Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 04]

by Seducing the Spy

  “Thus I found myself by the privy of the White Sow when I heard voices approaching. As you might imagine, I thought it wise to hide myself. There were three men—I saw them silhouetted against the pub lanterns, although I could not see their faces. One of them lighted a cigar but the other two did not. I thought they were merely having a smoke and settled myself for a wait of only a few minutes. I was rather weakened and I feared I would give myself away by stumbling in the dark.”

  He watched her tell her story with a growing sense of unease. She spoke simply and convincingly, though her story was outrageous.

  Her delivery was not the problem, nor was he particularly disturbed by the story so far. What bothered him was the fact that he felt entirely blind . . . or perhaps “numb” was a better word.

  He couldn’t tell.

  Truth or falsehood, fact or fiction, he could always tell . . . until now.

  It would be easy to blame the crusting paste that coated her features, but he’d seen worse. In the past, men had lied to him while covered in mud, blood and even coal dust, yet Stanton had effortlessly perceived the truth written on their faces.

  What sort of creature was she, to defy the ability that had brought kings to their knees? Her immunity to his talent did one thing that, if she had realized it, might have alarmed her considerably. He was now completely and totally focused upon her, like a hawk upon a rabbit.

  As she went on, she told the story logically and with good detail. “Two of the men sounded well educated, one with distinctly highborn tones. That alone was surprising, at an establishment like the White Sow. The others didn’t actually say ‘my lord’ but one could almost hear it in their pauses. The third still possessed a hint of Cockney, as if he were perhaps of the servant class. Without preamble, they began to discuss something I thought was a business plan. They spoke of ‘arrangements’ and ‘schedules’ and ‘delivery.’ I listened with only half an ear, for I was feeling more ill by the moment.”

  Her story was going to grow stomach-churning again, he just knew it. He was already regretting his large breakfast.

  Fortunately, she went on without detailing her digestion further. “It was only when someone mentioned the Prince Regent that I realized what I was hearing,” she explained.

  Every fiber of Stanton’s being was on full alert now.

  “They spoke of Lord Cross’s house party and of the Prince Regent’s expected appearance there. There was speculation on how His Highness tends to dismiss his guard at such events and how one might take advantage of such moments to get close.”

  Now Stanton was doubly concerned. If what she said was the truth, the Prince Regent was in terrible danger.

  If what she said was true.

  Bloody hell. His instinct had never failed him before—yet it failed him now when faced with a potential disaster! He could not swallow this—this affront to his reliability. Admittedly, a lifetime of having the upper hand made such a humbling moment go down doubly ill.

  Yet what truth could there be here? The girl was a known liar. She resided here in this rat hole, in a ruin of her own making, bored and doubtless resentful. Only someone desperate for attention and notoriety would have done what she did five years ago—and that desperation was merely erupting again, only this time she was trying to drag him into it.

  That was another thing . . . why him? Her reasoning that he had proved himself to be open-minded was plausible enough. God knew he’d exercised the greatest breadth of his own tolerance when his very worthwhile cousin Jane had decided to wed that worthless, Jack-of-all-crimes gambler, Ethan Damont.

  So to the outside world, Stanton probably did seem to exemplify the height of social tolerance—and who better to turn to when one was an outcast, exiled by one’s own unseemly tendencies?

  It wasn’t true of course. Not only was Stanton not tolerant of such misbehavior, he was harshly judgmental of even the smallest weavings of untruth. He’d grown up in a house of lies, existing within such a morass of heaving untruth and secrets that he’d sworn never to believe anything he could not prove with his own observation.

  However, he could hardly explain that to this woman. She was gazing at him now, waiting for his response to her story.

  Damn. He would love to dismiss this insane creature, to get up and leave this hovel without a single doubt that this was merely a pathetic attempt to regain something of Society’s regard . . .

  But he couldn’t. As long as there was some shred of possibility that she told the truth, he would be remiss in his duty if he did not investigate thoroughly.

