I ask how this came to be in your possession?"
"It was recovered from a French spy we intercepted attempting to slip into Montreal," Sir replied quietly. "Unfortunately he was only a courier, so he could tell us little of the man who gave him the letters. The only thing he would say is that the man was English and that he was attached to the delegation in Washington. I don't think I need tell you of the importance of that mission," he added, a grim expression settling on his aristocratic features.
"Indeed not, Sir," Drew answered, frowning at the thought of what another war with America might mean to the already beleaguered British Army. "And given the contents of that letter, I can well imagine the impact it would have should the information fall into the wrong hands."
"It would be a disaster," Sir agreed with his customary bluntness. "Both for us, and for the men in America hoping to smooth the feathers of the War Hawks. The suggestion of claiming the western portion of the land purchased from France by invading the territory through Mexico was never seriously considered, but there is no way we could convince the Americans of that. War would be inevitable, and the last thing England needs right now is another enemy.
"If Terrington has turned traitor, then it is imperative that we learn how badly the Foreign Service's security has been breached. As you are most familiar with diplomatic protocol, Merrick, I am assigning you the task of ferreting out the truth."
"Very good, Sir," Drew responded, his mind already forming strategies. "When am I to leave for Washington?"
"Actually, you won't have to travel quite that far," Sir told him with a slight smile. "In anticipation of open hostilities, Castlereagh gave orders that all diplomatic personnel traveling with family return to St. James's. The earl and his daughter, Lady Melanie, arrived in England less than a month ago, and they will be coming to London to participate in the season. In fact, 'tis said that the earl means to formally introduce her ladyship to society, as she has never had a season. That is where you will come in."
"Ah, then I take it I am to be the lady's most ardent suitor," Drew drawled, shooting Sir a lazy smile. "If so, then 'tis a mission I undertake most willingly. As I recall, the chit was most comely."
"Do you know her?" Sir asked sharply, his dark blond eyebrows meeting in a worried scowl.
"Not really," Drew admitted, his smile widening as he remembered a diminutive beauty with jet-black hair and eyes the color of amethyst. "As I said, I was a mere junior lieutenant, and as such far beneath her notice. But as I recall, she was a pocket Venus with a sharp mind and an equally sharp tongue, or so rumor would have it. Good Lord," he frowned suddenly, "she must be all of three and twenty now! Rather old to be making her first bows, don't you think?"
"Our information is that she went directly from the schoolroom to being her father's hostess," Sir replied, regarding Drew with interest. "As they have been out of the country for the past five years, there was never time for such nonsense. Not that it matters, of course. What does matter is whether or not the lady may recognize you. Do you think there is any chance, however small, that she would remember you?"
Drew was silent a moment before answering. "I should think it highly unlikely," he said firmly. "Her ladyship had little contact with the regiment, and I am certain we weren't introduced. But even if she did, would it be such a problem? Most men of my age have been in uniform at one time or another, and I think it would make my task of courting her a great deal easier if I could claim a prior acquaintance."
"Yes, but unfortunately the role I have in mind for you is not that of a lover," Sir said, his eyes taking on a teasing glow. "Rather, I want to place you in the earl's household as a servant of sorts. That way you can keep a s
harp eye on the comings and goings in the household and even search the house should that become necessary."
"I see," Drew said slowly, digesting what Sir had just told him. "May I ask in what capacity? His secretary?"
Sir shook his head. "Terrington already has a secretary; an assistant, actually. A Mr. Cecil Barrymore, who resides with the earl. No, the position I had in mind for you is that of a butler."
"A butler!" Drew exclaimed, automatically lowering his voice when he sensed the other patrons were glancing in his direction. "Do you mean you wish me to pose as a major domo?"
"Look upon it as a promotion . . . Captain," Sir replied, unable to resist teasing the rather earnest young officer sitting opposite him. "I have thought it all out, and it is the only answer that will serve. Since Terrington rented out his London home before leaving the country, he will be seeking lodgings for himself and his daughter. With Marchfield's help, the Foreign Secretary will very obligingly offer the earl a lovely home in Mayfair, a home that comes complete with a well-trained staff already in residence."
