by Ann Chaney
Dangerous Liaison
Lords of Whitehall, Book 2
Ann Chaney
Copyright © 2020 by Ann Chaney
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
For more information, address: [email protected]
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Interior Format & Cover design by The Killion Group, Inc.
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Published by Windtree Press https://windtreepress.com
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Dangerous Liaison / Ann Chaney – 1st ed.
ebook Rom. Suspense. 978-1-952447-32-7 / 2020 Dangerous Liaison
Print. Rom. Suspense. 978-1-952447-33-4 / 2020 Dangerous Liaison
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Other Books by Ann Chaney
Thank You
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To
Zola and Joel
John and Laura
I love each of you dearly.
Chapter 1
November 1809
Berkeley Square, London
Lady Philomena Preston, Whitehall’s legendary spymaster had a horrid sense of timing that rivaled her outrageous sense of fashion. Moreham hurried up the stairs to Lady Philly’s front entry. The sooner he spoke with her, the sooner he would be across the street in his own bed. He’d not slept more than a handful of hours in the last three days, not that the old girl would care. He and his associates theorized Philly herself hadn’t slept since Napoleon was crowned emperor five years earlier.
James Buckley, the 3rd Earl of Moreham, covered his mouth to stifle another yawn. He winced at the sight of Philly’s butler standing in the open doorway. Neither spoke as a footman stepped forward to take Moreham’s hat and greatcoat. The rhythmic ticking of a long case clock echoed through the shadows.
He didn’t like visiting Lady Philly’s pied-à-terre during the day, but after midnight the old townhouse took on a gothic ghostly air that made his skin crawl. The townhouse was where the lady conducted her business activities as she called them. In truth, she served at the will of the King’s Privy Council. Moreham and many others answered to her in dealing with nefarious activities of those dastards intent on causing harm to the King’s Government.
The butler cleared his throat. “My lord, I’m to take you through to the library straight away.”
Shivers skated down Moreham’s back as he followed the somber gatekeeper into the bowels of the townhouse. His previous encounters with Philly in the dead of night had repeatedly proven nothing good ever came out of being summoned thusly. No doubt tonight would only confirm that belief.
His senses heightened as his escort shuffled his way down the corridor. Portraits of the lady’s Preston family ancestors hung the length of the corridor. Another wave of unease traveled up his back as he walked past the long dead earls and countesses. He refused to glance back over his shoulder to see if those deathly glares were pointed in his direction. Philly relished intimidating her guests. Far easier to gain the upper hand. Where he was concerned, she succeeded.
The butler nodded to two footmen standing guard by the library doors. In unison, the pair stepped forward and opened the two doors with a courtly flourish. The male servants in the Preston household were trained in weaponry and the pugilistic arts. His sense of foreboding held firm as he concentrated all his efforts on keeping his feet moving forward into the room rather than bolting for the entry hall and the street beyond.
His first clue something was amiss was the sight of Lady Philly’s desk with no Philly sitting in the high-backed monstrosity of a chair, upholstered in royal purple velvet. Moreham wondered if the king had gifted the chair to Philly for some courageous act. Equally disturbing was the cold fireplace. The old lady never occupied a room without a blazing fire, even in summer. Whoever had requested this meeting was not Philomena Preston.
At his back, the soft report of the door latch mechanism engaging shot through the silence. He refused to look over his shoulder. Moreham proceeded further into the room and stopped next to an ugly Egyptian settee.
Philly’s townhouse was a fortress. She recruited her footmen personally from the public schools in England. A fiercely loyal cadre of guards who took an oath to give their lives for the King. Only someone Philly invited would gain entrance. Whoever sent for him had Philly’s blessing. Still, not one to take chances, he remained alert.
“My lord, my thanks for coming so quickly. We only have a limited amount of time before daybreak.” A lady’s disembodied voice echoed from the shadows. The voice tugged at his memory. He knew that voice.
He looked around the room, trying to determine where this lady was located, but only saw darkness. The soft rustling of skirts warned him an instant before the lady floated forward into the light of the candles strategically placed on tables in the middle of the room.
He winced as Miss Gillian Browning made her way to stand an arm’s length from him. Dressed in a drab gown more suitable for a servant than the ward of a duke, the woman bore little resemblance to the lady he’d danced with only a fortnight earlier.
Her hair brushed smooth, not a single curl in sight, into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Society’s young bucks called her “Plain Jane Browning” behind her back. Seeing her dressed so did reinforce the validity of that sobriquet.
He refused to demand an explanation of why she was here in Philly’s townhouse of all places. Doing so would be a waste of time. There could be only one reason the lady would risk ruination.
Someone talked, but who?
