The next day, Brandon met Willard in his office where they discussed the events of the previous night, and how matters now stood.
“So, Lady Arietta was working for the French?” Brandon asked.
“She was enamored of Pierse, but we’ve discovered nothing to suggest she passed secrets to the French. The fire’s gone out of Pierse. He is talking. We’ve determined that he first met the lady through her husband. Pierse must have subsequently pursued her after Kendall died. He used her for his own ends while he worked for Fraughton, who was perhaps the only member of the gang of four who had political leanings with a view to incite revolution. Pierse is merely an opportunist who offers his services for hire. A violent man, and is suspected of being behind Kendall’s death and that porter’s death in France.”
Willard ran a hand over his eyes. “Descrier and Elford are businessmen, Marston, too, to a lesser degree. Descrier lost money after the decline of slavery, and Lord Elford after a storm razed his cotton plantation in the West Indies. Marston was a gambler who went through his family’s money. They all looked to fill their coffers by any means available to them. When the opportunity arose to engage in opium smuggling, they grabbed it.” He leaned back in his chair. “The Home Office is satisfied with the outcome. The Journal Noir proves these men were contributing money to Napoleon’s cause, aided by Pierse. A clear case of treason. They will stand trial, as Fraughton and Marston would have, had they survived to face justice. That is why the journal frightened them. Napoleon had advised them of it, perhaps with a view to keep them under his control, who knows? But knowing their names were in it made them all too aware of the consequences should the journal ever fall into British hands.”
Brandon folded his arms. “The mystery of the journal is at last solved. How was Miss Bromley this morning?”
Willard lifted his bushy eyebrows. “She was breakfasting with my wife when I left home. I gather you will call and see the young lady today?”
“This afternoon. Did Miss Bromley mention whether she planned to remain in London?”
Willard shook his head. “The offer is there should she wish to do so. My wife is so taken with her, she might sponsor Miss Bromley, herself.”
Brandon smiled. “That is good of her.”
“With Lavalette freed, the journal in our hands, and the three remaining culprits awaiting trial, the matter is now at an end.” Willard steepled his fingers and eyed Brandon. “Might you be interested in getting your teeth into something new? Or are you planning to take my advice and resign?”
“What’s the mission?” Brandon asked idly.
“What we discussed earlier. It’s a matter of diplomacy. You may, however, need to apply a little pressure in some quarters to facilitate the comtesse’s release from prison. We owe her a debt since she delivered the journal into our hands. It’s the least we can do for her.”
Brandon waited for that spark of excitement to kick in that familiar tightening of the belly. But he felt nothing. He expected he was tired. And perhaps he did want something more from life than this. “I’ll give it some thought.”
At two o’clock, he called at the Willard’s home. Letty entered the parlor looking pale and subdued in one of her demure white muslin gowns. Concerned, he took her hand and raised it to his lips.
She smiled slightly at the old-fashioned gesture and sat opposite him on the sofa. “Would you care for wine, or coffee?”
“No thank you. I only wish to hear how you are.”
“I’m quite well,” she said, not sounding at all like herself. “It was decent of you not to mention you were right about Arietta, for you were, weren’t you?”
“There’s not much I can tell you about all this, Letty, except that her motives might have come more from a matter of the heart, than any desire to betray her country.”
“Yes, I thought that, too,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I’m glad it’s over, but I will miss her.” She glanced up at him. “I believe Pierse loved her, too. Why did he wish to spy on the others?”
“He was covering his back, I imagine. Not much trust among thieves. You have written to your uncle?”
She nodded. “I sent him a brief letter in this morning’s post. Mr. Willard told me to say little about Arietta, only that she had died.”
“He will be advised of the details later. Did you ask him to let you remain in London?”
“I saw no point. Even not knowing the truth, he will insist I come home. He already believed London to be a den of thieves.” She bit her lip. “And when he learns what happened to Arietta, he will be certain of it.”
