A Dangerous Lord

by Beers, Laura

  “Can I get you anything else?” the young man asked.

  “I think we are quite all right,” Corbyn said as he picked up his cup.

  After he took a sip, Corbyn put his cup back on the table and turned his attention towards Stewart. “What is it that you wish to know?”

  “I am trying to get a sense of who you are, but I find that your name is clouded in secrecy.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You are the second son of the Duke of Weatherby, but you work for the Alien Office.”

  “That is correct.”

  “I interviewed a member of your father’s household staff, and he informed me that you work at the Home Office.”

  “That is mostly true, since the Alien Office is integrated within the Home Office.”

  “This servant was led to believe that you held a menial job at the Home Office,” Stewart said, “a position wholly inadequate for the second son of the duke.”

  “I am happy with my position in the Alien Office.”

  Stewart leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You want to know what I believe?”

  “What is that, Mr. Stewart?” he asked, feigning disinterest.

  “I believe you are more than what you are letting on, and that makes you dangerous.”

  Corbyn picked up his cup and took a sip. “To whom am I a danger?”

  “I am not entirely sure, but I am watching you very closely.”

  “I would expect nothing less from you,” Corbyn responded as he put the cup down, “but as I have told you before, I was asked by Lord Daniel to assist in the investigation about the forged banknotes.”

  “Have you had a chance to speak to your informants yet?”

  “I have not.”

  “Neither have I.”

  The door to the coffeehouse opened and Lord Oliver walked into the hall. He put his hand up in greeting when their eyes met.

  A smile was on Oliver’s face as he approached the table. “What a pleasant surprise.” His smile dimmed when he saw Stewart. “What is he doing here?”

  “Stewart and I are working a case together,” Corbyn said, keeping his voice low.

  Oliver’s brow shot up. “You would work with this man after what he did to me?” he asked curtly. “If you recall, he set up a trap for me and my friends.”

  Stewart shrugged. “I did nothing illegal.”

  “My friends were harmless,” Oliver declared. “They never agreed with anything you were saying, and you turned them in for blood money.”

  “They still attended a meeting with radical ties,” Stewart pressed.

  Oliver scoffed. “They were hoping to participate in a debate about Whig politics.”

  “In the rookeries?”

  “I never said they were clever.”

  Stewart smirked. “Clearly.”

  “This man can’t be trusted, Corbyn,” Oliver said, turning away from the Runner.

  “I disagree,” Corbyn replied. “He helped me thwart Jane’s abduction.”

  Oliver reared back. “Someone attempted to abduct Jane?”

  “They did,” Corbyn confirmed. “Right in the middle of Hyde Park.”

  Oliver ran a hand over his chin. “When was this?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Why was I not informed immediately?” Oliver questioned, his voice rising.

  Corbyn gave him a knowing look. “Have you been home yet?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sure Baldwin will tell you straightaway.”

  Oliver pulled out a chair and sat down. “And Stewart helped save Jane?”

  Corbyn nodded. “He did,” he replied. “In fact, he was the one who apprehended the man.”

  Oliver grew silent for a moment. “Is Jane all right?”

  “By all accounts, she appears to be doing well.”

  “For what purpose would someone attempt to abduct Jane?”

  “To get to me, I’m afraid,” Corbyn admitted. “But I can assure you that your brother is keeping a close eye on Jane.”

  “That is a relief.” Oliver shifted in his chair towards Stewart. “I believe I owe you an apology, then.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Stewart replied. “Fortunately, I was in the right place at the right time, and the suspect was terribly slow.”

  “Thank you.” Oliver leaned to the side as a cup of coffee was placed in front of him.

  Stewart ran his fingers over the top of his cup. “I suppose I could speak to the magistrate about your friends, as well.”

  “You would do that?” Oliver asked.

  “You could call it a professional courtesy,” Stewart responded with a smile.

  Oliver took a sip of his coffee. “I would appreciate that.”

  Corbyn cleared his throat. “I hate to end this profoundly sentimental moment, but I’m afraid I need to get back to work.” He rose, reached into his waistcoat, and pulled out a few coins, which he placed on the table. “Coffee is on me, gentlemen.”

  “I will speak to my informants and inform you at once if I discover something of value,” Stewart said.

  “As will I,” Corbyn replied.

  Oliver tipped his head. “I’ll see you around, Corbyn.”

  “Likewise,” Corbyn replied before he walked towards the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sun had set long ago as Corbyn sat at his desk and read through his correspondence, using only a candle as his source of light. It was a never-ending pile that he had to get through, and it only seemed to grow with each passing day.

  Despite the repetitiveness of this aspect of his job, he took it no less seriously. It was his job to ensure the agents had the support they needed to be successful on their assignments. Lord Daniel had suggested he hire a secretary to assist him with correspondence, but he found he didn’t want to delegate this responsibility to anyone. Frankly, he didn’t trust anyone to be as thorough as he was.

