by Ann Chaney
An hour after leaving Moreham in the park, Gillian handed off her horse to her groom and raced up the front steps into Whitney Place without breaking her stride. She’d left Hyde Park behind and rode home through Green Park adding a half hour to her ride. If she’d timed her arrival correctly, her aunt would be above stairs, resting before she dressed to receive her afternoon callers.
Her aunt was a true duchess who enjoyed the nuances of her lofty station. Tuesday was the duchess’ day for at home to receive her closest friends. Gillian dreaded the tedious visits over numerous cups of tea. She sorely wished today was Friday. Aunt visited an orphanage she sponsored on Fridays. Gillian never took sick on Friday mornings. She adored spending time with the children at the Whitney Home for Orphans.
Gillian gave her outdoor things to a footman then hurried up the stairs. She froze at the sight of her bedchamber door ajar. Her maid normally remained below stairs until she rang. No doubt one of Aunt Isadora’s bosom bows also rode in Hyde Park early in the morning. Gillian pushed the door open, hoping this once Maisy was tending to some chore.
“Did you enjoy your assignation with the Earl of Moreham?” Aunt Isadora sat by the fire in Gillian’s favorite chair, a tea tray on the table at her side. Her aunt must have been waiting for some time, there was only one biscuit on the pastry plate. Her aunt enjoyed her biscuits. She never ate just one.
Gillian resisted the urge to beg her aunt’s understanding. She was far too old to be treated like a child. “Aunt, a ride in the park with my groom and a good number of gentlemen watching my every move is not an assignation. I assume I have one of your dear friends to thank for sharing the details of my morning. I’m impressed. Who managed to ride in the park and pen a note to you before my return?”
“Lady Millicent saw Moreham riding up and down Rotten Row, obviously waiting for someone. Imagine her surprise when you appeared and joined the scoundrel. Her note said you seemed to be enjoying yourself.” Aunt Isadora shook her head. “Gillian, the man is no gentleman. You know there was a bit of scandal.”
“I’m no longer a little girl in pinafore and braids who needs to be cosseted. I’ve heard the gossip about Moreham and Miss Phillips. The silly girl cried foul to anyone who would listen hoping to force Moreham’s hand. Badly done of her I say.”
Her aunt picked up that last biscuit and broke it into two pieces. “Neither Miss Phillips nor Moreham should be of any concern.” She took the smaller half of biscuit and nibbled. “Do not cross me on this matter, Gillian. Do so and I’ll have Whitney deal with Moreham.”
Gillian knew her Aunt Isadora meant every word she uttered. The duchess regarded the family’s place in Society as sacrosanct. The irony of her current situation was not lost on Gillian. Her concern for her aunt was part of her reasoning for dealing with Moreham herself. Should she learn of Moreham’s allegations, Gillian feared how her aunt would react to the scandal. Aunt Isadora presented a stern countenance to Society, but Gillian knew how fragile the woman’s constitution really was. She dropped to her knees in front of the duchess.
“You must trust me on this. Moreham has done nothing untoward. A chance meeting in the park and a race down Rotten Row isn’t anything to fret over. I am two and twenty years old. I’ve received numerous marriage proposals and thought myself in love with the worst sort of a cad. I can manage the Earl of Moreham.”
The duchess’ voice broke with emotion. “You could not be dearer to me if I had given birth to you. You are the daughter of my heart. Whitney feels the same. No matter how old you are we will always ensure you are happy.”
Gillian winced at the sentiment in her aunt’s voice. “You are fretting over nothing. Moreham and I are friends. Nothing more.” She said a prayer for Heavenly intervention. She must not stir up her aunt’s suspicions. For her plan to be successful, her aunt and uncle had to attend those balls. There was too much at stake. “Promise me you won’t charge your legion of friends to stir up that old gossip,” she demanded.
The duchess heaved a dramatic sigh, surrendering. “I give you my vow.” The duchess managed a ghost of a smile as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind Gillian’s ear.
