by CJ Archer
"You must be Miss Appleby," he said without a hint of surprise or wariness.
"I am. And you are Mr. Redcliff's valet?"
"Stephen Trent, miss," he said, bowing. "I've been expecting you."
"You have? Did Mr. Redcliff say something?"
"No, miss." He looked offended at her suggestion. "He told me why you are here and I assumed you would want to speak to me regarding..." His gaze dropped and he leaned closer. "...his headache tonic. That is what I would do in your position."
A shrewd man. "Are you aware his tonic is opium, Trent?" He gulped and nodded. "Then you know about my commission?"
"I do, miss. You have been employed to cure Mr. Redcliff's need for it."
"Yes." So far Trent had not told her anything of his opinion on the matter. A careful servant as well as a clever one. "To do that, I'll need your help from time to time."
"Help?"
"To find his cache of opium and give it to me."
The open, friendly face suddenly closed. "He's run out."
"When he buys some more then."
"I cannot do that, miss, unless the master wishes it."
His response was to be expected but it was still disappointing to hear. She would need Trent as an ally if she was to succeed in her endeavor.
"Tell me, Trent, how long have you known Mr. Redcliff?"
The change in her questions appeared to take him by surprise. "Well...I've been his valet for nearly ten years now, miss, but I knew him a few years before that when I was a footman in his father's household." She suspected he wanted to tell her more so she encouraged him with a nod. "Mr. Redcliff has been good to me. He was only a young man when I came into his service." His mouth hooked into a wry smile. "Full of himself he was in the early days, setting quite the figure at all the clubs. He excelled at everything he put his hand to—fencing, boxing, languages, accounts. He's turned his father's allowance into a fortune in the time I've known him, and he's had a string of young ladies and their mamas try to catch him." The smile turned to a beaming grin. "He's eluded them all so far." Then all his good humor vanished without a trace as if it were sucked out of him.
"He's not like that anymore, is he?"
He shook his head and glanced around as if he were set adrift in a vast sea with only a raft and no oar. "I shouldn't be speaking to you like this."
"It's all right. We're not discussing anything I couldn't learn from other sources."
"I suppose so."
"Please, Trent, tell me what Mr. Redcliff is like now."
He nodded as if coming to a conclusion. "He's changed. He's...quiet. Too quiet. And not the kind of quiet of a man at peace but like there's a silent rage inside him that he can't let out. Or won't."
"Why do you think that is?"
"Why is he angry?" He shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose he's mad at someone or something. He's been like this ever since his return from the Continent." The sound of footsteps made him glance nervously down the hall. "Just a maid," he said with relief.
Poor Trent. He seemed a kind soul and genuinely concerned for the master he admired, even loved. He was exactly the sort of valet she was hoping Redcliff would have.
"Thank you, Trent, you've been a great help already." She smiled at him and his pale skin turned redder than a radish.
He stretched his neck, looking both pleased and uncomfortable. "Glad of it, miss."
"But I'll need more help from you."
"I can't—."
She lay a hand on his arm and he gulped. "Listen," she said, steadily. "I'm assuming Mr. Redcliff is going to speak to Sir Oswyn now to see if he can convince him to sever my contract. It's what I'd do in his situation. But he'll fail." Sir Oswyn must have something terrible on Redcliff or the situation wouldn't have gone this far—Redcliff would have tossed her out as soon as she arrived. Sir Oswyn was an expert at discovering a person's weakest point and pressing on it. "So, in order for this to go smoothly, I will need you to do some things against your nature, some things Mr. Redcliff may not like."
"I can't."
"I will explain to him that I've forced you, that you are not to blame."
"Please, miss, don't ask me to do anything he'll not like."
She hadn't wanted to explain the particulars—it wasn't seemly to tell the valet all the awful things that might happen to his beloved master—but he'd given her no choice.