Moreham decided that question would have to be tabled until later when, if he were fortunate, the lady would voluntarily give him the name. More importantly now, he needed to take control of this encounter.
He stepped forward to close the distance between them. No surprise, the lady immediately stepped backward. For an instant, he considered applauding her caution, but to do so was ill-advised. The lady’s somber countenance screamed how little she would appreciate any attempt on his part to make light of her presence. The lady’s presence spoke of the seriousness of her quest. Miss Browning had survived four years of Society’s social seasons. Undoubtedly, she knew how to take care of herself.
“Miss Browning? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be tucked in your bed for the night with one of Whitney’s footmen guarding your bedchamber door?”
“No one tucks me in.”
He rather enjoyed watching her jaw clench. “Pity, I would be more than happy to take on that chore myself,” he countered.
Wanting to cause her unease, he made a slow inventory of her person from head to toe with a protracted examination of her bosom. The lady hissed. Yes, his perusal was insulting, but served her right for keeping him from his bed.
She knew, as well as he did, how much she risked by venturing to Hanover Square with the intent of talking to him. In his world when you made a mistake, you paid the price. She was the one flaunting every tenet Polite Society held dear for unmarried ladies, not him. She was fortunate he was a
n honorable gentleman who did not take advantage. Most men would have without hesitation. His service to the Crown did not leave time for dalliances.
Even so, the image of the lady beneath him on the settee was a vision that wouldn’t leave him anytime soon. She may be plain faced but Miss Browning possessed the curvy body of a Covent Garden doxy. He clenched his hands into fists to keep from touching her. To slide a finger over the curve of her breast.
Moreham shoved his carnal desire aside and forced himself to remember who the lady was and why her presence in Philly’s library in the wee hours of the night was problematic. The very last woman he should be entertaining the thought of bedding was Miss Browning. Her aunt, the Duchess of Whitney, saw to the young lady’s protection from men like him. He’d best turn his thoughts to discovering why she stood before him. Her tale should prove interesting.
She must be all of two and twenty years of age. With a sizable dowry, one of the largest in England, she should have garnered herself a lord in her first season. Word in the clubs was Whitney had given his permission for his ward to have a say in who she married. Word was the girl wanted a love match. Plenty of gentlemen had professed love and asked for her hand. All had been rebuffed. For good reason—all were fortune hunters who had loved her dowry not the lady.
As for Miss Browning, she was a puzzle. He relished puzzle solving. Yes, at a glance, her looks were lacking, but standing closer than he’d ever been to the lady, he found her to be far shorter in stature than he preferred. Not that he intended to pursue the woman. Her looks were quite unremarkable at first glance. A closer perusal revealed a prettiness that bordering on handsomeness. Her brown eyes were her crowning glory. Those orbs possessed a mischievous fire in their depths.
Did that brown hue ever darken? Did her eyes ever lose the ever-present glimmer of laughter? The answer to both questions was yes. He grimaced as that hone brown color darkened. Neither of them had anything to laugh about. What a pity. Guilt gnawed at his insides for his role in her distress.
“Yes, well, would you like to sample Lady Philly’s brandy.” She waved her hand toward the sideboard.
He pushed his ruminations about her person into the far reaches of his brainbox. “What I would like is an explanation as to why we are meeting at all.”
She smiled. For the first time in a very long time, he rather enjoyed eliciting a reaction from a lady. Was Miss Browning flirting with him? No, she was baiting him, but why? What did she wish to gain?
Her uncle, the Duke of Whitney was a traitor. Moreham believed this with all his being. He’d spent the past month reading reports and discussing with his associates how to uncover inconvertible proof of the duke’s guilt. Frustration ate at his belly. His efforts had failed to produce substantial evidence to bring charges of treason against the duke. Not one to admit to failure, Moreham intended to continue his investigation until he found the evidence he sought.
No doubt the lady had learned of his interest in her uncle’s affairs. Was she here to demand he abandon his inquiry? If so, she was on a fool’s errand.
He gave up trying to discern her intent. Better to drink a glass of Philly’s brandy. The only way Miss Browning had gained access to Philly’s inner sanctum was with the spymaster’s agreement which he took to mean he was at liberty to help himself to her brandy.
He uncorked the crystal decanter. He nodded in the direction of the glasses on the sideboard. “Interested?”
She shook her head. “I think our discussion will go better if I keep a clear head.”
“Your choice.” Moreham shrugged his indifference and poured himself two fingers of the liquor. He raised the glass and drank the liquid down in one swallow. Quite good. He must find out where Philly procured her drink.
He knew he should speak, but for the life of him, he didn’t know what to say. He’d never admit it to a living soul, but Miss Browning’s appearance tonight was one occurrence he’d never imagined. Why hadn’t Philly warned him? Where was Philly? Nearby, eavesdropping on their conversation? Nothing the old girl did surprised him.