“Bow Street will notify him of the true facts of her death, of course, being a relative. But a rumor will be put about that Lady Arietta was taken suddenly by a catastrophic illness. I’m sorry you will miss the rest of the Season.”
Letty dropped her chin, hiding her expression. “It doesn’t matter. I’m so very tired, you see.”
“Yes, but you won’t always be tired.”
She raised her head. He almost gasped. Gone from her beautiful brown eyes was her vivacity and optimism, to be replaced by a sad awareness of the world’s darker underbelly. He would have spared her that if he could. It crushed him that she had come to London seeking romance and adventure and now seemed bowed down by what life had thrown at her.
“I will miss you, Letty,” he found himself saying.
Her eyes flew to his. “Will you, Brandon?”
“Yes.” He gave a brief smile. “We have been through quite a lot together, haven’t we?”
“What will you do now?”
“There’s a chance I’ll be sent to Paris.” He hadn’t decided to accept, rather he’d almost decided not to take Willard up on it. But suspected he used it now as a way to stop himself from reaching out to her.
She nodded. “Paris? I hope it’s not a dangerous mission, Brandon.”
“No, merely a diplomatic posting.”
“I’m glad. Paris. My, I would love to visit Paris one day.” She rose briskly and smoothed her skirts. “You must excuse me. I believe I’ll return to my room. I have a headache.”
He stood. “I’m sorry, Letty,” he repeated, frustrated, and constrained by how little he could say.
“Goodbye, Brandon. Thank you, for taking care of me.”
“Not goodbye,” he said, not ready to say it. “It will be days before you receive your uncle’s reply. I’ll call tomorrow afternoon. You might care for a drive in the park if the weather is fine.”
Letty stood at the door. “I should like that. I fear I might become a nuisance for the Willards if I’m always underfoot. Mrs. Willard insists I accompany her to Almack’s tomorrow evening. She has procured a voucher for me from her good friend, Lady Sefton.” Letty smoothed her skirts with anxious hands. “Mrs. Willard refuses to accept that I’m in mourning. She believes I should not allow this tragedy to spoil my life. She said that…” Letty swallowed. “That… Arietta was certain to have suffered a sad end because of the path she chose.”
Brandon moved closer to her. “Mrs. Willard is quite right, Letty.”
“I suppose you are both right,” she said with a faint smile. She offered her hand to him as if he was a new acquaintance.
Wanting to hold her, Brandon took her small hand in his. He continued to hold it while searching her eyes. “Tomorrow, Letty.”
He quitted the house, reminding himself of how much her association with him had hurt her. His world should not and would never be hers. But if he were to give up that life…he quickly dismissed the improbability of suddenly becoming a man worthy of marriage. It seemed well beyond his reach, but yet, he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts as he strode toward his carriage more conflicted than ever.
When Brandon arrived home, his father awaited him in his parlor.
He stood up from the sofa with a gesture, Brandon recognized, thrusting out his chest as if to emphasize his still strong and upright carriage. He had not come for a friendly chat. Something was on h
is mind. And he wasn’t in the mood to take no for an answer.
Brandon steeled himself for an argument. “Sherry, Father?”
“Thank you.”
His father strolled over to the fireplace. A hand on the mantel, he gazed down at the empty grate. “Can’t imagine what you do in London. Is it an endless supply of ton parties or do the opera dancers at Covent Garden still hold some appeal?” He turned to face him, irritation flickering across his face. “You aren’t gambling away your inheritance, are you?”
Brandon turned back to the crystal decanter and concentrated on pouring a whiskey for himself without his shaking hand spilling it. His father was well aware he rarely gambled, he was gearing up for an argument that Brandon had no energy for.
“I have something I wish to discuss with you.” He took the sherry glass from Brandon and returned to the sofa.
“Oh?” Brandon sat in a wing chair and took a good long pull at the whiskey.
