The man—or boy, Lucy should say, since up close he looked to be no more than fourteen years old—wore charcoal-gray clothes and a gray-green cloak to shield the weather. There was nothing about him to indicate wealth, heritage, or even allegiance. He was the kind of boy one might slip past on a London street without thinking twice about him.
As he reached the front steps and started to mount them, Lucy stepped between him and the door. She lifted her chin. “What business do you have here?”
“That’s between me and the duke.”
She narrowed her eyes. Was it estate business? If it had been, the boy would have been wearing the ducal colors of azure and silver, or at the very least had the family crest on his clothes. If the matter didn’t pertain to Tenwick or any of the family’s collective lands…
Then the boy must be a spy.
Lucy wasn’t daft. She’d known for years that Morgan and Tristan hid a secret from the rest of the family. They were good at sneaking around, experts in concocting believable lies or turning the conversation, but Lucy loved a good mystery. She’d known they were involved in Britain’s spy ring since before Morgan had married. Since she suspected Mr. Keeling knew or contributed, sneaking into Morgan’s office at Tenwick Abbey was tricky but not impossible. And copying the ciphers she found there, a delight. She’d almost made the heroine of her book a spy, but she hadn’t been able to find a way to fit that in with the plot. Besides, if one of her brothers ever read it, they would know that she’d caught on to the secret and work harder to conceal their affairs in the future.
Although, at first, she’d been relatively certain that Giddy was too swept up in his plants to take notice of the affairs blossoming beneath his nose, he’d spent too many late nights with Tristan of late. Her two oldest brothers had likely welcomed him into their spy ring.
She wondered if her brother Anthony, a captain in the Royal Navy, was in on it too. She missed Anthony terribly—he hadn’t been back but for a visit in years. But even though he wasn’t within the household, he could still easily be part of their spy ring, especially given his position in the Navy.
It was unfair! Lucy was every bit as capable as they were, but she couldn’t even put on a pair of breeches and walk the London streets without one of her brothers nearly suffering an apoplexy. Because she was so much younger than them, they thought her a petty, pampered child and that was far from the truth.
Lucy barred the boy from entering the estate. “The Duke is otherwise occupied at the moment.”
It wasn’t a lie. Morgan would likely send Tristan or Keeling to attend to whatever business this boy had for him.
Lucy added, “If you’ve a message for him, I can take it to him.”
The boy’s lips pressed together. “I was told to deliver the missive directly into the duke’s hands, no one else’s.”
Raising an eyebrow, Lucy donned an air of confidence as she bluffed, “This is Tenwick Abbey. You can trust the missive to me.” She held out her hand.
She had no proof that anyone save for her brothers was involved in the spy network, but her instincts had long raised the question that it was more than that. If Morgan was involved, Phil must know—Lucy couldn’t imagine Morgan withholding such a pivotal aspect of his life from her. The same with Tristan and Giddy’s wives. That numbered at least six spies in the household, not counting Keeling, if he were also involved. It wasn’t such a stretch of the imagination for her to fool the boy into thinking she were also an operative of the Crown.
He looked uncertain.
“The Duke’s wife is in labor and has been for some time. He won’t be at liberty to see you for hours still. If this missive is important, it’s best I handle it.”
Cautiously, the boy said, “Britain is cold,” as if that were a valid reason not to hand over the message.
No—wait! Why did that phrase sound familiar? Frowning, Lucy tugged the notebook from her reticule once more and flipped through the pages, starting at the beginning. She didn’t have to look far. It was one of the copied phrases she’d purloined from Morgan’s office, the basic phrase used as example in one of the ciphers.
The answer was… She flipped the page. “Only in spring.”
When she glanced up, the boy’s face was slack with relief. He thrust an envelope into her hand. “The Duke will want to receive this as soon as possible.”
Lucy nodded. “Of course.” She’d give it to him…after she had a peek herself.
Slipping back inside for a bit of privacy, she used her thumbnail to painstakingly open the envelope while leaving as little trace of her tampering on the seal as possible. She’d have to melt the wax back into place, but hopefully Morgan would be too distracted with the arrival of his first child to pay close attention.
When she folded open the letter, she discovered that it was written in code. She used one of the few blank pages left in her notebook and flipped back and forth to the cipher as she decoded it. The missive was from Lord Strickland. Clearly, he had some involvement in the spy business as well.
I know your wife is coming to term, but Monsieur V is back in London. As you know, we haven’t seen hide nor tail of him since Lady Belhaven’s masquerade. I need you in London posthaste, along with your best spies. We must catch this spymaster before he disappears into smoke once more. We must catch his face this time.
Lady Belhaven’s masquerade? Lucy had attended that. In fact, so had Rocky, the Tenwick gardener, which she’d thought a little odd. She’d considered it odd that Morgan would lend Rocky’s services over the winter even with the hothouse in disrepair. Even more bizarre had been the fact that Catt had followed Rocky into Lady Belhaven’s household, though Lucy had assumed he’d only done that because he was in love with her. In a way, she had been right, seeing as they were now married.