  He was never remiss in his duty.

  “They spoke of another man with great respect. ‘Monsieur’ was how they referred to him. Apparently, Monsieur is ready to implement a plan that has been brewing for some time. I was listening very hard by that time, you can be sure.” She stopped and coughed dryly.

  Stanton remembered her sore throat and rose. “Let me ring for some tea,” he said. Her choice to fall from grace was no reason for him to abandon his own good manners.

  She snorted. “Ring whom? If I want tea, I must make it myself.”

  Frustrated, Stanton wished he could offer to do so, but he frankly had no idea how. “Water, then?”

  She tilted her head as she looked at him. “You would fetch a glass of water for me?”

  “Of course.”

  Her lips twisted. “You truly do want to hear this story, don’t you?”

  Stanton felt his irritation rise again. “Can you not allow anyone to help you with anything? Direct me to the kitchen at once!”

  She sighed gustily and leaned back in her chair. “Down the back stairs and to the right. It’s the odd-looking room with the great stove and sink in it.”

  Stanton didn’t bother to answer the jibe, but merely turned and left the parlor. He returned in a few moments with the water. “Here you are. I managed to find the kitchen, the glass, and work the pump all by myself.”

  Her jaw dropped as she automatically reached for the glass. “Was that a joke? Do heroic Greek statues joke? I don’t believe it,” she stated firmly. “Nowhere in your reputation has anyone ever hinted that you own a sense of humor.”

  Interesting. For all of half an hour, Stanton had forgotten his blackened reputation. He bowed. “My apologies. I shall strive not to disappoint you again.”

  She was sipping the water and choked slightly. “Stop it,” she gasped. “It’s unnerving.”

  Stanton was actually a bit surprised at himself. He was normally much more focused, especially while on a case. She was obviously driving him out of his senses. “If you are well enough, I should very much like to hear the rest—”

  “Too many words,” she interrupted. “Simply say ‘continue.’”

  Stanton nodded with a twist of his lips. “Continue. Please.”

  She scowled. The clay on her forehead cracked. “Mummy’s proper boy.” She took another sip of water and set the glass aside. “The two men refused to join the nobleman’s cause, claiming the plan too dangerous. The stout man declared that ‘the scarred bastard is welcome to any bounty Napoleon might pay him, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to die for it.’ Then they left, passing my hiding place. I ducked down until they were gone. When I looked again, the nobleman had gone back inside—or at least, he did not pass me.”

  “No names were used? You have no idea of their identities?”

  She shot him an ironic glance. “Oh, so sorry. Was I supposed to approach them and ask?”

  “What of their statures? Were they large men or small?” The Chimera was a small man, although able to disguise nearly every other aspect of himself.

  She squinted up at him. “That I did not see clearly. The nobleman was hooded and stayed in the shadows. The man with the cigar was somewhat stout and the Cockney fellow was not.”

  “What of their clothing? Was there anything distinctive in their clothing?”

  She sighed. “It was too dark. The only things I remember as being dis
tinct were the stout man’s tobacco and the nobleman’s voice.”

  Tobacco? That was an excellent clue. Many a gentleman ordered a signature mix from the tobacconist, as individual as their names. If he could bring her a selection of cigars—

  “What of this supposed nobleman? What was so singular about his voice?”

  She shrugged. “He had a peculiar twist to his pronunciation.”

  “Can you mimic this peculiarity?”

  She shook her head. “I am a terrible mimic. I will only mislead you.” She shrugged. “I would likely know him if I heard him again, but I cannot describe it properly.”

  Frustration rose in Stanton. Not only was this the best clue in the entire matter, his every instinct told him that the “Monsieur” the conspirators spoke of was none other than the Chimera himself.

  The enemy of the state was at work once more . . . and this rude, uncooperative, unsightly madwoman with the soiled reputation was the Royal Four’s best and only hope of capturing the French spymaster who had cost them all so much.

  If only Stanton could find the nobleman doing the Chimera’s recruiting.