After a quick kiss to her forehead, the duchess motioned for Gillian to stand. Once standing, her aunt awkwardly hugged her. Her aunt did not show affection often. She was a dear, but physical touch unsettled her.
The duchess released her and made for the door with urgency as if she needed to escape. The lady hesitated in the doorway. “Gillian. I hope you know what you are about with the earl. The Phillips chit’s accusation, true or false, should have ended in marriage. He refused to do the honorable deed. I find that single act to be proof he is not worthy of you.”
Gillian remained standing in the middle of her bedchamber until the door closed behind her aunt, Gillian wilted and sank into the chair her aunt had vacated. No, the Crown’s best agent wouldn’t jeopardize his search for the truth by taking advantage of her. Moreham was far too intelligent to make that sort of mistake.
Gillian covered her face with her hands. What had she done? If, God forbid, he found his proof, he’d destroy them all.
After following Gillian and her groom back to the mews behind Whitney Place to ensure they arrived without incident, Moreham headed for home. No matter how he begrudged the notion, the chit was his responsibility now.
He needed her help. Regardless how distasteful he found that need to be. He’d considered himself a lone wolf. To be burdened with a society miss at his heels was the outside of enough. Her every thought flitted across her face for anyone to see. He would be lucky if the duke’s ward didn’t get him killed.
Moreham ignored his butler’s announcement about his breakfast and headed for his library. He needed time to recuperate from his encounter with that woman. He bypassed his desk and sat in the overstuffed chair he favored by the fireplace. He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled hard in frustration.
Whitney was a traitor. He believed so with all his heart. The duke’s guilt was the only explanation for his support of Percy Arnold’s fortuitous employment at Whitehall in the one office dealing with the logistical details of supplying the British Army now on the Iberian Peninsula fighting the French. Gillian Browning was a lovely capricious lady who fired his blood, but he had a job to do and she would not dissuade him from that duty.
Moreham looked up at the portrait of his mother over the fireplace and groaned. His mother, what was he to do about her? Lady Philly was his mother’s dearest friend. He’d wager a monkey Philly had already written a note telling her of his meeting with Gillian.
His mother never hesitated to voice her opinion on or interfere in his life. The debacle with Miss Phillips had been only one of his mother’s schemes to marry him off. In that incident, he escaped the parson’s mousetrap because his mother saw to the girl’s departure before Gillian’s aunt and others could demand he marry the girl.
Miss Phillips was a squire’s daughter while Gillian was the niece of a duke. His mother would not pass up the chance to see him settled so lofty. He would be brought to his knees, or rather one knee in front of Gillian, to propose marriage if his mother had her way.
Time was on his side. His mother was visiting her sister in Richmond. Aunt Euphonia had contracted a cough and was in need of nursing. His mother had had no choice, but to decamp to her oldest sister’s house. He wished his Aunt Madeline had been the one to request his mother’s presence at her bedside. She lived in Scotland.
Gillian’s aunt, the Duchess of Whitney and his mother were nodding acquaintances. He shuddered to think what those two would make of his alliance with Gillian.
Though she had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, Gillian was as blue-blooded as he was, perhaps more so. Then there was the dowry. Rumored to be fifty thousand a year. No wonder the fortune hunters dogged her every step.
Frustrated with his musings, Moreham left his chair and crossed the room to his desk where a stack of ledgers waited for his review. It
was a sad day when he relished that mind-numbing exercise over his government work. He’d gladly work on the never-ending columns for the rest of his days to avoid thinking about Gillian. The only problem was not even those sheets of figures would prevent him from deliberating what might happen the next time he saw her.
“What is the world coming to when a gentleman takes the morning air in the park and sees his dearest friend riding with the lovely Miss Browning? By the way, the lady rides a magnificent bit of horseflesh. Will have to have my man inquire if Whitney’s stable has a gelding for sale. I’m always looking for young horseflesh to ride in the hunts in the fall.” Phillip Stockard, the 5th Earl of Crossley asked from the open library doors.
