Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 03]

by One NightWith a Spy

  Dane Calwell shrugged. “According to her, she has been making the decisions and suggestions in Barrowby’s place for years.”

  Lord Liverpool snarled. “Bringing every action of the Four into question for the duration of that time. Who knows what sort of fritterly female thinking she’s injected into our—ah, your dealings?”

  Marcus stared at the Prime Minister. “Pray, tell me you don’t give a second’s credence to such a claim? It’s ridiculous. She must be lying. She found out about the Four somehow and is taking advantage of her husband’s death!”

  Reardon shook his head. “I know it seems unbelievable, but according to the staff, Barrowby has been entirely incapacitated for three years. The Barrowby physician concurred. The Fox has been without speech, without the ability to hold a quill, without even much recognition of his surroundings. Yet we believed the Fox was in fine form all that time.”

  Marcus scoffed. “She holds Barrowby now, which means she holds the lifelines of all those people in her hands. They will say what she commands them to say!”

  Liverpool turned to the others. “Precisely what I have been saying!”

  Dane nodded. “I suppose that is a possibility.” Marcus couldn’t believe the reluctance he saw in his mentor’s expression.

  “You cannot be seriously considering this creature’s petition?”

  Dane shrugged. “Were she a man, we would consider her to be more highly qualified than you.”

  Reardon nodded. “True enough. Three years’ apprenticeship and three years’ active duty. An excellent record for someone her age.”

  Marcus looked from one to the other. They were barking mad, both of them. “Active duty? Ordering tea and toting her sick husband’s chamber pot?”

  “Precisely!” Liverpool nodded. “Somehow she wormed her way into Barrowby’s trust, likely when he began to fall into senility. He told her too much. We ought to have been more suspicious of a young, beautiful woman who would wed a man his age!”

  “We never sought much information on her. It did not occur to us that a mere girl could get the better of a wily old hunter like Barrowby.” The Falcon, whom Marcus had trouble thinking of having an actual name, slid his gaze from man to man. “We need more information on the woman.”

  Marcus rather thought they needed to be sent to Bedlam, but he would support anything that prevented his position being usurped by an old man’s arm ornament! “I’ll do it.”

  Dane flicked his gaze sideways at Marcus. “And you’ll be an objective observer? I think not.”

  Liverpool held up a hand. “Perhaps Dryden is a good choice. He is not objective. He is less likely to be swayed by her astonishing beauty than another man, for she threatens his advancement.”

  Lord Reardon grinned. “ ‘Astonishing beauty’? I didn’t think you noticed that sort of thing, Robert.”

  Liverpool shot his own former protégé a dark glare. “I may be indifferent, but I am not blind. The influence of such a creature should not be underestimated.”

  Reardon reached into his pocket and tossed something small toward Marcus, who caught it neatly. He turned it in his hand. It was a miniature, painted carefully on a circle of ivory, framed in gilt.

  Dane lifted a brow. “You robbed the widow, Nate?”

  Reardon shrugged. “She won’t miss it. There was quite a collection of them.”

  Marcus peered closely at the image in his hand. The lady there was fair, with eyes of gray and a sweet, vulnerable gaze. Her rounded face looked so young and her eyes so very hopeful …

  Those eyes caused an unaccustomed ache somewhere within his chest. He closed his hand over the image quickly. “Pretty.” He pocketed the piece. “I assure you all,” he added dryly, “I am not about to be swayed by a pretty face—or even an ‘astonishing’ one.”

  Dane regarded him carefully. “And you’ll return a true verdict, though it might mean you’ll wait many years to take a seat in the Four?”

  Marcus returned the gaze evenly. “If you don’t trust me, then I shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

  Dane watched him for a long moment more, then shrugged. “True. Very well, I am for it.”

  Reardon nodded. “It will be an interesting study, will it not? A woman in the Four. Our pool of potential members would widen instantly.”

  “God forbid,” Liverpool said fervently. He nodded. “I am in agreement.”

