Barbara laughed. “She will certainly be a spring tonic for you. Now, how do you feel about hosting a small dinner party on Friday evening to introduce Jack? With so many of our friends in London, we will be quite thin of company, but I think we can put together a pleasant table. Naturally, we’ll invite Isabel and Lord Manning, as well as several others, like Clara Appleton, who eschewed the Season this year.” She smiled slyly. “And perhaps by then you and Isabel will have decided upon a date for the wedding and it can be announced.”
Marcus doubted the latter, but he agreed with his mother’s plans to introduce Jack to their circle of friends. They spoke on the matter for several moments before Marcus inquired about his mother’s trip to London and Barbara in turn asked after local events.
A glimmer of a smile in his eyes, Marcus asked, “Did my news disrupt your plans in London terribly?”
She laughed. “No, truth be told, London was extremely tiring. I find that I like my familiar things around me and my normal routine.”
“Hmmm, seems to me that you’ve scolded me often enough for saying the same thing.”
“Hush!” she said, her eyes dancing. “As a respectful and dutiful son, you are to do as I say, not as I do.” Leaning forward, Barbara demanded, “Now tell me: what do you think of Jack?”
Marcus shrugged. “On the basis of our short acquaintance, he seems a decent enough fellow. I think he will prove to be an enjoyable companion.”
“My impression exactly! He was a delightful and entertaining escort during the trip from London. And if half of what I hear from his mother is true, he has led a most exciting life. The adventures he has had for a young man not yet five and thirty!”
Feeling a trifle ruffled by the wistful, almost envious note in his mother’s voice, Marcus muttered, “Aunt Maria is probably well used to learning that he is lingering near death’s door.”
“Oh, I know,” said Barbara, “she has often written to me how she worries about him. My heart goes out to her and I am most thankful that you have never given me a moment’s worry.” Unaware that she had just added insult to injury, she added, “It was so fortunate that he came to call on the same day I received your exciting news. I was just about to write you and request your company for the journey home, when the butler informed me that Jack was in the foyer wishing to pay his respects.”
“I’d wondered how he came to escort you from London. I didn’t realize that you knew him well.”
“I knew of his exploits from my sister, of course,” Barbara admitted, “but until I saw him in my sitting room in London, I hadn’t laid eyes on him for years.” She smiled. “His mother wrote him that I was in London and urged him to come to call. I’m sure it was the last thing he wanted to do, but he did and it all worked out splendidly.”
Idly, Marcus remarked, “Seems surprising that such a dashing buck would tear himself away from London to escort home an older female relative he hardly knows.”
“Yes, I thought so, too, but he says that he has a friend staying in the area and that he’d take the opportunity to visit with him.” She frowned slightly. “Now what was his name? Jack said the fellow retired from the Army just a short while ago. A major, I think. Now what was it? White? No. Whitlow? No, that isn’t it either.”
Marcus stiffened. “Would it by chance be Whitley?”
“That’s it!” His mother beamed at him. “Do you know Major Whitley, too?”
“I’ve met him,” Marcus said carefully. Jack was a friend of Whitley’s? A coincidence?
“Oh, this is grand!” said Barbara happily. “Jack will be so pleased that you know his friend. If you let me know where he is staying, I shall invite him to dinner on Friday night.”
“No,” said Marcus in a voice she had never heard from him. His features grim, he added bluntly, “You are to have nothing to do with Whitley. Order Thompson to refuse him entrance should the man have the temerity to come to call. He is not an appropriate person for you to know.”
Startled, she stared at her normally amiable son, wondering where this hard-eyed, stone-faced stranger had come from. “But Jack knows him,” she said helplessly. “You must be mistaken. Surely Whitley cannot be so very bad?”
“I am sure,” Marcus said harshly, “that Jack knows all sorts of people and some of them,” he finished ominously, “are not the sort one would wish for a closer acquaintance.”