"Do you know what happens to opium eaters and smokers, Trent?" He shook his head but a hint of alarm settled into his eyes. "Have you seen them struggle for breath, desperate to get air into their bodies only to find they can't? Have you seen the way it numbs the mind, makes them incapable of clear thought, turns them into a pathetic, empty shell? If you don't help Mr. Redcliff, that is what will happen to him. He may only be taking it to ease his pain and help him sleep now but soon that will not be enough. He'll need more and more of it and then he'll become just like I've described. A witless, frail remnant of the great man he once was. He's in the early stages still, he has minimal symptoms compared to a long-time user, but if he doesn't stop, that's what will happen. Do you want to see him like that, Trent?"
He stared unblinking at her. "No, miss," he whispered.
"Then help me." When he hesitated, she grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Someone in the house needed to understand the implications and since Redcliff was proving to be a stubborn nut to crack, she would have to work on Trent. "Help him."
He nodded ever so slightly. "I'll try."
It was the best she could hope for and she wouldn't push him further. Not yet. Let him see the outcome of his master's discussion with Sir Oswyn. Tomorrow, she would begin the real work.
"One more thing," she said. "Did you go with him to the Continent?"
"Yes, miss."
"Were you with him when he acquired his injuries?"
"No, miss."
"I see. Did he tell you how he got them?"
Trent swallowed, sending his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a buoy in a stormy sea.
"Is it a delicate matter?" she prompted.
"Yes, miss. He told me the brother of one of his...mistresses caught him unawares."
Mistresses plural? Good lord. "Do you believe him?"
"Not really, miss. It's more likely to be the husband."
Husband? So his lovers were usually married?
"Thank you, Trent. If you learn anything more about that day could you be so good as to inform me. It might help."
He said nothing and she suspected it was too great an ask for the loyal servant. She thanked him again then headed back to her room, contemplating that mysterious night in Berne. A night that something so important had happened to Redcliff that Sir Oswyn was prepared to blackmail him to discover what lay hidden in his memory.
CHAPTER 2
Alex Redcliff nodded at the familiar faces as he walked through his club to one of its smaller drawing rooms. Those who weren't too drunk or too engrossed in their card game nodded back. As he walked, Alex could feel the tension within him ebb away. The club always relaxed him but he wasn't sure why. It certainly wasn't the pungent smells of port, brandy and tobacco or the endless political debates. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact the club only contained men. Indeed, today he was quite certain it had something to do with masculinity. Men were mercifully predictable creatures on the whole. They used their fists when they were angry, got drunk when they were sad and found an agreeable woman when they were lusty. Women, on the other hand, talked. And dug their little heels in at the most inconvenient moments.
He saw his friend, Lord Northbridge, and threw himself into one of the luxurious armchairs opposite.
"It's about time," Northbridge said, without lowering the latest edition of The Times.
Alex instructed a passing footman dressed in the club's black and white livery to bring him a glass of brandy. It wouldn't be enough to deaden the ache in his head but it would give him something to do with his hands. Holding an object made him want the
opium pipe less. Just a little.
He'd come straight from the Foreign Office in Downing Street but the slippery eel of a Permanent Under-Secretary, Sir Oswyn Crisp, hadn't been there. Alex would return later but the delay set his teeth on edge and frayed already stretched nerves.
"You can thank Miss Georgiana Appleby for my tardiness," he said to Lord Northbridge.
Northbridge flipped back one corner of The Times and regarded his boyhood friend with a twinkle in his eyes that Alex knew all too well. "Apple, eh? She sounds like a delicious morsel."
"She isn't. She's rather sour underneath it all."
Northbridge folded up the newspaper and placed it on the table beside his half-empty glass. He gave Alex his undivided attention. That in itself was a feat. "Underneath all what?"
"Underneath all her..." He searched for a word to describe the cool miss but couldn't think of anything except the one he'd used in her presence. "Underneath all her tightness."
Northbridge's mouth formed an "O". Then he frowned and shook his head. "No, I don't know what you mean. Tightness? I suspect the image currently occupying my mind has nothing to do with the point you're trying to make." His face widened into a grin, puncturing two dimples in either cheek. It was the sort of smile that turned perfectly sensible women into silly coquettes. Not that Northbridge ever noticed. "I once saw a performance at Covent Garden where the dancers wore the most delightfully tight costumes."