Drew shifted restlessly in his chair. The plan had its merits, he admitted reluctantly, and it wouldn't be the first time he had acted a part in service of his country.
"Is there some impediment?" Sir asked, noting Drew's troubled expression. "Are you worried someone else, a visitor to the house, might recognize you?"
"No, Sir," Drew assured his superior. "Like Terrington, I have been out of the country for several years, and I was never one for the social whirl. A younger son of a country squire with no income save his commission isn't exactly considered a welcome addition to the ton, you know."
"Then what is it?"
"Sir, you must know I am only too happy to do whatever my country requires of me," Drew blurted out, his cheeks stained with embarrassed color. "But the truth of the matter is that I fear I am so unacquainted with the duties of a butler, I shall never convince the earl or anyone else that I am a real major domo!"
"Is that all?" Sir asked with a wide smile. "You may relax, Merrick. I never send a man into action until he has been most thoroughly trained, I assure you."
"Considering how woefully ignorant I am of such things, I only hope there is enough time to instruct me," Drew grumbled, slumping against his chair. "I don't know the first thing of what would be expected of me."
"Don't worry," Sir promised softly. "You will."
Chapter One
"I mean it, Papa, I will not do it." Lady Melanie Crawford's dark violet eyes sparked with defiance as she faced her father across the cluttered surface of his desk. "I refuse to be put through my paces as if I were some green schoolgirl fresh from the country!"
"But, my dear, you must remember that in the eyes of society that is precisely what you are," Lord Percy Crawford, the Earl of Terrington, protested gently, regarding Melanie with paternal exasperation. As a seasoned diplomat, he could handle even the most hostile of negotiations with cool aplomb, but attempting to reason with his recalcitrant daughter in one of her tempers was enough to set him quaking in his boots. "You have never been formally presented, after all, and—"
"Stuff!" Melanie interrupted with an inelegant snort, shaking out the skirts of her burgundy cambric gown as she rose to her feet. "I have never heard such fustain in all my life! I've been your hostess for almost five years, Papa; why should I make my bows now? It makes no sense."
"This is society, Melanie, it would go against all laws of nature were it to make sense," the earl replied with a touch of asperity. If only Melanie's disposition were half so pleasing as her appearance, he thought, eyeing his daughter's glossy black curls and creamy rose complexion with resignation. It would have made his life a great deal easier.
He often considered it one of God's more interesting jokes that He should have given Melanie the looks of a pocket Venus and the temperament of a fishwife. Men were drawn to her fragile beauty, only to be sent into full retreat by her waspish tongue and willful ways, and it was little wonder that at three and twenty his beautiful daughter was still unwed, a condition he was determined to change, regardless of the consequences. The way things were going, he wanted the security of knowing Melanie was protected by marriage.
Marshalling his considerable skills as a negotiator, the earl decided to try a new avenue of attack. "I really do not see why you are kicking up such a dust, my child," he said, folding his hands across his ample stomach as he leaned back in his red leather chair. "On the voyage home you seemed quite delighted at the prospect of a London season. Indeed, you talked of little else."
"Yes, but that was when I thought I would be serving as your hostess, and not relegated to some corner with a gaggle of giggling debs," Melanie shot back, refusing to be drawn away from the crux of the discussion by her wily papa's machinations. "As you have often reminded me, Papa, I am no longer in the first blush of youth, and I refuse to make a cake out of myself by pretending otherwise. The very notion of being presented at my advanced age is ludicrous; surely you can see that!"
"I am sure the fact you have been out of the country for most of those years will explain the discrepancy, should anyone be so ill-bred as to make comment," Lord Terrington said in his loftiest voice.
Melanie uttered a heartfelt oath beneath her breath. Papa was right, she brooded. With such an excuse not even Prinny himself would dare to laugh at her. Still, there had to be something she could do to avoid the embarrassment of a presentation at her age. Her well-shaped ebony brows met over her nose as she considered the matter.
"But what will you do for a hostess?" she demanded as inspiration dawned. "It certainly would not do for a diplomat to set up a house without a hostess, and of course I could not possibly be presented without some sort of respectable lady to lend me her protection."