It wasn’t until after they had dined and Barbara had bid the two gentlemen good night that Marcus had a chance to bring up Whitley’s name. The two cousins were comfortably seated once again in Marcus’s office, partaking of snifters of brandy. A small fire burned on the hearth to chase away the faint chill of the May night, and candlelight cast a golden glow over the room.
Marcus was sprawled in the overstuffed leather chair near the fire, a snifter of brandy held in one hand. Jack sat on the oxblood settee, his long legs stretched toward the fire, his brandy resting on a nearby mahogany table.
Taking a sip of his brandy, Jack grinned at Marcus and said, “This is a far cry from some of the places I’ve bivouacked over the years. More nights than I care to think of I’ve gone to bed in a drafty tent, slept on the cold, wet ground with moldy cheese, stale bread, and sour wine my only sustenance—if I had that!” He leaned his head back against the settee and sighed blissfully. “A full stomach—my compliments to your cook, by the way—a warm fire, a snifter of fine brandy, and an entertaining companion; what more could a man ask for?”
“Little else,” Marcus replied with a smile. Even with his suspicions aroused by Jack’s relationship with Whitley, Marcus found it impossible not to respond to his cousin’s easy charm. Damn it, I like the bloody fellow, Marcus thought ruefully. And just because he knows Whitley doesn’t mean anything. But Marcus was surprised and a little disappointed, although he had no reason to be, that Jack associated with someone like the major.
Marcus knew the major’s type. One met men like Whitley in the halls and gaming clubs along Pall Mall or in the high-priced brothels favored by the gentlemen of the ton. The major and his ilk were amusing companions for drinking and whoring, or any number of masculine pursuits, but they were generally not people someone introduced to the ladies of the family. Whitley’s bold manner with Isabel bothered him more than he cared to admit and he wondered what Hugh Manning had been about calling someone like Whitley friend and letting him be on familiar terms with his wife. He certainly wouldn’t let a bounder like Whitley within a mile of his wife, even if the polite world was full of men like the major. One didn’t, Marcus thought protectively, subject the females of the family to fellows of Whitley’s stripe.
The fact that Jack knew Whitley wouldn’t have normally aroused Marcus’s interest, but Jack’s knowing him, coupled with Whitley’s manner toward Isabel, raised alarms all through him. Of course, he reminded himself, Whitley and Jack had both been military men, and it was possible their paths had crossed more than once in the course of their careers. He frowned. Perhaps that’s all it was: Jack simply knew Whitley in the most superficial way. But that didn’t make sense. Why would Jack leave London at the height of the Season to travel to a small seaside village in the country to visit someone he only knew in passing?
Marcus took a sip of his brandy and decided to plunge right in. “Mother says that you have a friend staying in the area. A Major Whitley?”
A peculiar expression crossed Jack’s face and Marcus was immediately aware that Whitley’s name had provoked some emotion within Jack. And it wasn’t friendly.
Jack hesitated, then said, “Ah, yes. I heard from, um, friends that Whitley was visiting around here, and since I would be in the area, I thought I’d look him up.”
“A small world, isn’t it?” Marcus said, watching him closely. “I happen to have met your friend Whitley just days ago.”
“Did you now?” commented Jack. “Quite a coincidence.”
Marcus nodded. “I thought so.”
Jack tossed off some brandy. “When you met my friend, did he, perh
aps, mention where he was staying?” He smiled, but Marcus noticed it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’ll save me having to look for him.”
“The Stag Horn Inn near Salcombe, about a half hour’s ride from here.”
“How convenient,” Jack said, staring at the amber liquid in his snifter.
“He a good friend of yours?”
“Not precisely,” said Jack, a note in his voice that made Marcus wonder just what sort of “friendship” Jack had with Whitley.
“Still, you traveled all the way from London to visit him,” Marcus prompted.
Jack grinned at him. “No, I traveled all the way from London to enjoy the company of your charming mother. Whitley being in the area is a, er, bonus.” Tossing off another swallow of brandy, Jack looked at him and asked, “So how did you meet Whitley?”
