"But you say Barrymore actually admitted Marlehope was his father?" Drew pressed, his sharp mind seizing on the most pertinent bit of information. He hadn't expected Melanie to learn anything at all, and was amazed that she had uncovered something so vital. This could change everything.
"Well, not exactly," she corrected him, some of her initial excitement fading. She had rushed into the kitchens the moment she had changed out of her muddied habit, eager to share her news with Davies. She found him in the butler's pantry industriously polishing silver, and when she told him she had something important to tell him, he had closed the door behind her.
"Well, what exactly did he say?" Drew asked, frowning at her sudden reservations.
"Well, in one breath he was hinting that Lord Marlehope had an illegitimate son, and in the next he was denying everything. But, Davies, you should see them, they might be twins! They cannot be more than a few years apart in age, and Parkinson was—"
"Then he admits nothing?" Drew interrupted, his hands dropping from her shoulders as he stepped back from her. "Blast it, Melanie, I thought you said that he was Marlehope's by-blow!"
"I said I thought he was," she said, trying not to flinch at the crude description. "And I still think so. He looked as if he could have bitten off his tongue when he made that remark, and then he begged me not to mention it to another soul. Besides, something has to account for Lord Parkinson's hatred of him, and he does hate him, Davies; I could sense it."
"Mmm," Drew grunted as he considered what she had said. "I suppose it is a possibility," he conceded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "And it would definitely explain why Lord Marlehope was so eager to vouchsafe Barrymore's character. Although I still think it sounds like something out of one of Miss Evingale's Gothics," he added, shooting her an accusing glare.
"I shouldn't be so quick to make sport of her if I were you," Melanie retorted, her chin coming up proudly as she met his hazel gaze. "She has proven to be far more astute than either you or I."
"What do you mean?"
"Merely that she has already reached much the same conclusion," Melanie continued, taking smug pleasure in his obvious surprise. "While we were still in Washington, she developed this fancy that he was really the long-lost son of some nobleman or the other, and you would not believe the mischief she caused with her romantic nonsense. At least, I thought it was nonsense at the time, but now I am not at all certain."
"Did Barrymore know of this?"
"One could not help but know, the way she carried on," Melanie laughed, momentarily lost in memory. "Why, I remember once while we were at some Embassy function in Washington she followed him out onto the balcony, where she said he met a man she was certain was his father."
"Why did she think that?" Drew asked, furious with himself that he had dismissed the hen-witted companion without taking the time to question her. If Sir learned he had been so derelict in his duties, he would hand him his head on a platter.
"Because he was so distinguished-looking, she said," Melanie replied, still chuckling. "And because . . . " Her voice trailed off, a look of horror darkening her eyes to deepest purple.
"Because . . . ?"
"Because," she whispered shakily, "they were speaking French."
"What?" he roared, his hands clenching at his side. "My God, Melanie, why the devil didn't you tell me this before?"
"I'd forgotten all about it," she said, shaken at the revelation. "It seemed so silly at the time, just another of her notions. You must know she is addicted to those wretched novels, and she is always mistaking real people for characters in her books. Although I do not know why I should be so surprised, she certainly had you pegged from the start."
"Me?" He looked faintly horrified at the prospect.
Melanie nodded. "She took one look at you and announced you were simply too handsome to be a real butler. Good heavens!" She cast him a horrified look. "You don't think she has said anything to Mr. Barrymore, do you?"
"I hope not," Drew said fervently, shuddering at the thought that they might all be undone by a flighty spinster with more imagination than sense. "Although I should think it most improbable, he seems to give her a wide enough berth."
"That is so," Melanie agreed, relaxing visibly. "Ever since Washington he has been careful to keep a distance between them. And no wonder. Davies, what are you going to do?" She gazed up at him with troubled eyes.
"I don't know," he answered slowly, his natural caution making him reticent. "Sir will have to be informed, plans made, but I think our first step should be to notify Lord Castlereagh that your father is no longer a suspect in all this. Barrymore is our man; I would stake my life on it."