But, if the Belhaven masquerade had something to do with the spy effort…then Rocky and Catt must be spies. And if they were spies…
The man Rocky had tasked her to watch must have been Monsieur V. Everyone, Lucy’s entire family, had come running to burst into the library a moment after he’d departed. Lucy had thought their reaction a bit extreme simply to preserve her virtue for sneaking away without a chaperone. Though, given her brothers’ overprotective streak, it hadn’t been beyond the realm of possibility.
Now, Lucy replayed the scene. Could they have been worried about her safety, not only her virtue? The stranger hadn’t hurt her…but he had seemed amused by her accusation. And he’d given her a flower, which Morgan had soon taken possession of even though the man had left it for Rocky.
What a dolt I’ve been.
She re-read the decoded missive, thinking. Strickland stated that no one knew what this Monsieur V looked like—but if he was the man Lucy had confronted, that wasn’t true. She knew. Why had no one asked her?
Because of Morgan. A duke held a lot of clout, apparently even against Lord Strickland. Her brothers didn’t want to put her in danger—even if it jeopardized the security of the nation.
She gritted her teeth. I’m not a child. She could do anything her brothers could do. In fact, she would. She would prove to them that she was just as brave and smart as they were. And she’d do it by finding the very spymaster they hadn’t been able to locate.
As she tucked the letter into her reticule along with her notebook, a cheer roared from the family quarters to her left. Lucy lifted her skirts and hurried up the wooden steps to the balcony that abutted the quarters. She slipped through a narrow corridor, ending in an area swarming with servants. They beamed, laughed, jostled each other. Money exchanged hands. Phil must have successfully delivered her baby.
Lucy breached the ocean of servants and was able to breathe a little easier. She spotted her best friend, bouncing on the balls of her feet as Tristan and Freddie hugged next to her. When she spotted Lucy, Charlie skipped over.
“Did you hear? It’s a boy!”
The future Duke of Tenwick had been born. Lucy smiled. That ought to keep her
brothers occupied for the foreseeable future. She hugged Charlie tight, sharing in her joy and relief that Phil’s labor had concluded successfully.
“And Phil?” she asked.
“Healthy. No complications, the physician said. They’re just cleaning off the baby and mother and then everyone can go in to see him. They’re naming him Oliver, after her father.”
Lucy smiled. “Good. After we say hello, I want you to pack your bags.”
“Why?” Charlie frowned.
“They’ve got so much help that we’ll only be in the way if we stay here. We’re going back to London.”
Where Lucy would start the search for the notorious spymaster only she could find.
2
For the past three days, Lucy had relived her encounter with Monsieur V, searching for any kind of clue or starting point from which to search for him. She’d consulted the notes she’d taken from the evening’s events, for future use in a book. The biggest clue toward finding him, she would think, would be his costume. He hadn’t simply worn some outdated clothes—his costume had included that paunch, which would need to be specially made.
Specially made…or perhaps borrowed from a theater company. Lucy couldn’t very well enter all the shops on Bond Street asking after who might have made such a thing—not with Mrs. Vale, who had accompanied her daughter and Lucy back to London to act as chaperone, constantly hovering over her shoulder. So Lucy decided to try the next best thing and attend a play. Both the Vales loved taking in the latest play.
She started on Drury Lane. The play, a matinee, was filled with bored peers who chatted lazily with one another as they claimed their boxes. As a Graylocke, Lucy had claim to the family’s perpetually-reserved box on the upper right near the stage. Figures milled below, members of the audience as well as shadows behind the curtain as they set up.
Although not titled, Charlie and Mrs. Vale were such permanent fixtures of the Graylocke family that they’d started to amass the same admirers hoping to curry favor with the ducal family as Lucy had. Mrs. Vale handled the inquiries of a matron her age with aplomb while Charlie smiled and chatted with her mousy daughter exchanging a bored look with Lucy behind the girl’s back. Charlie had an adventurous spirit and, while she loved the theater, she was not one to be content chatting up boring debutantes. As the true Graylocke, Lucy should greet both of them herself, but this was just the distraction she needed. With the Vales occupied, she slipped out of her booth and down the crimson-carpeted corridor toward the stairs.
Women bombarded her on the way. “Oh, Lady Lucy, have you met my…” Brother, nephew, cousin, it was always the same. Some young buck who wanted to be tied to the Duke of Tenwick and Lucy, as the only daughter, was the lucky lady to bear the brunt of their attentions. With over a year since her come-out, Lucy liked to think that she had enough skill and wiles to extricate herself from such conversations without arousing suspicion.
She eventually made it down the stairs and snuck into a side corridor before someone followed her. Once there, she paused to get her bearings. The chatter of the audience radiated from her left, almost drowning out the movement and voices to her right.
She followed a light down the corridor, eventually coming to a wide room teeming with actors in various states of dress. Some wore only their undergarments and the padding necessary to bring their characters to life. One wore what looked to be a long, fake nose atop their own. Another pasted on what slowly progressed to become a shaggy beard. A woman called for someone to do up the ties of her wide dress. It was miraculous, this glimpse into the creation of a character. Lucy stepped into the corner, tugging her notebook out of her reticule and taking notes as she observed. Fascinated, she watched as a wig, makeup, and a little padding and shoes with high heels turned a woman into a completely different person.