Marcus hesitated, wondering how much to tell. Deciding that there was little to be gained in prevaricating, he said simply, “My fiancée, Isabel Manning, introduced us. She’s been a widow for nearly a decade now and it appears that Whitley was good friends with Isabel and her husband, Hugh, when she was in India several years ago. Apparently, Whitley recently retired from the Army and, with time on his hands, he is looking up old friends and making their reacquaintance—at least that’s what he said.”
“Oh? And he just now decided to visit her? After ten years?”
“Again, that’s what he said.”
“You don’t believe him,” Jack observed, staring keenly at Marcus.
Marcus took a sip of his brandy. “Not a bit,” he said cheerfully. Glancing at Jack, he said, “I think the man’s a bounder and up to no good. I’ve already told my mother to have our butler refuse him entrance should he come to call.” Thoughtfully he added, “And I must say that he’s not the sort of fellow I’d expect you to call ‘friend.’ ”
Jack made a face. “But then you don’t know me that well, do you?”
“Can’t deny that, but if I suspected for one second that you were of Whitley’s ilk, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now,” Marcus said levelly. “Relative or not, I’d have sent you packing the moment Mother was inside the house.”
Jack stood up and helped himself to another brandy. Walking to the fireplace, he set his snifter on the mantel and, resting one arm along its length, looked down at Marcus still lounging comfortably in the overstuffed chair.
After a moment, Jack asked, “Does the name Roxbury mean anything to you?”
“The Duke of Roxbury?”
Jack nodded.
Suddenly several things became clear to Marcus and a grin spread across his face. While he had only met Roxbury in a social setting, he knew from Julian that Roxbury was not the dilettante old aristocrat he played for the benefit of the ton. It was whispered in a select group of gentlemen that the old duke rubbed shoulders with unsavory members of the lower orders and wild young bloods of the ton as easily as he dined with society leaders, prime ministers, and members of their cabinets. Roxbury wasn’t in politics, but according to Julian, the old duke dabbled quietly in the background at the behest of the government. It was because of Roxbury that Julian, in his younger days, had undertaken several dangerous missions for the duke in France. Julian seldom mentioned his days as a spy for Roxbury and through him the British government, but Marcus was aware of Roxbury’s penchant for harnessing the talents of the bored, daring members of the aristocracy for his own uses.
Still grinning, Marcus sat up in his chair and exclaimed, “You’re working for that old devil Roxbury.”
Jack didn’t bother to deny it. He merely shrugged and said, “He knew I was bored and he asked me if I would look into a little matter for him. He mentioned your name and intimated that it might be advantageous for me to reacquaint myself with you and informed me that your mother was currently visiting London.” Jack flashed him a shamefaced smile. “I went to call on your mother for the express purpose of testing the wind. I’d hoped, at the worst, that she’d suggest that I visit you one of these days. I’d planned on arriving on your doorstep with a polite note from your mother and seeing where things went from there.” He shook his head in amazement. “I couldn’t believe my luck when she told me that she was leaving for Sherbrook Hall just as soon as she could arrange it and would I mind escorting her.” Jack grinned. “I leaped at the chance, I can tell you.”
“So what’s the little matter Roxbury wants you to look into?”
Jack hesitated. “Roxbury didn’t say I shouldn’t tell you; in fact, now that I consider it,” Jack said slowly, “I think he thought that you might be useful.”
“Probably had already learned of my engagement to Isabel and her connection to Whitley,” commented Marcus. “From what Julian says of Roxbury, nothing slips by the old man.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jack agreed.
“I don’t know how useful I will be,” Marcus said with a grimace. “My meeting with Whitley was, er, not friendly. Caught him harassing Isabel.”
“And he’s still alive?” asked Jack, surprised.
Marcus smiled grimly. “The pair of them made light of the situation and, short of calling Isabel a liar, there was little I could do.” An expression of disgust crossed his face. “I did try to provoke the fellow, but he wouldn’t rise to the bait.”
“That sounds like Whitley. From what Roxbury told me, his retirement was not entirely voluntary. There had been several incidents during his career in which Whitley’s reputation was not enhanced and it was decided that his time in the Army should come to an end before he got more men under his command killed and wounded or did something that would embarrass the government.”