“Cross, leave the man alone. By my count, he hasn’t slept more than a couple of hours a night since this business started. Remember our days at Oxford? Moreham turns ugly when he doesn’t get enough sleep. Don’t want to have to fetch a doctor to tent to the bruises on your ugly faces.” Alexander, Viscount Sturmbridge, shoved Cross further into the room and closed the doors.
Moreham looked from one man to the other before standing and returning to the armchair he had only left moments before.
“What are you two doing here? Don’t you have your own responsibilities to see to this morning?”
Cross with a flick of his hand waved his questions away. “We’ll get to that bit of business after you tell all. Thought Whitney’s duchess declared that you were persona non grata last season. Can’t imagine that one will be pleased to hear of your cozy ride with her niece. We all know how protective the duchess is of the young lady.”
Moreham considered ignoring Cross’ inquiries, but he knew his friend wouldn’t desist until his curiosity was sated.
“The lady knows of our investigation and insists on helping. She’s worried I will plant false evidence against her uncle.”
Sturmbridge grinned and held out his hand. “Ten guineas.” The two friends were always making wagers. Sturmbridge, or “Sturm” as his friends knew him was an irreverent sort. Called himself an observer of human nature and claimed his skill of observation had earned him many a coin.
Cross gifted the viscount with a hard stare before handing him the coin. “Don’t gloat.”
Moreham growled at Sturmbridge. “You wagered against me?”
“No, I wagered on Miss Browning. We have another wager but have agreed not to reveal the conditions to keep you from queering up the outcome,” Sturm replied.
“Is there anything we can do? I assume you and the young lady have a plan.” Sturm turned the conversation back to the subject of the search.
“Yes, I’m to enter Whitney Place on Friday evening while the duke and his duchess are out for the evening. Miss Browning will unlock the duke’s bookroom and assist me in searching for evidence. Proof she is convinced I’ll not find.
“I’ll need one of you to hide away in Whitney’s infamous rose garden. Should anything go awry, I’ll give a shout. Your arrival may save me from an appointment with the archbishop.”
His friends exchanged a look, but for once remained silent. Moreham motioned for the two men to sit. “With that bit of business out of the way…tell me what has happened since I left you.”
Sturm spoke this time. “Still no sign of Arnold. We’ve haunted the docks asking questions, but no one is owning up to knowing anything about the man. I hate to say this but it’s looking more and more like he’s sailed for Portugal. He could have stowed away on The Vigilant.”
Moreham shook his head. “We don’t know that for certain. Have Fitzroy assign a team to continue the inquiry into Arnold’s whereabouts. Cross, don’t forget you are attending Mrs. Ramsey’s salon tomorrow. With Lady Serena’s departure with Weatherington for Portugal, you’ll be the one to write the report on what happens during that salon. Tread carefully, I don’t like that we’ve been caught off guard at every turn since Arnold’s arrest. For the man to escape means he had help. From here on out, we only trust each other.”
“Your plan to enter Whitney’s home and with the assistance of his very marriageable niece to forage through his most private papers is much more interesting than searching for an assassin, don’t you think?”
Moreham glared at his friend and laughed. “Yes, I agree. The complication of Gillian Browning is indeed an interesting turn of events. I fear she will lead me on a merry chase.”
“Are you worried she’ll compromise our investigation?” Sturm demanded.
Moreham gave him a dark look. “No, worse. I’m afraid I will end up married to her.”
Chapter 3
Friday Evening
Whitney Place Mews, Mayfair, London
“There’s still time to change your mind.”
Moreham refused to look at Cross. “The subject isn’t up for discussion.
“James, you’re not only risking a lady’s reputation, but you are jeopardizing the mission you’ve been entrusted to see to its conclusion.”
“What? No concern for my own reputation?”