  “You are all forgetting something,” the Falcon said slowly. “If she is indeed well versed in the Four, she may very well know of Dryden already.”

  Dane narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Perhaps, although she did seem to think she was the only possible candidate. Of course, I have never used names in our correspondence.”

  “She has other means of gathering information, if you recall.” The Falcon tilted his head and regarded the ceiling. “Channels I would very much like to know more about.” He dropped his chin to gaze at Marcus. “Go, but use an alias.”

  Marcus pinned on a jaunty smile and bowed briskly. “Marcus Blythe-Goodman, footloose and charming younger son, at your service, my lords.”

  Reardon grinned. “She’ll think you a gold digger, man.”

  Marcus’s grin soured. “It takes one to know one. And, once she labels me thus, she’ll look no further.”

  The Falcon stood. “Excellent. We’ll await your report in London in ten days’ time.”

  Marcus bowed and turned to leave. He might be entrusted with all the Four’s information and intelligence, yet when dismissed, he was most decidedly dismissed.

  No matter. He would take a few days to ferret out Lady Barrowby’s secrets—then he would be dismissed no more.

  The knock on the door of her morning room surprised Julia. Nothing short of fire or famine would normally induce one of Barrowby’s staff to disturb her when she was working.

  Not that there was much to do at the moment. Barrowby was entailed to the next male heir and until one could be found through the patrilineal search that was even now being conducted by her—ah, Aldus’s solicitor, there was little to do but count and store the harvest and see that the cottagers had sufficient wood and tight roofing for the coming winter.

  The investments that Aldus had begun for her five years ago were doing well enough, and although she would hate to leave the estate that had been her home, she would never want if she managed her concerns carefully.

  Beppo entered, his mobile face a study in dismay.

  Julia frowned. “What is it, Beppo?”

  “My lady, you have callers.”

  She blinked. “Callers? Not the gentlemen who were here yesterday?”

  “No, my lady. But they are gentlemen … most of them.”

  “Most? How many are there?”

  Beppo hesitated and stared at the ceiling for a moment as if counting a great number from memory.

  Indeed, as it turned out, there was a distinct possibility of famine.

  The ravening hordes had arrived.

  “Ale,” he called to the man who was filling tankards five at a time in his massive fist.

  The inn at Middlebarrow was full to bursting. It had taken a considerable bribe to have Marcus’s horse properly stabled. He elbowed his way to the barkeep of the public room through a sea of fellows.

  “Four pence,” the man shouted back over the din.

  Marcus blinked but dropped the coins on the bar without comment. It was a king’s ransom as ale prices went, but the stuff must be excellent if the number of patrons was any indication. When his own tankard appeared before him, he drank deeply to erase the dirt of a hard day’s ride.

  Acrid. Weak. Bitter and raw. Marcus swallowed out of fear of spitting on his neighbor and gasped. “This is horse piss!”

  The man next to him glanced his way. “I’ve tasted horse piss and it’s an improvement over this.” He indicated the small circle of men about him, all nursing tankards of the heinous ale. “We’ve a bet down that we can find something that tastes worse. So far, no luck. Wa
nt to lay down a quid?”

  Marcus wheezed and shoved his own tankard away. “I can’t back a wager I don’t believe in.” He wiped his mouth. “So what is the attraction here if not the ale?” He grinned. “Does the innkeeper have a flock of pretty daughters?”

  The other man shook his head. “No flock, just one. And not the innkeeper’s daughter.”

  One of the other fellows nodded emphatically. “And she isn’t pretty, either! She’s the most beautiful woman in England!”

  The first man snorted. “You’ll have to forgive Eames, there,” he said to Marcus. “He’s a bit smitten.”

  Eames bridled. “And you aren’t, Elliot?”

  The man next to Marcus, Elliot, raised his tankard in salute. “I am indeed smitten, old man. I’m just too cynical to spout superlatives in public.”