“You will be aware that our neighbor, Colonel Smythe-Jones has a daughter, Juliette. She’s been out for a Season or two. You might have come across her at a ball or some such. She has changed considerably since you last saw her. She was a child then, she’s a pretty young woman now. I believe it would be an excellent match for you. She seems a sensible young woman, or so her mother tells me.”
Brandon tried to swallow his anger at his father’s interference, along with the last of his whiskey. He put the glass down on the occasional table. “I’m afraid I shall have to decline such an appealing offer, Father. I am about to sail for France. I’ll be in Paris, should you have need of me, you can reach me at the Hotel Westminster 13 Rue De La Paix.”
His father’s glass was replaced on the table less gently. “Continuing with your rakish ways, eh!” he said, standing up. “Well, I suppose I didn’t really expect to find any desire in you to settle down, or to make your mother happy.”
“I apologize for never having made either of you happy, Father.”
“No.” His father nodded. “Well, I am having luncheon with the prime minister. I’ll see myself out.”
Brandon stared at the closed door. Would his father feel any differently if he knew the truth? He somehow doubted it. His father had expressed a poor opinion of some of the actions of Whitehall on more than one occasion when a politician. Well, at least his parent had made up his mind for him. He would go to Paris.
The next afternoon, Brandon advised Willard of his decision to accept the Paris mission. Confident that his promise to his spymaster was now set in stone, and could not be changed, he went to join Letty.
She awaited him in the parlor, rising to greet him in a lavender-colored dress and white spencer jacket. Her bonnet, lined with silk the color of bluebells, reminded him of the flowers growing in the woods at Fernborough Park. She carried a pink parasol in her lacy, white-gloved hands. He thought her pretty as a portrait, but didn’t miss the faint shadows beneath her dark eyes.
“Thank you for taking me out, Brandon,” she said in a strangely formal tone, as he assisted her into his curricle. “I had begun to hate being indoors. I seemed unable to escape my thoughts.”
He tooled the horses through the streets, and they entered the park gates. It was early for the ton, and few carriages drove down the South Carriage Drive. “I should love to have ridden in Rotten Row,” Letty said with a regretful sigh. “There are so many things I wished to do and see while in London.”
“You’ll come back one day,” he said, hating to see her so subdued.
“No, I doubt my uncle would permit it.” Beneath her parasol, she shook her head, her dusky curls stirring against her cheek. Her big brown eyes regarded him seriously. He suffered a foolish urge to kiss her, to awaken her again to that vibrant young woman he had known. Letty was no sleeping beauty, she would rally, he told himself. And he was no prince. He looped the reins in a hand, turning his attention to his horses.
He was about to suggest her future husband might bring her to London, but the words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t voice them, for some illogical fear that it might come true. Surely, he wished her to find happiness? He didn’t understand himself. Once he left for Paris, perhaps he would think more clearly. But not here with Letty, not as he breathed in the scent of her violet soap, and was so patently aware of her slender body so close to his on the seat. He rested a boot on the footboard and pulled up the horses. Letty gazed at him in inquiry, her lips parted in surprise. He was unsure what he would say, what ridiculous promises he’d make that he might not be able to keep…
“I say, Cartwright!” Frederick Delridge hailed him, and rode his neat roan over to the curricle. “Haven’t seen you in an age.” He turned with a smile to Letty. “Please introduce me to this delightful young lady.”
Brandon clamped his teeth at the keen light in Delridge’s eye. He issued the introductions, all the while wishing Delridge to Jericho, who was now asking Letty to save him a dance at Almack’s. Brandon frowned. He had no right to act like a lover. And by the time Delridge had ridden off, he had himself under control. Taking up the reins, he moved the horses on, with a smile at Letty. “Bit of a bore, old Delridge.”
Letty cantered her head. “He seemed quite nice.”
Not trusting himself to comment, Brandon urged the horses into a trot.
When they arrived back at the Willard’s, he leapt down and held up his arms for her. He swung her lightly down to the pavement, while all the time despairing that he might not see her again.
“Save me a dance at Almack’s,” he said finally.