"You're right, that is not the point I am trying to make." The footman returned with his brandy and Alex received it gratefully. He took a long sip then rested the glass on his thigh. "Miss Appleby appears genteel enough when you first meet her, but then she purses her lips and makes a face like she's sipped unsweetened lemonade and suddenly she reminds me of my Aunt Harry."
"The one who whacked me with her parasol when we rode our geldings into the hall of Longmore Manor? She's a rather frightening old crow."
"We were drunk at the time." Alex chuckled at the memory of his father's very formal butler using a rather colorful word in front of the ladies when one of the geldings broke a rare and expensive vase. "And only sixteen."
Northbridge made a face. "So she's pretty, eh? How pretty exactly is this Miss Applecart?"
"She is not a candidate for your charms, North"
"Want her all to yourself, eh? Well, you could have fooled me with all this talk about tightness and beating you with a parasol. I didn't think you went in for that sort of thing."
"As usual you've jumped to the wrong conclusion. She's not a courtesan."
"She's not?" Northbridge nodded at an acquaintance passing by on the way to the gaming room. "Good lord, you're not considering marrying this Aunt Harry type are you? I'd not thought you ready for that particular hell yet. Or is the lordly brother putting pressure on you?"
"He is but Miss Appleby is not someone of whom he'd approve, matrimonially speaking. Her prospects are minimal." His enquiries had indicated that she was quite poor. Her physician father had left her little to live on after his death. Her financial situation went some way to explaining why such a pretty woman had not yet married, but not entirely. Perhaps it was more to do with her willful nature and her eccentric parent. From all accounts, her father had approved of his daughter following him into his profession.
"And I am certainly not considering marrying anyone," Alex said, swirling the brandy around his glass. "Wedded bliss is not in my future, immediate or otherwise." He held up his hand as Northbridge opened his mouth to speak. "Before you begin speculating wildly once more, I should tell you that Miss Appleby is my nurse, appointed by the Foreign Office." He tapped his right arm, padded with a bandage beneath his shirt.
"I thought it was almost healed. And your head?"
Alex touched the ridge of healing flesh at the base of his skull. "Still hurts." The arm wound had opened up again two days before when he'd fenced with his old master. It had been foolish to attempt a strenuous activity so soon but he'd grown bored doing nothing more arduous than walking to and from the club.
"Damn stupid thing getting yourself cut up like that," Northbridge said. "Could have got yourself killed."
"Not my fault. Blame the Swiss husband and the marble-topped table." It was a complete lie. He was sure of that much at least. It was the rest of the night he couldn't quite remember. Snatches of it came back to him in his nightmares—the look of horror and fear on Cottesloe's face as he lay dying, all the blood, and the dagger sticking out of his friend's chest.
Alex's dagger.
Everything else was like a London fog—blurry. He had no intention of re-living it any further. The nightmare he'd endured before he discovered opium was bad enough and confirmed the worst—that he'd killed his friend and colleague.
He only wished the opium could erase the guilt as easily as it erased the bad dreams.
"So this nurse of yours," Northbridge said with a toss of his blond curls, "is she putting a ban on all fencing?"
"Probably."
"I suppose boxing is out of the question too?"
Alex nodded.
Northbridge sighed. "How tiresome. What about women?"
Despite his dark mood, Alex couldn't help laughing. Northbridge always managed to lift his spirits. "She hasn't banned women although it wouldn't surprise me if she did."
"Capital! At least there's one sport you can still enjoy."
Alex didn't think he would enjoy much of anything while the sour Miss Appleby was in residence. He already had to contend with dull headaches during the day but at least he got some peace at night. If she had her way, sleep would be hell. Without opium he would re-live that night in Berne in his dreams over and over until it drove him mad.