A wave of relief washed over Melanie. Until now she had never dared believe this nightmare would finally end. The knowledge that her papa faced disgrace and even worse had tormented her for so long, she found herself fighting back tears as a great burden fell away. "Thank you, Drew," she whispered, speaking his Christian name for the first time. "Thank you so very much."
"You are most welcome," he said, fighting the urge to press a kiss to the soft lips that were so temptingly close. She was so very beautiful, he thought, his eyes darkening with desire, and the greatest part of that beauty was the loving spirit that blazed so brightly in her jewel-colored eyes. Realizing he had moved closer to her, Drew took a firm rein on his errant emotions and turned away.
"Tell me what else you have learned," he said, picking up a fork and rubbing it carefully with the polishing cloth. "Did he have anything to say about Parkinson?"
Melanie blinked at the abrupt question. Only seconds earlier Davies had been gazing down at her as ardently as any lover; now he was as distant and as cool as a stranger. Hiding her confusion, she quietly repeated everything Mr. Barrymore had told her of the other man.
"I hadn't heard that Parkinson was involved in anything untoward," Drew said when she had finished. "But I suppose I might have missed something." He wisely refrained from mentioning the markers he had found among Barrymore's things.
"Do you think he is blackmailing Lord Parkinson?" She decided that if he could be so businesslike, then so could she. "That would certainly explain his animosity."
"That it would," Drew agreed absently, a faint memory stirring. Hadn't Parkinson accompanied his father to Spain, he mused. If so, then it was more than conceivable that he would have had access to the missing document.
Melanie watched the emotions chasing across Davies's set features and wondered what he was plotting. It was a certainty he would never tell her, she thought, wishing she could insist he confide in her. But she was too aware of the need for secrecy in such matters to make the demand.
"Is Barrymore accompanying you and your father to Court?" Drew asked, deciding the time had come to consult Sir. It would be better for him if the house was deserted when he left, but if not, he supposed he could sneak away. Heaven knew it would not be the first time.
"No," Melanie shook her head. "It will be only Papa, Grandmother, and myself. You must know what Court is like. Are you going to see Sir?" she asked, breaking into an eager smile as realization dawned. "May I come with you?"
"Considering that you will be busy making your bows to the queen and the prince, I should think it most unlikely," Drew said, giving her a slight frown. "Besides, I thought I had made it clear that you were to forget all about Sir. He is never to be discussed, Melanie."
"I do beg your pardon." Melanie bristled at the censure in his voice. She knew she had blundered and was sorry for it, but that did not mean she would allow herself to be scolded like an errant child. She lifted her chin, sending her dark curls cascading down her slender back.
"If there is nothing else you wish to discuss, I believe I will retire to my rooms," Melanie informed him in her most regal tones. "The hairdresser will be here soon, and it would not do for my maid to find me here. Good day, Captain, I will speak with you later." She threw his title out as a challenge, one he acknowledged with a mocking inc
lination of his head.
"And good day to you, Lady Melanie," he drawled, his lips twitching at the stormy defiance sparkling in her dark eyes. "I trust you will have a pleasant evening at Court. Pray give my respects to their Royal Highnesses." He was still smiling when she stalked out, her small nose held high in the air.
"You were right to come to me," Sir said, his expression serious as Drew concluded his tale. "This is the link we have been searching for. My congratulations, Merrick."
"Thank you, Sir, although the credit is due largely to Lady Melanie's efforts," Drew answered, more than willing to give his imperious lady her due. "She did a first-rate job of reconnoitering."
"So she did," Sir agreed, leaning forward to study his reflection in the cracked mirror as he added the final touches to his disguise. "Although I am sure that was never your intention when you asked her to make up to Barrymore. I gathered you were merely attempting to keep the lady out of harm's way."
"For all the good it did me," came the answering grumble as Drew helped Sir into the scarlet and gold jacket of a Captain of the Guards. "The first thing this morning she was throwing herself at his head like a desperate spinster and insisting that he take her for a ride. It's a wonder he didn't tumble to her at once, for she has certainly never behaved in such a fashion before."