“So why is Roxbury interested in him?”
Jack stared at his brandy for several minutes, putting his thoughts in order. Finally he looked at Marcus and said, “I suppose you’ve heard that there is an invasion planned for later this summer to help the Spaniards?”
Marcus nodded. “To be led by Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Wellesley.”
“Yes, Sir Arthur will lead the troops, but the government doesn’t trust anyone in that nest of vipers Napoleon has made of the continent and—this is not common knowledge by the way—the present plan is to invade Portugal and then Spain.”
“I may not have heard the specifics,” Marcus said, frowning, “but rumors about the invasion have been circling for a while. How does Whitley fit into Wellesley’s plans?” Marcus sat upright. Incredulously, he demanded, “Surely you don’t suspect him of being a spy for the French?”
“If he is, the French don’t know it yet, but Roxbury thinks that Whitley may be offering his services soon.” Grim-faced, Jack went on, “Just before the major left London, he visited some old friends at the Horse Guards. As you know, the place is a hive of officers and officials and their friends, and none of them know what the next person is doing. Information leaks from Horse Guards like a sieve, but usually it is not of vital national interest. Embarrassing or irritating, yes, but nothing that can’t be rectified. But shortly after Whitley’s visit just a little over a week ago, a very important memorandum went missing.”
“And this memorandum has to do with the Wellesley troop movements?”
Jack nodded. “Departure dates, landing sites, everything. There is time enough to change it, but we would have to find other places to land and that would delay the invasion ... and put our allies in grave danger.” Jack looked disgusted. “It’s possible, and this has been discussed, that the memorandum will turn up on someone’s desk or in a file where no one thought to look, but one of the people Whitley visited, a General Smithfield, is the last person known to have had the memorandum.” Jack stared down into the fire. “Smithfield, for obvious reasons, didn’t report its disappearance immediately. At first, he thought it was merely misfiled and wasted valuable time searching for it. By the time he admitted that he couldn’t find the memorandum and the alarm was raised, he’d almost forgotten that Whitley had even been in his office.”
“But he’s rem
embered Whitley’s visit now?” Marcus asked with a lifted brow.
“Yes, he has, but he doesn’t know that his old friend Whitley has become our most likely suspect for the theft—if it has indeed been stolen,” Jack replied. “All Smithfield, or anybody at the Horse Guards, knows is that a list was compiled of everyone who called at the offices during the crucial time the memorandum could have gone missing. When prompted, Smithfield did vaguely recall that Whitley, among others, had visited one morning within the time frame that we think it disappeared.” Jack’s lips thinned. “But since Smithfield practically holds court every day in his offices with all his old cronies, Whitley was just another name on the list.”
“But not any longer?”
Jack shook his head. “Roxbury was able to eliminate everyone from the list except for Whitley and one or two others.” He grinned. “I suspect those gentlemen are, even as we speak, being befriended by other individuals pressed into service like myself.” His expression grew somber. “There is, however, a spy known as Le Renard, ‘the Fox,’ who has been at work in England for years, and Roxbury has long sought to capture him. Roxbury first considered the Fox the probable culprit, but to his mind none of the gentlemen known to have visited Smithfield seem likely to be Le Renard; they are in Roxbury’s opinion too respectable, too timid, or too stupid. Of course, even he admits that being considered respectable, timid, or stupid could be a clever disguise.” Jack sighed. “We can’t rule out the Fox, but at the moment Whitley seems our most likely lead. His reputation is unsavory, he has a grudge against the government for forcing him to retire, and one of Roxbury’s, er, cronies discovered that he left London the very next day after his visit to Smithfield for the Devon coast.”
“And how did you find out that bit of information?”
Jack smiled. “Roxbury had his minions interview everyone Whitley had talked to and discovered a gentleman who remembered Whitley mentioning once that he thought he would look up the wife of an old friend who lived in Devonshire: a Mrs. Hugh Manning.”
Surrender Becomes Her Page 11