But she would not get her way. There must be something he could do to get rid of her. No one was that stubborn.
"I wonder what he's doing here," Northbridge said, brows drawn.
Alex followed his gaze to the double doors leading to the club's grand entrance hall. Sir Oswyn Crisp, leaning heavily on a walking stick, stood there and scanned the room through squinting eyes. He spied Alex and made directly for him on his awkwardly bowed legs.
"Good," Alex said to Northbridge. "Saves me the trip back to his office."
"Good afternoon, my lord," Sir Oswyn said with a nod in Northbridge's direction then another in Alex's. "Mr. Redcliff."
Northbridge returned the nod then picked up his newspaper and used it to cover his yawn.
"Sir Oswyn," Alex said with only a pinch more friendliness than Northbridge. "What an unexpected surprise. I rarely see you here. Recruiting again?"
Northbridge snorted behind his newspaper. Everyone knew Sir Oswyn was the right hand of Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary and England's spymaster, but no one could be certain who spied for him. Rumor had it that he recruited gentlemen from amongst his acquaintances as well as those from other levels of society.
Alex was proof that the rumor was true but he didn't know how many other gentlemen, if any, were employed by Crisp. Once upon a time, before his posting to Switzerland, he'd wanted to know. He'd pressed Sir Oswyn but was only given the names of those he needed to contact.
But he no longer cared who else spied for England. He had resigned his posting so it didn't matter anymore. Nothing did except what he'd done—and forgetting he'd done it. Opium proved useful in that regard. No, more than useful—it was a necessity.
"Not amongst this lazy sort," Sir Oswyn said. "Present company excepting of course. Although you used your diplomatic position to make a nuisance of yourself on the Continent, Redcliff." His squinting gaze shifted to Northbridge, the only man within earshot of Sir Oswyn's soft voice.
Alex shook his head. His friend might be pretending not to hear, but he knew from experience that Northbridge could listen into a dozen conversations at once while reading. Perhaps Sir Oswyn should employ him. Eavesdropping was quite a useful skill when spying on the enemy.
Knowing who to trust was another.
"I assume yo
u are referring to my injuries," Alex said, playing along. "I'm sorry you find them a nuisance. I can assure you they don't bring me much joy."
Northbridge laughed, proving he had indeed been listening after all. "I'll wager the little Swiss miss brought you much joy until her husband discovered you'd been, how shall I put it, teaching her our English customs."
"I told him to stay away from the locals," Sir Oswyn said, not taking his gaze off Alex. "But he's not very good at direct orders." He cocked one bushy white eyebrow, challenging.
Northbridge lowered his newspaper and flashed a wicked grin at them both. "This is true. That's why I applaud your choice of a nursemaid. She sounds perfect for my recalcitrant friend."
If Alex knocked that grin off North's face, would he get thrown out of the club? He was leaving anyway and North required a good thumping every now and again. It was the only way to keep him from becoming obnoxious.
Northbridge must have sensed Alex's dangerous mood because he quickly sobered.
"Ah, so she's arrived safely," Sir Oswyn said. "A punctual woman, Miss Appleby. What do you think of her, Redcliff? The only nursemaids I've met are as wide as St. Paul's and about as much fun as a Sunday sermon."
Northbridge nodded knowingly. "Sounds like Redcliff's nurse exactly. She likes to beat people with parasols."
Sir Oswyn's eyebrows rose even higher up his forehead and he licked fat lips, leaving behind a frothy glob of white spittle in the corner. "I like her even more."
"I can assure you Miss Appleby does not look like St. Paul's," Alex said. He could not deny the part about her being less fun than a sermon however. "Speaking of Miss Appleby, you must cancel her contract, Sir Oswyn. I don't need her."
Sir Oswyn smoothed his thumb and forefinger over his erratic eyebrows. It didn't flatten them in the least. "No." He looked away, ending the conversation. "Do either of you gentlemen know if Lord Wright is here? I can't see him anywhere." He squinted towards a group of young dandies sitting near the window overlooking St. James' Street.