"It may have roused his suspicions, but a man is often vulnerable to women in ways he is never vulnerable to men," Sir said, stroking the luxuriant black mustache that adorned his upper lip. "I have often observed that such men are intolerably vain; he probably accepted Lady Melanie's marked attentions as his due, and thought no more of the matter. There, how do I look?" He turned to Drew for his approval.
The man who stood before Drew was a complete stranger to him. Sir's dark blond hair and eyebrows had been covered with black dye, giving him the appearance of a dashing brigand, an image that was enhanced by the dueling scar that graced his high cheekbone. Had he not witnessed the transformation firsthand, Drew would never have known this handsome officer for his superior and his friend.
"Like a character out of one of those damned novels," Drew answered, a reluctant smile lighting his eyes. "Am I permitted to ask who you are supposed to be? I hope you have not reenlisted behind our backs."
"Only temporarily," Sir assured him, strapping on the large ceremonial sword that accompanied his uniform. The small stiletto he slipped into his jacket sleeve was far less attractive, but far more deadly. "Allow me to present Captain Stuart Critchley of the Guards, deeply in debt and always eager for a hand of cards." He bowed stiffly.
"Ah, you are going off in search of Lord Parkinson." Drew nodded in understanding. "Do you know where he games?"
"No, but there cannot be that many places where a young lord and his officer friend might go. You did say he was with a Major Dalmire, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Then I shall just look until I find Major Dalmire. If Parkinson isn't with him, I am sure I can worm his location out of the major with a glass of brandy and a few judiciously lost games. In the meanwhile, I want you to work on a trap for our friend. Have you any ideas?"
"I've been thinking about our Portuguese friend, the one Lady Abbington mentioned Barrymore had been chatting with at some ball or another."
"Senhor José Martinez," Sir supplied, bending to tuck a small pistol into his shiny Hessians. "My sources tell me he has some interesting acquaintances in the French quarter."
"Yes, and now he is linked to Barrymore, who would doubtlessly accept anything the senhor slips to him with unquestioning gratitude," Drew said with grim satisfaction. "We must make certain it is sufficiently tempting to get Barrymore to lead us to his French contact, and then I shall make it my personal duty to clap the bastard in irons."
Sir glanced up sharply at his words. "Just mind you don't make this too personal," he cautioned. "Revenge is a luxury men in our profession can ill afford, and I should hate to see you hurt because you were too blinded by emotion to take proper care."
"You may count upon me to take every precaution, Sir," Drew assured him with an easy smile. "I am too fond of this hide of mine to risk it unnecessarily. But might I advise that you also take care? It would be a great pity if you were to die all rigged out like a play soldier."
"Yes, I dare say I would find it quite embarrassing," Sir answered with a slight smile. "Now, if you will excuse me, 'tis time I was making my rounds. Besides, I am sure you will be wanting to get home before the Terringtons. Tonight is Lady Melanie's presentation, is it not?"
"Yes," Drew replied, a vision of Melanie in her Court dress of white silk with flowers and ribbons decorating the hooped skirts filling his mind. She had never looked lovelier to him, and never more inaccessible.
"Did Barrymore accompany them?"
"To Court? No, but I believe he was planning to meet some friends elsewhere. Needless to say, I have a man following him," he added sardonically.
"I never had any doubts on that score," Sir told him quietly. "You are almost as cautious as me. But what of the companion? Is there any danger she might be about?"
"No, thank heavens." Drew's reply was heartfelt. "Lady Abbington has arranged for the coach to take her to the palace, so at least I needn't worry that I'll encounter her roaming the halls in search of heroes from her damned Gothics."
Sir chuckled softly. "I think I may have erred in overlooking this particular form of literature," he said, sweeping a cape over his broad shoulders. "It appears to have much to recommend if the quick way Miss Evingale saw through both you and Mr. Barrymore is any indication. Perhaps I should make them required reading for all my agents."
