In no mood for pretense, Beau grabbed the letter from his friend and ripped it open.
His gaze scanned the page. “Christ!”
“What?” Clayton asked, excitement in his voice. The viscount leaned forward as if to glance at the letter’s contents. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.” Beau let both the letter and his hand drop to his side.
Beau stalked over to the window. He scanned the page again to ensure he’d read it correctly. In a hundred years, he wouldn’t have guessed this. Not in a thousand years, actually. He read it for a third time. The words weren’t changing. It said precisely what he’d thought it said the first two times.
“My apologies, Clayton. I must go.” Beau turned and brushed past the viscount on his way out the door.
Once in the hallway, Beau glanced both ways. There was no more debate. Where was she? He had to find Marianne immediately.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Marianne remained scarce the rest of the day. She desperately needed to speak with Beau, but she intended to wait until they had complete privacy and the cover of darkness.
She’d spent most of the day in the antechamber of Lady Wilhelmina’s room, mending some undergarments. She’d chosen the location mostly because Beau would never be able to look for her there.
It had been a success. She didn’t arrive back to her bedchamber until after Lady Wilhelmina had returned from dinner. Marianne had helped the young woman change into her night rail before stealing back up to her own bedchamber on the fourth floor. Even then, she waited another hour before she moved quietly out into the corridor, down to Beau’s room.
He answered the knock nearly immediately, as if he was waiting for someone.
His jaw was tight and his face was blank. Most tellingly, he didn’t say a word. He merely stepped back and opened the door wide enough for her to enter. She remained silent as well as she stepped inside. She waited for him to close the door behind her before she turned to him.
“Beau, I—”
“I assume you received a letter, too?” His voice was clipped, entirely devoid of emotion.
Very well. If he was going to be this way, so would she be.
“I did,” she answered curtly, careful to remove emotion from her voice too.
Beau stalked over to the small desk in front of his window and grabbed his letter.
“Didn’t burn yours, I see,” she said.
“No. I didn’t. Do you have yours?” His face remained blank. He was beginning to alarm her.
She pulled from her apron pocket the letter she’d been carrying all day. “Yes, I have it.”
“Well, I suppose you won’t read yours to me until I read mine to you?” His voice was harsh.
“Why don’t we trade them?” she offered.
“Ah, excellent. That way we’ll both know we aren’t lying…for once.”
She tentatively held out her letter to him and he handed her his.
They both accepted each other’s letters and read them quickly.
Marianne closed her eyes. Beau’s letter said the exact same thing hers had.
* * *
Agent B,
By now you must realize that we have two operatives at the Clayton house party. You must work with Agent M to bring the Bidassoa traitor to justice. Your orders are to return with the family to Lord Copperpot’s estate and await further instruction while continuing to investigate. Good luck.
G
* * *
Beau was the first to speak. “You’re Agent M.”
Marianne nodded. “You’re Agent B.”
“Guilty.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair and stalked toward the window. “Damn it. I don’t like working with anyone else.”
“Neither do I,” she replied.
He turned back to face her. “What do you know about the Bidassoa traitor? You said you brother was murdered. You said you were looking for a murderer, not a traitor.”
“My brother was murdered. By the Bidassoa traitor. My brother was Private Frederick Ellsworth.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Beau’s eyes widened. “The devil you say! Your brother was the soldier who intercepted the letter? The one who took it to Wellington?” Beau spent the next several moments trying to solidify in his mind how all of this was possible.
First, Marianne was a spy too. He’d been so enamored of her, he’d failed to see the clues that were directly beneath his nose. General Grimaldi, his commanding officer, liked to do things this way. He often put two operatives in the same location in order to test them. Then, in the end, they would be there to help one another.
Beau had simply never guessed that Grimaldi would pull this stunt on him, and specifically not with a female spy. Beau had never seen it coming. That was his fault. And he could bloody well kick himself for being such an obtuse fool.
Second, apparently Marianne’s brother was the private who had been shot after intercepting the Bidassoa traitor’s letter from the French. Having handed over the letter, Private Ellsworth had died in front of Wellington, and was posthumously awarded a medal in return for his bravery. In all of his musings, Beau had never guessed that her brother and this hero were the same man. Why would he have any reason to?
Marianne leaned back against the wall near the door. “Yes. The truth is that I set out to find Frederick’s murderer as soon as I learned what had happened to him.”
“How did you get involved with Grimaldi?” Beau asked.
She stepped toward the window, crossing her arms over her chest. “At first, I merely went to London. I was looking for the men who were in the special council, who knew about the British army’s plans at Bidassoa. I soon learned there were three suspects.”
“Cunningham, Hightower, and Copperpot,” Beau ground out.
“Precisely. Lady Courtney, my former employer, helped me with a reference, but it was pure luck that Lady Wilhelmina was looking for a lady’s maid at the same time. I found the advertisement in the paper, actually.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you came to work with Grimaldi,” Beau pointed out.
Marianne nodded. “Grimaldi found me.”
“Of course he did.” Beau braced his hands on his hips and cursed under his breath. This story smacked entirely of Grimaldi.