  There were very few people that he could fully trust. It was one of the downsides of his position. He had learned as a young agent that not everyone had your best interest at heart. There were some people who wanted to get ahead, no matter who they had to climb over.

  After he finished reading the paper in his hand, he put it down and rifled through the remaining letters, looking for Sanders’ missive. He was hoping Sanders had found a lead on the forged banknotes, which would hopefully lead him to Kerley. But there wasn’t a missive from him, which was quite disconcerting.

  “Barrett!” Corbyn shouted.

  The door opened and a broad-shouldered man walked into the room. “Yes, Corbyn?”

  “Have you heard from Sanders yet?”

  The agent shook his head. “I have not.”

  “That is troubling,” Corbyn admitted. “It has been two days since I received a correspondence from him.”

  “He may have just gotten caught up in his assignment,” the agent suggested.

  “Perhaps,” he muttered. “However, to be on the safe side, will you go to his place and see what you can discover?”

  Barrett nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t want to lose another agent,” Corbyn asserted. “Not on my watch.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good,” Corbyn said, rising. “Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I shall retire for the evening.”

  Barrett’s eyes strayed towards the window. “Isn’t it a little early for you to be retiring?”

  “Not that it is any of your business,” Corbyn started, “but I intend to visit with my family this evening.”

  “I wish you luck, then,” Barrett said before he departed from the room.

  Corbyn collected the remaining correspondence and placed them in the pocket of his jacket. He still had more than enough work to keep him busy for the remainder of the evening, but he knew he needed to take time to see his father again.

  He exited the building and secured a hackney. As he traveled to his father’s townhouse, he found himself dwelling on his f
ather’s weak frame. It was a stark contrast to the domineering man who had raised him. He scoffed at that thought. His father had hardly been around enough to raise him and, when he was home, he spent most of his time with his brother, the heir.

  His father had made it truly clear that he was not nearly as important as Simon. He was just the spare, the other son, an afterthought.

  When he was young, he’d tried to win his father’s approval by any means necessary. He worked hard at everything that came his way. He excelled in his studies at Eton and then at Oxford. But it wasn’t enough for his father. It was never enough, making him feel as if he were not enough.

  Then, he had been recruited to become an agent of the Crown and everything changed. He felt valued, important, and he finally found where he belonged. A band of brotherhood. He found his new home.

  The hackney came to a stop in front of his father’s townhouse and he opened the door. He paid the driver and approached the house.

  Corbyn opened the door and stepped inside. The butler greeted him in the entry hall. “Good evening, milord.”

  “Is my mother still awake?”

  His words had barely left his mouth when he saw his brother approach him with a drink in his hand. His cravat was undone, his hair tousled about, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  “Oh, look who has finally returned,” Simon slurred. “The prodigal son has come home.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  Simon stopped in front of him. “I am no such thing,” he snapped. “I have merely been indulging in some brandy.”

  “Is Mother still awake?”

  “She is,” Simon confirmed. “She’s in the drawing room, but you should know that she’s very disappointed in me.”

  “Why is that?”

  Simon waved his hand in front of him. “For the most outlandish reasons,” he said. “It is all very childish, if you ask me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Catherine retired to our country estate for the remainder of the Season,” Simon informed him. “Apparently, she took issue with me having a mistress.”

  “I wonder why that is,” Corbyn muttered.

  Simon’s eyes narrowed. “You have always been jealous of me,” he spat out.

  “I assure you that you are wrong about that.”

  “I am the heir and soon all this will belong to me.” He tossed his hands up in the air, causing his drink to spill on the floor.

  Corbyn frowned. “I am well aware of that, Brother.”

  “You live in a dilapidated townhouse—”

  “It is hardly dilapidated,” Corbyn argued, “and it is on the edge of the fashionable part of Town.”

  Simon leaned towards him, his breath reeking of alcohol. “I have a beautiful wife, a fortune that I couldn’t spend in two lifetimes, and multiple estates.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Corbyn replied. “Truly, I am.”

  Reaching out, Simon placed his hand on Evan’s shoulder. “Everyone is envious of me,” he said firmly. “I will one day be the Duke of Weatherby.”

  “Do you want people to be envious of you?”

  “Yes!” Simon shouted. “I believe I deserve that.”

  Corbyn shook his head. “I am not envious of you.”

  “Why not?” Simon whined, dropping his hand to his side. “Why is everyone envious of me but you?”

  “Because I know you.”

  “What does that mean?” Simon asked with a bewildered look.

  Corbyn put his hands up. “It doesn’t matter, because this is not the life that I want.”

  “But everyone wants this life,” Simon declared.

  “Not me.”

  Simon scoffed. “Now you are just being ridiculous.”

  “Your entire life is mapped out for you,” Corbyn said. “Whereas I have the freedom to do as I please, live as I please.”

  “I do as I please,” Simon argued, lifting his chin up stubbornly.

  “Not truly,” Corbyn replied. “You have a legacy that you must protect, and your days are filled with managing the duchy.”