  “I would likely know him if I heard him again.”

  If only he could bring her back into Society . . . Stanton stared unseeing at her as his mind swiftly ran scenario after scenario through his mind.

  She glared at him. “What is it you are thinking? I can hear the gears turning from here.”

  “There must be some way to get you back out into Society where you could help identify the nobleman from the plot.”

  “Oh, shall I don my best dress and meet you at the soonest musicale?” She shrugged dismissively. “I cannot make any such appearance and you know it.”

  “Perhaps you could pose as a servant?”

  She shook her head. “I’d be recognized. Open a dictionary to define ‘notorious’ and there’s an image of my face listed there.”

  “You could go to Lord Cross’s party with Lord Wyndham.”

  Both Alicia and Stanton turned in surprise to see Millie seated comfortably in the chair nearer the door, her folded hands resting primly on her cane.

  Lord Wyndham’s brow clouded. “When did you enter the parlor, madam?”

  “Oh, I’ve been here for ages. But do not fret, my lord. I’ve heard the story already. I was the one who told my lady to write to you.” Millie’s face creased happily. “What fun you’ll have, my lady! You’ll be the belle of the ball once again!”

  Alicia slid her gaze sideways to see Lord Wyndham’s reaction. He was gazing at Millie with a glaze of horror in his eyes. Then he looked at her and the horror increased tenfold.

  “She’s teasing,” Alicia said hurriedly. “She’s mad. Senile. Truly, she’ll begin to drool in a moment.”

  Unfortunately, the horror was fading from Lord Wyndham’s expression, to be replaced by calculation and consideration. “It could work.”

  “No.” Alicia held out both hands. “Absolutely not.”

  He stood, then bowed deeply. “My lady, would you do me the honor of becoming—” He halted.

  She was pressing back against the chair, regarding him with confusion and the dawning of pure horror. Under the onslaught of her aghast expression, the clay was crumbling and drifting to catch itself on the sagging bodice of her hideous gown. Oh, God help him. There must be another way.

  He loved his country more than his own life, but . . .

  He cleared his throat. “The honor of becoming my mistress?”

  5

  She stood and paced before the fire. “I can see how you came up with this plan and I suppose it makes sense to you.” She scratched at her chin. Snow fell. “It is obviously now my place to shoot great gaping holes in your arrangement.”

  She turned. “Firstly, who would ever believe a man like you could develop a passion for a woman like me?” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “Secondly, why do you care so much to find this nobleman? Why not simply tell someone who takes care of such things?”

  Because he was the one who took care of such things. “I cannot take such a slim possibility to the authorities. Besides, it is my responsibility as a nobleman to protect my ruler.” It sounded pompous even to him.

  She merely gazed at him oddly. “Thirdly,” she said, “Why should I?”

  That was the easiest answer. “For your country.”

  She folded her arms. “Hmm, yes. My country. Because England has done so very much for me. My paradise.” She narrowed her eyes. “Know this, Wyndham. I would leave England in my wake in a split second had I the resources to go. Leave and never, ever come back.”

  He drew back, repulsed by the very idea. She could not be serious. “Yet you came to me with this story, out of concern for His Highness.”

  She shrugged, her gaze on the glowing coals. “I dislike conspiracies and traps. Unjust and despicable. One cannot fight them, for one cannot find them to face them down.” She turned back to him. “However, I did my part. I told you. I’ve no more interest in the matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “I owe you no explanation. I simply refuse. That is all you need know.”

  Perhaps if he begged on his knees, the heavens might drop an anvil on this poisonous creature’s head in the next few moments.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t the begging sort. He stood and regarded her from his greater height. “I will pay you a considerable bounty if you can identify this mystery lord—so that I can do my duty and turn him in to the proper authorities. With that, you can sail off to any shore you like and have plenty left to start anew.”

  Alicia’s heart nearly stopped. As easily as that? All her troubles, all these years of deprivation and ridicule, blown away by a wealthy gentleman’s easy declaration?