“He’d heard rumors that I was asking a lot of questions about the special council and he came looking for me one day. I met him in the park near the Copperpots’ London residence.”
“And he knew who you were, didn’t he?” Beau continued to shake his head.
Marianne nodded. “Yes. He knew right away that I was the sister of the murdered solider. I told him I would never stop looking for Frederick’s murderer, so he asked me to join him instead of working at odds.”
Beau believed every word of it. That was precisely how Grimaldi liked to work. He showed up when he needed someone and convinced them to work for him. But why that damned puppet master hadn’t seen fit to let Beau in on the secret, he’d no bloody idea.
“You didn’t know I was working for Grimaldi until today?” Beau asked next, narrowing his eyes on Marianne’s face to gauge whether she replied with the truth.
“Not until I read this letter this morning,” she replied, her voice sounding tired, resigned.
She was telling the truth. The devastation in her reply told him as much. It mirrored how he felt.
Beau paced away from her and scrubbed the back of his neck. “Forgive me for asking this, but didn’t you say you have an older brother, too? Why isn’t he looking for Frederick’s killer?”
She pursed her lips and arched a pale brow. “That’s a nice way of you asking why I’m involved, being a woman—and the answer is that, regardless of my sex, the moment I learned that my brother had been killed, I vowed to avenge him. Men are allowed such emotions. I see no reason why women cannot be. And if you must know, my elder brother has been captured by the French.”
Beau cursed under
his breath again. “I’m sorry. Of course. You have every right to avenge your brother’s murder. It’s just that…This whole thing has taken me by surprise, and I’m not used to being taken by surprise.” He put his hands on his hips again and stared at the floor.
“Likewise,” Marianne replied, primly, “and speaking of being taken by surprise… Were you ever going to tell me that you’re a marquess?”
Beau’s head snapped up to meet her gaze. “Who told you that?” Confusion marred his brow, and he re-read her letter that he was still holding. “It doesn’t say anything about that here.”
“I know,” Marianne replied. “I figured it out on my own.”
Beau bit the inside of his cheek and let his hand holding the letter fall to his side once again. He’d been bested by another spy. A female spy. A female spy to whom he was ridiculously attracted. He refused to ask her the question that was perched on the tip of his tongue: had she been pretending when she’d slept with him? Had she merely done it to get close to him, to learn more about who he was? Because in that, he hadn’t been playacting. No. He hadn’t. Not for one moment.
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Do you mind telling me how you figured it out?” He had to ensure that no one else knew.
“Don’t worry,” she replied, obviously guessing his concern. “No one else knows, that I’m aware of. After you told me your name is Beau, I overheard Lady Copperpot and Wilhelmina talking about a ‘Lord Bellingham.’ And they mentioned that Lord Clayton had referred to him—you—as ‘Bell.’ After that, I put it all together when Lady Wilhelmina told me Lord Bellingham’s Christian name was Beaumont.”
“Damn it.” Beau shook his head. “I knew I never should have told you my name.”
“Well, now that it’s all out in the open, I might as well tell you my full name. As I said, my Christian name is Marianne. But like my brother—as you’ve probably already guessed—my surname is Ellsworth, not Notley. Notley was my mother’s maiden name.”
Beau tossed the letter onto the desk in front of him and faced the window. “I suppose we both should have told each other more before we…slept together.”
“I don’t regret it,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Neither do I.”
“I don’t regret it, but I think it’s best if we don’t repeat it,” Marianne continued. “Especially now that we know we both work for General Grimaldi. And now that I realize you’re a marquess,” she added, averting her eyes.
“I agree,” Beau replied, not certain he agreed at all. But he could understand why she felt that way, and he didn’t want to do anything to make her feel uncomfortable.
He wanted to ask her why she hadn’t come to him the last two nights, but he already suspected he knew why. She’d learned his identity and hadn’t been ready to discuss it with him. “We wouldn’t want it to…complicate things,” he finished.
“Yes, exactly—'complicate things,’” she echoed. “I’m glad we agree on it. Especially since it appears your orders are also to return to Lord Copperpot’s house after this party ends.”
“Appears so,” he replied stoically. “The only other clue left is whatever Cunningham, Hightower, and Copperpot were speaking about when I overheard them in the study that day. I assume Grimaldi wants us to learn more about that.”
“So, you were listening at the keyhole that day?” Marianne asked with wry smile.
“Guilty.”
“What do you think I was doing, walking by? I was trying to hear, too.” She winked at him.
Beau shook his head, but he also had to laugh. He’d been thoroughly duped by Grimaldi and Marianne. There was no two ways about it. He’d been a damn, arrogant fool.
Marianne’s countenance quickly turned serious again. “If you’re going to return to Lord Copperpot’s estate, you’ll have to convince Mr. Broughton to stay away longer,” she pointed out.
Beau shrugged. “I’m not worried about that. I have my ways.”
“Which are?” Marianne put her hands on her hips and rocked back and forth on her heels.
Beau glanced at her. “They usually involve money.”
“I see,” Marianne replied. “It must be quite convenient to be able to use money to solve your problems.”