  “Don’t you care about a legacy?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You should.”

  “Why is that?”

  Simon took a long sip of his drink, then said, “Regardless, I’m afraid it matters not. It would appear that you might have this life after all, considering my wife hates me.”

  “Catherine doesn’t hate you,” Corbyn attempted.

  “Oh, she definitely hates me,” Simon scoffed, “and she intends to live apart from me.”

  “Then go after her.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “You must have held Catherine in affection at some point,” Corbyn said.

  Simon sighed. “I did…” he hesitated, “I do.”

  “End things with Beatrice and go fix things with your wife,” Corbyn counseled. “Convince her that you want to make the marriage work.”

  “It isn’t that simple.” Walking over to the table, Simon put his glass down. “Beatrice is pregnant again.”

  “Ah,” Corbyn said. “I see the problem.”

  “Beatrice has already given me two boys,” Simon shared, “but they are illegitimate.”

  “Do you love Beatrice?”

  Simon shrugged. “I suppose I hold her in some regard, which is why I wanted to move her into a cottage at our country estate.”

  “And I must assume Catherine took issue with that.”

  “She did,” Simon proclaimed, haughtily. “On my word, it wasn’t as if I suggested Beatrice move in with us.”

  “You are an idiot.”

  Simon picked up his glass and tossed back the rest of his drink. He slammed the glass down onto the table. “I don’t have to answer to you!” he shouted.

  “You’re right about that.”

  His mother stepped out from the drawing room and clasped her hands in front of her. “It might be best if you continue this conversation in the drawing room, away from prying ears.”

  Simon waved his hand dismissively. “I think not,” he declared. “I have nothing else to say on the matter.”

  “That is a shame,” Corbyn muttered under his breath.

  His brother shot him an annoyed look. “You think you are better than me, Brother?” he asked, his voice rising in indignation.

  “You are drunk, Simon,” Corbyn said. “Go sleep it off.”

  With a parting glance at his mother, Simon staggered towards the stairs and placed his hand on the iron banister. “I have had enough of this berating. I shall retire for the evening.”

  Corbyn watched as Simon stumbled up the stairs before he turned his attention towards his mother. “When did Catherine depart for the country estate?” he asked.

  “Today,” she replied, “but we should continue this conversation in the drawing room.”

  He walked over and kissed his mother on her cheek. “It’s good to see you again,” he said as he leaned back.

  “I always enjoy when you come to visit.”

  Corbyn gestured towards the drawing room, indicating that she should go first. He followed her into the room and sat on the settee next to her.

  His mother shifted in her seat to face him. “Would you care for some refreshment?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She sighed as she glanced over at the open door. “I tried to talk Catherine out of leaving, but she was quite insistent on the matter.”

  “Pray tell, did Simon at least try to stop Catherine?”

  His mother pressed her lips together. “I’m afraid not,” she replied. “After she announced she was leaving, he spent most of the day at White’s.”

  “I see,” he said. “My brother is an idiot.”

  “You must understand that your brother is under immense pressure to succeed right now.”

  Corbyn lifted his brow. “Are you truly defending Simon’s behavior?”

  “He could have handled the situation more graciously, but it is common for men of his sta
tion to have mistresses.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.”

  “Who am I to judge?” his mother asked, looking crestfallen. “Your father has had many mistresses over the years, but at least he was discreet about it.”

  Corbyn reached for one of her hands. “You deserved better, Mother,” he said. “So does Catherine. You must know that.”

  “Catherine is stronger than me,” she stated. “She stood up to Simon when he broached the subject of Beatrice moving into the cottage. Whereas I never even spoke to Andrew about his mistresses. It wasn’t my place.”

  “It wasn’t your place?” Corbyn asked, incredulous.

  His mother gave him a sad smile. “You know your father,” she said. “He wouldn’t have taken kindly to me prying into his affairs.”

  “That is a true statement.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “Speaking of Father, is he still awake?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she replied. “The doctor gave him some laudanum after his supper, and he fell asleep shortly thereafter.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “I had come to see him.”

  “You will have to come earlier if you want to speak to him.”

  “I’m afraid that is an improbability.”

  His mother met his gaze and held it. “I know he wasn’t the best father, but he still is your father.”

  “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I’ll move things around and come tomorrow.”

  Her smile turned genuine. “Thank you, Son.”

  Corbyn rose and held his hand out to assist her. “I should be going, then.”

  “So soon?” his mother asked, her disappointment evident in her voice.

  Feeling a little guilty about his quick departure, Corbyn relented. “I suppose I could play one game of cards with you before I go.”

  His mother clasped her hands together. “Wonderful!”

  Jane reached for her cup of tea as she sat at the table in the breakfast parlor. Her mother sat across from her with a rigid back and a stern expression.

  “I still can’t believe you turned down Lord Brinton’s offer,” she muttered as she buttered her toast.

  “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “You two would have been perfect for one another.”