  Oh, hell. This didn’t look good. Marcus let his gaze travel about the room, taking in the occupants with a new eye. All young or youngish. All well dressed and groomed to a spit and polish—all watching each other with the wary acquiescence of predators sharing a watering hole. As far as Marcus knew, there was only one prize worthy of such a turnout in Middlebarrow.

  “You’re all here to court Lady Barrowby, aren’t you?” Damn, and he’d thought it would be easy.

  “What? Did you think it would be easy?”

  Marcus shot his gaze to Elliot, whose lips twisted knowingly. “You thought you’d just trot down here and attach her affections with your good looks and your ebullient charm?” He gestured to the filled room. “As did we all.” He tipped back his tankard and downed the dregs of his ale with a grimace. “Bog water, perhaps?” His brow creased thoughtfully. “Or castor oil?”

  The other three men shook their heads. “No, we agreed that it has to be a naturally occurring phenomenon. No preparations from the apothecary!”

  Elliot shrugged. “Castor oil occurs naturally, but I shan’t press the issue.” He turned back to Marcus and stuck out his hand. “Since we’re here on a similar mission, I shall dispense with the niceties. I’m Elliot.”

  Mission? Marcus shook the offered hand warily. “I am Marcus Blythe-Goodman. Elliot …?”

  Elliot smirked again. “Simply ‘Elliot.’ It adds to my mystique. I need every advantage to stand out in this lot.”

  The other three offered their hands. Eames, Potter, and Stuckey …

  “Are there any blue bloods in the game?”

  Elliot narrowed his eyes. “Why, are you planning to claim some connections?”

  Marcus regarded the other man just as narrowly. “Why, are you planning to refute them?”

  Elliot watched him for a long moment, then shrugged easily. “Sabotage is not my style. I’m more the sort to dazzle her with my charm until she’s blinded to yours.”

  Marcus fought the urge to laugh. A true younger son desperate for some advantage in the world would take this game very seriously. In fact, if he had any hope of getting close to Lady Barrowby, he ought to start taking it more seriously himself. He looked about the room. “There must be some way to cut the herd.”

  The other four men riveted him with their gazes. “We’re listening,” Elliot said. “I’ve tried everything, even telling tales of the man-eating Beast of Barrowby.”

  Marcus folded his arms. “Rumor is effective. Shall we spread the word that the heir to Barrowby has been found? That will send home the ones looking for more than a widow’s portion.”

  Elliot smiled slowly. “I’m in.”

  Eames bridled. “Lie? Never! I am a gentleman.”

  Marcus widened his eyes innocently. “It isn’t a lie. I heard it myself, just before I left London. He’s on a ship from the West Indies even as we speak.” To be truthful, there was a possibility that Barrowby’s lost heir lived in Johannesburg—then again, there was a possibility that he did not.

  Either way, it was not Marcus’s problem.

  So it was in unspoken and temporary truce that they all moved into the crowd, spreading the word.

  In the elegant halls of Barrowby, Julia heard voices coming from her parlor and pressed herself against the wall at the top of the stairs, keeping out of sight of the entrance hall below. They were back.

  She pressed a hand to her forehead. Perhaps if there weren’t so damned many of them. Or perhaps if they weren’t so attentive.

  She’d tried speaking very little, then not speaking at all. She’d instructed her cook, Meg, to lessen the supply and quality of the refreshments, and the same of Furman, the innkeeper in the village. Now there was no food and no fire and still they came!

  She’d tried pleading ill once, only to be deluged with notes and gifts wishing her well, all of which then had to be politely answered, which only encouraged the lot of them. She daren’t try it again.

  She’d always understood the mourning process of the upper classes to be rather isolating, but since each and every one of the gentlemen insisted they were merely here to “console” her, she could not in politeness turn them away.

  She was desperate, even contemplating a sudden, vigorous attack of the pox and sneezing on them all.

  “Never lie,” Aldus had instructed her. “Not if you can possibly help it. It is too difficult to keep track of the ripples in the water. It is better to tell part of the truth and behave as if you’ve told it all.”

  She sighed. So many rules to remember and follow. Over the years most of them had become second nature … but now she was faced with something she’d never experienced.