“I assure you, it is.” Beau scrubbed his hand through his hair again, still trying to reconcile today’s turn of events. “Very well. For the foreseeable future, it seems we must work together to find the Bidassoa traitor.”
“Seems that way,” Marianne replied. “And you agree that we won’t continue our, ahem, physical relationship?” She swallowed hard.
Beau gave her a sidewise stare. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“Then of course I agree.”
She held out her hand to him. “Partners?”
“Partners,” he agreed, taking her hand and giving it a firm shake. God help him. For the first time in his life, he had a partner.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lord Copperpot’s Country Estate, October 1814
It hadn’t been much of a feat to get Mr. Broughton to agree to relinquish his position as valet to Lord Copperpot for the foreseeable future.
As Beau had expected, a healthy sum of money and the promise that he would be assured a position in the future was all it took to convince the chap to take an extended holiday. Lord Copperpot, for his part, was only too ready to keep Beau on as his valet. He’d been pleased by his work and probably relished the idea of no longer having to worry about his valet’s sobriety on any given night.
Weeks had passed however, and Beau was slowly going mad. It wasn’t that the work of a valet was too much for him. It was quite routine, actually, once one got used to it. No. His problem with the weeks he’d spent at Lord Copperpot’s estate was the proximity to Marianne. Specifically, the fact that he was in her company quite often, he wanted her as much as he ever had, and he could do nothing about it.
The monotony of his days was broken only by glimpses of Marianne and the letters he received from Kendall. The earl, of course, did not put his address on the letters he wrote, nor did he frank them as he was entitled to do as a member of Parliament. He also didn’t seal them with his crest. Any of those actions would draw too much attention to the correspondence. Instead, Kendall wrote on plain paper, not vellum, and Beau was able to get the letters in the daily post call without any of the other servants at Lord Copperpot’s estate thinking anything was amiss.
Kendall’s letters informed Beau that Kendall and Miss Wharton were to be married in the spring. Seems the earl had, in fact, found the love of his life while posing as a footman at the house party.
Worth, however, was in trouble. According to Kendall, the duke had left the house party after forfeiting the bet, and all he’d done since returning to London was drink too much. Apparently, his mood had further declined a few weeks ago when he’d received the invitation to Lady Julianna Montgomery’s wedding to the Marquess of Murdock.
Worthington was in love with Lady Julianna. The fool always had been, but the day that Beau went out to the stables at Clayton’s house party and attempted to tell the sop as much, the duke had steadfastly refused to listen. Stubborn arse. Now Beau was hours away in Guildford, completely unable to deliver one of his famous speeches to get Worth to see reason. Kendall would have to help Worth in his time of need.
Thankfully, Kendall reported that he had tasked himself with ensuring that Worth didn’t drink himself into an early grave, while listening to story after story about the lovely Lady Julianna.
When he wasn’t thinking about his lovesick friend, or obsessing over the identity of the traitor, Beau had plenty of time to think about Marianne. He saw her daily. Their paths crossed several times a day, actually, given the fact that Lord and Lady Copperpot occupied bedchambers with adjoining doors. He often saw her in the corridor as they were both exiting the rooms.
Lady Wilhelmina’s bedchamber was just across the hall from her parents’
rooms, and if Marianne wasn’t coming out of Lady Copperpot’s bedchamber, where she helped with duties since Mrs. Wimbley’s health continued to be spotty, Marianne was coming or going from the younger woman’s bedchamber.
Beau always nodded to Marianne in way of greeting. At times, one of them would actually say a few words such as, “Good afternoon.” But for the most part, they acted as if they barely knew each other. They certainly didn’t act as if they’d ever spent three passionate nights in each other’s arms.
For her part, Marianne appeared to have no problem whatsoever with their agreement to keep their hands off of one another while they worked toward discovering the traitor. The two of them met briefly once a week to compare notes. They’d fallen into it quite casually. It was usually done on Monday mornings.
After seeing to Lady Wilhelmina’s clothing before she went down to the servants’ dining room, Marianne would exit the young woman’s bedchamber at half past eight. Near this same time, Beau would ensure he finished laying out his lordship’s clothing for whatever outing or event Lord Copperpot had planned for the late morning. He would exit his lordship’s bedchamber and meet Marianne in the stairwell of the servant’s staircase at the far end of the hall, much as they had done at Clayton’s estate.
They spent no more than five minutes together at these meetings. And Beau would pretend the entire time that the scent of her hair didn’t make him want to pull it down from its pins so that he might run his fingers through it. He pretended that the sight of the freckles along the bridge of her nose didn’t make him want to kiss each one of them individually. And he further pretended that the mere proximity to her didn’t make him hard. But all of these things were true, and they were slowly driving him mad.
Their time together in the staircase was brief mainly because there wasn’t much to report. Beau had long ago become convinced that Lord Copperpot wasn’t the culprit. During his weeks at the estate, Beau had managed to ask all of Copperpot’s likely servants if they could write, and had invented excuses to see their handwriting. None of it matched the Bidassoa traitor’s letter.
The Valet Who Loved Me Page 14