“I thought you disliked the place.” Letty raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t you say it was a detestable marriage mart?”
“And so it is, but nevertheless, I shall be there,” he said shortly, and raised his beaver hat in farewell. He ran down the steps and climbed smartly back into the curricle. He wasn’t about to let the fortune hunters and rakes move in on Letty. Nor Delridge, who was quite the wrong man for her. Not when she was in such a vulnerable state.
Chapter Twenty-One
“My goodness, Almack’s is crowded tonight,” Mrs. Willard observed as they entered the elegant rooms in King Street.
Guests roamed from the card rooms to the supper rooms, the gentlemen uniformly dressed in black breeches, white stockings, and black pumps. Sparkling crystal chandeliers lit the ballroom where couples performed their steps, the younger ladies’ white gowns reflected like dainty moths in the huge, gilt-framed mirrors around the walls. Above in the gallery, the orchestra played Haydn.
The Willards were soon surrounded by friends. Mrs. Willard immediately introduced Letty to a young gentleman who requested a dance.
An hour later, while Letty danced with Mr. Delridge, she saw Brandon enter the ballroom, so handsome in black and white, a chapeau bras in his hand, and her heart set up that strange pit-a-patter. She smiled when his searching gaze found her among the dancers, but thought his returning smile restrained. He made his way over to the Willards. Perhaps Brandon didn’t approve of Mr. Delridge, but after all, what did it matter? In a few days, she would leave London.
“You are enjoying your stay in the metropolis, Miss Bromley?” Mr. Delridge asked. She did not think him handsome, but every man suffered in comparison to Brandon.
“Oh yes, but regretfully, I am returning to Cumbria in a few days,” Letty explained.
“Then might you take pity on me and indulge me in another dance, later in the evening?”
“I am not sure if I have one to spare, sir,” Letty murmured, trying not to watch Brandon’s progress through the crowd.
It seemed like years ago when she and Brandon waltzed. They were strangers then who did not trust each other. She longed to waltz with him tonight, now they were on more intimate terms. She would hug that memory close when she returned to Cumbria.
After Mr. Delridge led her back to her seat and departed, Brandon approached her. He bowed to Mrs. Willard whose gaze roamed over him approvingly.
“Good evening,
Mrs. Willard.” He turned to Letty. “Miss Bromley, I wonder if I might have the waltz?”
“Indeed you may, Mr. Cartwright. Miss Bromley has the waltz free,” Mrs. Willard said, answering for Letty, who raised her fan to hide her smile.
When the waltz was called, Brandon came to her side. Slightly breathless, she rested a hand on his silk sleeve as he led her onto the dance floor. When the musicians struck up, he took her in his arms. His smile was so familiar and warm, it reached right to her toes. “So, old Delridge is here tonight,” he said in a conversational tone.
“Yes. He has asked for another dance.”
“Has he indeed? Impudent fellow,” he said with deceptive calm, his eyes narrowing.
Pleased to find him jealous, Letty tried not to smile. “I find him quite personable.”
He settled her closer, a glint in his blue eyes. “You do?”
“I must say, I’m surprised to find you here,” Letty observed, while a coil of pleasure wrapped itself around her heart. She pushed away the thought that she must not put too much store by his behavior. That it did not matter if he cared a little for her, he was determined to see her return to Cumbria.
“What do you think of Almack’s?” he asked.
“It’s very elegant.”
He grinned. “But not the food, I fear, stale bread and dry cake, and only tea and lemonade to drink.”
“One does not come to Almack’s for the food,” she scolded.
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What does one come for?”
“To see, and be seen.”
“By whom? Men like Delridge?”
“And other handsome gentlemen,” she said, beginning to enjoy herself. “To dance,” she added breathlessly as he reversed her swiftly, his hand tightening at her waist.
“I agree, the dancing makes it well worth it,” Brandon said, his voice low and seductive. His gaze took her in from head to foot.
Presenting Miss Letitia Page 17