  Male attention was not something she’d had aplenty in her life. She’d been a gawky girl and an unprepossessing bride. True, she’d improved somewhat in the following years, but by then she’d been lady of the manor. Hands off.

  She was still lady of the manor, and more importantly, she was the Fox, wily manipulator of countries and kings. So what was so difficult about a roomful of adoring fellows unsubtly seeking her favor?

  The difficulty was that she missed Aldus. She missed his conversation when he was well and his need for her when he wasn’t. For the first time in ten years, she felt alone.

  Igby, one of her footmen, passed her in the hallway and gave her pert smile and an encouraging wink. Julia mustered up a smile and nod in return. She wasn’t alone. Barrowby was her family, all the staff and cottagers who had become so dear to her.

  She sighed and pushed herself away from the wall. There was no help for it. She must face the mob.

  She entered the parlor with her head high and the merest of polite smiles on her face. Surprisingly, there was no mob in sight, only a bare dozen fellows—the most persistent of the former crowd and one other.

  The tall stranger stood back from her faithful coterie as they moved forward as one to greet her. He remained clearly visible to her, as if the others instinctively left him a path to her side.

  A small tremor went through her, surprising her into examining him more closely. He was beautiful. With his sculpted cheekbones he might have been almost too pretty, but for the bump on his nose that gave one the impression that there was a brawler beneath the polished exterior. That impression was substantiated by a small scar that cut through one eyebrow.

  His green gaze caught her short, causing her to pause in her unenthusiastic greetings. His eyes were a riveting emerald that seemed to turn darker when his gaze rested on hers. When they briefly turned away, she was able to take notice of his broad shoulders and generally superior manly physique.

  A ringing like that of the village fire bell sounded within her. Danger.

  She was attracted to him, whoever he was. How alarming—and absolutely perilous. Then Elliot, who held the distinction of being the only one to ever make her laugh, stepped between, cutting the stranger from her sight.

  Who was he? He was different, she could tell instantly. There was something about the way he stood there, unwilling to compete with men who were clearly his inferiors, completely confident that she would go to him.

  That unconscious bit of arrogance broke her tran
ce. She increased the brightness of the smile she bestowed on dear Elliot. “How glad I am that you could visit again today,” she said clearly, not looking at the new-corner by force of will.

  She was desperate to find out who he was and somewhat less desperate but still interested to find out what had happened to the rest of the mob. Had Furman gone so far as to actually poison the ale this time?

  “I’m afraid the faint of heart have returned to their usual hunting grounds,” Elliot whispered into her ear as he took her hand to lead her to “her” chair—well, she couldn’t very well allow them to fight out who sat with her on the sofa!—and he winked at her with his face turned away from the others. “Now all I must do is kill off the others and you’ll be mine, all mine!”

  The corners of Julia’s mouth twitched. Elliot spotted her response, although she covered it with an imperious nod. His eyes lit triumphantly.

  She ought not to encourage him, but at least his company was not as tiresome as that of the more earnest Mr. Eames. “Can you make it look like an accident?” she replied, her voice no more than a breath.

  He squeezed her hand briefly. “A veritable act of God.”

  “Here now,” huffed Mr. Eames from behind Elliot. “Her ladyship is in no humor for your senseless jests, Elliot!”

  “Perhaps her ladyship is in no humor to be told what sort of humor she’s in.”

  The stranger’s voice was deep and powerful, reminding Julia of the rumbling growl of a predator.

  Mr. Eames huffed once more, which seemed to be his primary form of communication. Julia noticed Elliot eyeing the new gentleman with watchful amusement. The fellow gazed calmly back at him, clearly waiting for Elliot, or someone, to remember their manners and present him to her.

  Elliot dragged the moment out a bit more, clearly amused. Then he shrugged and turned back to Julia with a smile. “That looming brute over there is Marcus Blythe-Goodman. He rides a fine horse and tends not to talk overmuch about himself. A highly suspicious character. I suggest you bar him from your house immediately.”