"Or you could start recruiting females with overly active imaginations," Drew agreed, shuddering at the prospect.
"An interesting suggestion, Merrick," Sir said, the look in his eyes frankly speculative as he held open the door for Drew. "Do you think Lady Melanie might be interested in entering my employ? My instincts tell me she would make an excellent operative."
"My God, she would volunteer at once and then demand your most dangerous assignment," Drew muttered feelingly. "You must not even suggest such a thing to her!"
"Oh, your employer is safe enough from me," Sir said, making no effort to hide his amusement. "For the moment."
Melanie woke with a start, stirring sleepily in her bed. She cast a bleary eye around her, wondering what could have awakened her. She knew it had to be quite late, as it had been well after two when she had finally retired. Supressing a groan, she fell back on the pillows and covered her head. Despite her exhaustion, she knew it would be hours yet before she would be able to close her eyes.
Sighing heavily, she turned on her side, tucking her hand beneath her cheek as she studied the play of light on the wall. Her drapes were partially open and the silver light of the full moon cast an unearthly glow in the room. The presentation had gone well, she mused, smiling as she recalled the events of the past several hours. Much as she had resented the need for such a useless ritual, she had enjoyed herself, and meeting the prince had been a definite treat. He seemed to have singled her out for flirting, something he seldom did with any lady under the age of fifty, and she was aware of the jealous glances being shot her by several of her fellow debutantes.
At the ball afterward she had been swamped with suitors, but even as she had flirted and smiled at them, she found herself wishing that Davies had been there. With his natural grace and power he would make a wonderful dancer, she thought dreamily, picturing herself floating across the floor held tightly in his arms. She wondered if he had ever served with Wellington, for she had heard it rumored that he chose his officers as much for their dancing skills as for their abilities as fighters.
Sir had said he once served with the Fourth Mounted Regiment, which meant that he might have been stationed in Alexandria while she and Papa were there. If he had, she was positive they had never met. Something told her she would not have forgotten his bright hazel eyes, or the unexpected way a smile could
light up his face.
Listen to yourself, she thought ruefully, you sound as lovesick as one of Miss Evingale's heroines. Not that she was in love with Drew . . . Davies, by any means, she assured herself anxiously. She admired him for his dedication to his duty, and as he was a handsome man, it was not out of the ordinary that she should find him attractive. But she most definitely did not love him. He was far too autocratic for her tastes, and for all she knew of him he could easily be promised to another.
That bit of speculation brought a swift stab of pain to Melanie's heart, and she swiftly swept the thought aside. No, she was fairly convinced he was neither married nor engaged. Not that it mattered a whit to her, of course, she brooded, tugging the bedclothes about her chin. It was the principle of the matter, and she knew that if she were married, she wouldn't care to have her husband serving in another woman's household. In fact . . . the thought was never completed as Melanie suddenly became aware of the changing pattern of moonlight on the bedroom wall.
Where before there was only the soft glowing light and the shadows cast by the trees in the gardens, she could now see a larger shape moving slowly past. It took a moment for the shape to register in her mind, but when it did, she put a hand over her mouth to cover her scream. The figure creeping stealthily past her window was definitely a man.
Chapter Ten
Fear held Melanie immobile as a thousand possibilities raced through her head. Her first thought was that a thief was trying to break into the house. The recent murders in Wapping Docks, where two families and their servants had been brutally slain in their own homes, were uppermost in her mind, but even as she lowered her hand to scream, another thought occurred to her. What if it were Davies?
He had been waiting up for them upon their return as befitted a proper butler, his manner all that it should be as he took their cloaks and inquired about the presentation. She had studied his face curiously, wondering if he had managed to slip out and see Sir, but with her papa and Lady Charlotte standing in the hallway, there was no way she could ask him. Mr. Barrymore had come in a short time later, and after sharing a small glass of sherry with him and her father, she and her grandmother had retired to their rooms. It had been almost an hour after that before she heard the others coming up the stairs.
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