  Part of her hated him for it, for treating her like a commodity, to be bought and sold.

  Another part of her—the sensible, canny woman who had survived that “fate worse than death” he’d spoken of—that woman made her stick out her hand right then and there. “Wyndham, you have made yourself a deal. Twenty thousand pounds . . . plus expenses.”

  He hesitated. “Expenses?”

  Alicia smiled. She might be a poor, ruined woman now, but there had been a time when she had been the toast of London. She knew precisely what it cost to be that sort of woman. “You don’t expect me to appear in Society like this?”

  He eyed her narrowly for a moment, then let his gaze travel down her body. It was rude and assessing, but she didn’t blame him. There was no sense in buying the horse without checking its teeth. He took her hand in agreement.

  “Are you sure you can you pull it off?” He wasn’t trying to be insulting, that was the amusing part.

  She threw back her head and laughed. She felt suddenly as light as goose down. “Just you watch me!” She began to pace the room. “I shall need a new wardrobe of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “A very fine one, I should think—for verisimilitude, you understand. No one would believe a man like you would keep a woman cheaply.”

  “Why, thank you,” he said dryly. “I think.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “And I shall need transportation befitting my new life . . . and of course, I can’t get by with only Millie. She simply isn’t up to that sort of work.” She gazed at him severely, as if she expected him to demand that the elderly woman step to work at once.

  He bowed in concession. “I wouldn’t dream of troubling Millie from her well-deserved retirement.”

  She turned to gaze at him with her fists on her baggy hips. “I’m not sure you understand what is required here, Wyndham. I must look fabulous.”

  Impossible. He cleared his throat. “I assure you, no expense will be spared in that . . . attempt.”

  She grimaced, shedding flakes of dried he-didn’t-want-to-know-what in the process. “I’m not at my best right now, but I assure you, Wyndham, I can hold my own against any woman in Society.”

  Since she appeared to truly believe tha
t, and since she was going to need every ounce of confidence to pull this off, Stanton only made a noncommittal noise and changed the subject. “About your reward . . .”

  “Twenty thousand pounds.” She locked her gaze to his. “Nonnegotiable,” she said quickly. “Payable whether you find your mystery lord or not.”

  “Entirely negotiable,” he said easily. “It will be ten thousand pounds guaranteed. I will not reward you the full twenty thousand unless we find precisely who you described—a man with designs against the Crown.”

  She looked displeased beneath her crusty mask. “I don’t know . . .”

  “But of course, you’ll be allowed to keep the wardrobe and accoutrements.”

  She took a deep breath and let it go slowly. “Agreed.” She stuck out her hand. Stanton pressed it quickly and let go.

  Something nagged at him, however. “Why did you finally agree? It cannot merely be the money. Do you have some fantasy of regaining your place in the world? I doubt one woman can expect to reform Society so profoundly.”

  She scoffed. “Not at all. Why reform something that isn’t worth the effort? Society will not change, for people will not change. Since the day we left Eden, there has been some form of Society wherever more than three idiots come together.”

  He released a short bark of laughter at that.

  She looked at him oddly. “You might want to oil that. It seems to be rusting.” Then she threw herself down on the seat to lounge nearly horizontal. “No, I do not want reform. I want revenge. Pure, simple, untarnished by higher motives— sweet, sweet revenge.” She rolled her head and smiled at him slyly. “And you’re going to help me get it.”

  “Revenge upon whom?”

  “My family, the ancient and noble Sutherland line.”

  “What has your family to do with this matter?”

  Her gaze slipped to the window, unseeing. “My ho—my family’s home is in Sussex. Lord Cross is one of our closest neighbors.” She drew a breath. “My parents are all that is proper and respectable. More now than ever, I’m sure, to compensate for their notorious daughter.” She tossed her head, putting on a wide smile. “Have you never wanted to undo time? Have you never turned around and said, ‘What was I thinking?’ ”