He rather admired the young lady for her devotion to Whitney, even if her actions were misguided. Best to wait for her to initiate “the discussion” as she called it. No doubt, Philly had told her about his investigation. Why would the old girl involve an innocent miss in their intrigue?
Again, he should’ve postulated this eventuality. His mother had shared the tale of Whitney’s brief courtship of Philly during her first season. An innocent never forgot her first love or so his mother professed.
“Shall we sit?” she asked.
The lady sat on a blood red upholstered settee next to the cold fireplace. She made a show of straightening her skirts before folding her hands in her lap. She was the picture of a lady during an afternoon call, except it was going on two o’clock in the morning.
Moreham refilled his glass then moved across the room. A better man would have sat in the chair facing the settee to allow a proper distance between them. However, the chit had forced her presence into his world. She could well deal with the consequences.
He joined her and placed his glass of brandy on the table next to the settee. Her breathy gasp was the only indication that he’d surprised her. Moreham settled back into the corner of the sofa and crossed his arms over his chest.
The lady gave him a speaking look.
Did she expect him to start this conversation? She arranged this meeting. Let her be the one to start the conversation. He refused to give an inch. He rather enjoyed watching her uncertainty flicker in her rather lovely brown eyes. Novel thought that, he preferred blue eyed ladies normally.
Miss Browning licked her lips and cleared her throat before speaking. “I asked Lady Philly to arrange this meeting. I know you are responsible for investigating the group of gentlemen who attend Mrs. Ramsay’s salon on Wednesday afternoons who call themselves the 1804 Social Club. I also know you have obtained a list of the members. I’m aware that my uncle’s name is on that list.”
“Tread lightly, my dear. You seem to know quite a bit about my business. ’Tis never a healthy endeavor to sniff around a gentleman’s affairs, especially a gentleman who’s engaged in governmental business as I am. I’m assuming Lady Philly has shared this information with you. Before we go any further, I require your vow that you’ll not share the details of our conversation. To do so will be considered an act of treason.”
She shrunk back into her corner. Her eyes trained on her hands folded in her lap. “There is no need to threaten me, my lord. As I said, I’m here with Lady Philly’s knowledge and approval. She did warn me you would not be pleased.”
The lady hesitated before continuing, still not looking at him.
“Two days ago, at Lady Crittendon’s musicale, I overheard two gentlemen talking about this social club. One of them said you were conducting an investigation into the group and its ties to French sympathizers. That gentleman said there was a list. The other gentleman countered the tale was balderdash because my uncle was a member and there was no more loyal peer in the kingdom.
“Earlier today, I called on Lady Philly. She suggested I speak with you.” Gillian Browning paused. She turned her all too serious gaze in his direction. “I want to help you. My uncle is innocent, and I can prove it.”
Gillian wished she’d listened to Lady Philly. Tall and big shouldered, Moreham loomed over her although they were seated. She should be frightened, but something about his eyes quelled her fear. Or maybe it was his lips? What an absurd notion. She’d never noticed any other gentleman’s lips before. How odd.
She pushed the frivolous thought from her mind. It was not the time to engage in poetical meanderings about the Earl of Moreham’s lips. Nor was it the time to become enamored with a known scoundrel and agent of the Crown.
She’d had enough trouble with Percy Arnold chasing her around Town for the last couple of months. Now, with her uncle’s loyalty to the Crown being questioned she willingly put herself in this sit
uation. Her uncle was innocent. She intended to be present when Moreham admitted such.
Uncle Whitney and Aunt Isadora had taken her in when her mother died and seen to her upbringing. She would put a stop to this man’s so-called investigation of Uncle Whitney by any means necessary.
The silence in the library was deafening. The earl reached for his brandy, watching her all the while.
“My uncle is not a traitor. I’ve asked others about you. I’ve been told you are a fair man who would never accuse a man of such a horrid crime without evidence of his guilt. Additionally, Lady Philly assures me of your competence as a strategist and investigator. She says you are the best at what you do.”
Moreham smiled with no sign he was amused. “I work hard. My father and my grandfathers before him, all served their respective kings. I only go where the evidence leads. I cannot give credence to your claim that your uncle is innocent since your opinion is undoubtedly biased.
“You are a blood relation, the child of his dead sister and his ward. You see only the good.” Moreham continued, “Your information is, however, correct. I have in my possession a membership list I believe to be the roster of the 1804 Social Club. You are also correct that your uncle’s name is on that list.
“What you may not know is the night of your aunt’s ball, Mr. Percy Arnold, was arrested for treason. Unfortunately, the next day, he escaped custody. Do not fret. My associates are in pursuit of him. You are in no danger–.”