“Of course, I worry for your good name, but we both know after the Phillips chit you could not care less what Society thinks of you. As I said it’s not too late, we can decamp to White’s for dinner or catch the new play at Covent Garden.”
The carriage jerked to a stop. Only then did Moreham shift in his seat. “Cross, you must see I have no other choice. We have nothing to implicate Whitney to the 1804 Society. Our man failed to gain entrance to the duke’s private office. The lady’s offer to help is God sent. With Arnold’s arrest and escape, we must move quickly to expose Whitney so we can rout this den of traitors. Whitney is the key to our success.”
Moreham motioned for Cross to exit the carriage then joined him on the walkway. He followed his friend through the garden gate. They approached a rose arbor against the garden wall and waited.
His agent, dressed in Whitney’s livery, appeared out of the shadows and nodded. Leaving Cross behind, Moreham followed the silent man to a pair of French windows. The man slipped away as Gillian opened the door.
Moreham told himself he was still objective where the lady was concerned, but he knew he was lying. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t deny his clammy palms and pounding heart at the sight of her in the darkened corridor. Dressed in another brown gown more suited for a servant than a lady, she obviously put reducing the risk of discovery above fashion. Quite well done of her.
After his two encounters with the lady, he knew she possessed a strong sense of loyalty to those she loved and would fight him and anyone else who threatened her family. Gillian Browning was an avenging angel who would fight him and any other to the death to save the Duke and Duchess of Whitney.
He took a step back. For an instant, confusion filled her eyes. Did she feel the attraction, the need to linger close and inhale his essence as he relished the whiff of her scent?
“I’ve been anticipating this evening with you as my guide. Dare I hope you have felt the same?”
“No, the thought never occurred to me,” she countered. “I haven’t given you a thought since our ride.”
He wanted to call her a liar but refrained. Now wasn’t the time to delve into the attraction he felt and could see reflected in her eyes.
Not only did they have the issue of her uncle’s possible treasonous activities. There was her aunt’s hostility toward him. The duchess would never agree to a request from the likes of him to court the lady. The sooner he accepted he and Gillian were fated to be star-crossed the sooner he could concentrate on his investigation
The previous year, his mother’s goddaughter, Miss Emily Phillips, had come to Town for the season. A spoiled golden-haired child, she believed he would see her and fall madly in love. When the girl realized he had no interest in her, she behaved badly. One night, the little sneak made her way to his bed. Unfortunately, the girl started screaming for help before she checked to see if he was in fact in his bed which he was not. His mother and several of the household staff found
her in the middle of his bed…alone.
Before his mother could send her back to her family, the girl had told anyone who would listen that he had trifled with her affections.
The duchess and her friends had decreed him to be “bad ton”. Every hostess in Town followed suit. The edict from the matrons had not caused him a moment’s distress until now. He rather enjoyed having a disreputable standing among Society.
He found it much easier to do his duty for the Home Secretary without the strictures of Society tying his hands. He came and went as he pleased. Another advantage to being in disfavor was freedom from the attentions of dewy-eyed daughters hunting for husbands.
Cross was right. Dealing with Gillian and his reaction to her were problems he had to conquer if they both were to escape unscathed this night.
A tremor of guilt ate at his insides. He might tell himself Gillian had sought him out, but he knew he could have deflected her interest and proceeded alone. In truth, her audacity on arranging their meeting at Philly’s townhouse had impressed him. He wanted to know her better, which was why he had suggested the ride in the park.
Because of him, Gillian was a pawn in the game of subterfuge that he and others played with life and death repercussions. Some would bristle at him referring to his efforts to safeguard his king and government from destruction as a game. Even so, his work for the Crown and a game of any sort shared the need for a strategy to circumvent the complications of human frailty. Perhaps the most important commonality was both had winners and losers. His duty was to ensure Britain emerged the winner at every juncture.
He decided to try once more to send her away. “I can go on my own.”