"That is so," the earl agreed, delighted that he had already foreseen such a difficulty. "Fortunately your grandmother has kindly consented to join us in London and see that you are properly presented." His light gray eyes took on an amused smile at the chagrin on his daughter's face. "I can see that you are delighted," he added sardonically.
"But Grandmother never leaves her home in the country," Melanie protested, shuddering at the prospect of her coming-out being managed by the dowager Marchioness of Abbington. She dearly loved the elderly lady, but there was no denying Lady Charlotte was anything other than a scheming virago.
"That is so, but then, it's not every day that her only granddaughter is presented at Court," the earl replied with obvious satisfaction, pleased at the easy way he had bested his headstrong daughter. "She is quite delighted, I assure you."
Melanie did not doubt that for a moment. The marchioness had shrieked like a scalded cat when she announced her decision to join her father in Egypt rather than submitting to the rigors of a first season. She had set sail from Plymouth with Lady Charlotte's dire predictions ringing in her ears. Oh, yes, she thought, her lips twisting in a grim smile; she could well imagine her grandmother's delight at finally having her under her thumb.
"I thought we might leave next week." Lord Terrington knew by his daughter's silence that she had abandoned the battle, if only temporarily. "We will need time to settle into the house, and, of course, you and your grandmother will want to visit the dressmaker and arrange your—"
"The house!" Melanie interrupted, turning a victorious smile on her father. "You forget, Papa, you hired out our town house when we left England. Naturally we cannot expect the tenants to vacate merely because we have returned unexpectedly."
"Yes, that would be rather unreasonable of me, would it not?" he agreed, inclining his graying head solemnly. "How fortunate that the Foreign Secretary has been kind enough to offer us an alternative."
"An alternative?" Melanie asked warily, her heart dropping to the toes of her satin slippers as she saw the last avenue of escape closing before her.
"Mmm. It seems the viscount is a friend of the Duke of Marchfield, and when His Grace learned of my difficulty, he very generously offere
d me the use of his town house for the season."
"How very accommodating of his lordship," Melanie grumbled, reluctantly accepting defeat.
"Yes, it is, is it not?" Lord Terrington asked, a thoughtful note entering his voice. "I'll own I thought it rather odd at the time, considering we have never met. But I gather he did so only to please the Foreign Secretary. For all his racketing ways, His Grace is still a Tory."
Before Melanie could comment, there was a knock at the door, and a well-dressed young man with blond hair cropped à la Brutus entered the room.
"Your lordship, my lady, I trust I am not interfering?" he asked in a deferential tone, his blue eyes moving from the earl to Melanie. "I can come back later if you'd like."
"Not at all, Barrymore, not at all," the earl said heartily, motioning his young assistant forward. "We are almost finished, are we not, my dear?"
"Yes, Papa." Recognizing an evasive tactic when she saw one, Melanie acquiesced nonetheless. Even though her father was nominally on holiday while awaiting a new assignment, a diplomat's work was never done. Each post brought new dispatches from Whitehall, and she knew her father was eager to begin his work. Besides, she admitted ruefully, this would give her the opportunity to retreat in good order rather than to risk complete defeat at her father's hand. Turning to her father's assistant, she gave him a warm smile.
"I trust you won't overtire him, Mr. Barrymore," she said in her soft, musical voice. "He will need to preserve his strength for the delights of London."
"I shall do my best, my lady," Mr. Cecil Barrymore replied, dropping a graceful bow, his eyes never leaving Melanie's face. "And may I say how much I am looking forward to seeing you presented at Court? You will make a beautiful debutante, I am sure."
"Thank you, Mr. Barrymore, that is most kind of you." Melanie managed another smile. She did not know why, but there was something about the handsome man's effusive praise that made her slightly uneasy. He had been in her father's employ since Washington, and although she could not fault his performance, neither could she bring herself to trust him. Shaking off the troubling sensation, she paused long enough to press a kiss on her father's cheek before taking her leave. Her father mentioned leaving at the end of the week, which meant she had fewer than five days to make the necessary arrangements for their move.
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