“Oi! You there! No audience members allowed back here.”
Lucy jumped. She shut her notebook and turned to the speaker, a reed-thin man with a thick mustache and smutches of what looked like rouge or a dark powder along his cheekbones.
“I just wanted to ask you a question.”
“No time, lady. Don’t you see we’ve got a show to put on?”
She stepped forward, trying to catch his attention before he turned away. “I know, but—” She might not be able to sneak away later.
He pointed to the corridor. “Go on now, or I’ll have Bull remove you.”
Bull turned out to be a short fellow that looked a bit like a hound with a squashed face. He wore a dog collar around his neck and growled when the thin man spoke his name. Was he another actor or did he stand guard just for effect? Did the actors often have to field off inquiries from audience members? Lucy scribbled down notes in her notebook, unperturbed despite the attempt at intimidation.
When the thin man strode away, she hastened to catch him. “Wait! This will take only a moment of your time.”
He looked irritable. “You’ve already claimed more than that.” Twitching his shoulder as if to brush her off, he continued walking.
She followed on his heels into the center of the room. “I am the sister to the Duke of Tenwick. You have to talk to me.”
The room hushed at her loud pronouncement. Inwardly, she winced. It wasn’t precisely the most subtle spy work. She hid the reaction and stared the thin man down.
His mustache twitched. “And what will you do if I don’t?”
The actors continued to prepare. One woman excused herself, removing to her dressing room. Lucy paid her no heed. If there was some kind of pecking order in the troupe, the ornery man in front of her appeared to be at the top. Besides, she didn’t want to speak with an actress; she wanted to speak with someone who handled the costumes.
Donning her most impassive expression, Lucy said, “In January, I saw a costume at Lady Belhaven’s masquerade that might have been plucked from one of your plays.”
“You were mistaken. We don’t lend out our costumes, not even to young noblewomen like yourself. Try a tailor.” Turning, he glared at the men and women along the perimeter of the room, clustered near the racks of clothes or standing in front of a vanity. “Look lively! Break doesn’t come until the curtain closes!”
They jumped back into motion, completing their preparation.
Lucy said, “I intend to. Try a tailor, that is. Only the person wearing the costume left before I could ask who made it and the only identifying mark I can remember is this symbol embroidered just beneath the collar.” Hastily, she flipped through her book until she came to the page containing a bunch of shorthand notes and a little symbol. Four triangles, their points touching in the middle.
The man harrumphed. “Black-Eyed Joe is who you’re looking for. Or Joseph Gordon, as you fancy ladies might know him. He runs a little shop off an alley near Bond Street.”
Lucy smiled sweetly. “Do you happen to know the address?”
She scribbled it down as he gave it to her, verifying.
Irritable, the man snapped, “Is that all, your highness?”
Not the proper address for a duke’s sister and he said it in far too disrespectful a tone, but she smiled anyway as she snapped her book shut. “Yes, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Before he could rebuke her further, she scampered into the hall.
There, she stopped short. A man blocked her path, the devilishly handsome sort of man that had most debutantes atwitter despite his blackened reputation. Alexander Douglass, the Marquess of Brackley, loomed as tall as her two oldest brothers, an inch or two over six feet. He was just as athletically built, with his forest-green jacket molding to his broad shoulders and lean torso. However, instead of spying, his physique most likely came from climbing in and out of women’s bedrooms. He’d been to the St. Gobain house once or twice to speak with Morgan, however, so she couldn’t be certain. Why would he speak with her brother?
Parliament. Business deals. Estate advice. Morgan was a duke, after all—he had been for eleven years now. Whereas Brackley had only inherite
d his title last year, after the sudden death of his father and older brother. Quite tragic, though the new responsibility hadn’t seemed to curtail his carousing any. The one time she’d encountered him at the St. Gobain townhouse where Morgan had lived since his marriage, her brother had warned her away from him.
He isn’t the sort of man with whom you want to associate.
Most likely, Morgan had said that because of Brackley’s penchant for sneaking backstage at plays. Was he here to meet with a lover? Excitement ghosted through her as she met his green eyes. He cocked an eyebrow, the brow nearly disappearing beneath the artful sweep of his reddish-brown hair over his forehead. His clean-shaven mouth spread in a cat-got-the-cream smile.
Her fingers itched to jot down a description of the thrill that swept through her. Illicit, almost dangerous. She shouldn’t be alone with any man, but Brackley more than most.
Maybe this was exactly what her book needed—a scoundrel.
“Lady Lucy.”
Perhaps, given her brother’s involvement in the Crown spy network, Alex shouldn’t be surprised to find the youngest Graylocke sibling nosing around the back of a theater. But, given the duke’s obvious protectiveness of her, he was surprised. And a little alarmed, quite frankly. Morgan Graylocke would never involve his sister in matters where her safety might be in question.
Unless Monsieur V was back in London.
Alex barely kept the relaxed smile on his face. He didn’t dare hope that that was the case. In fact, if it were the case, he would have liked to think that Morgan would have assigned him to the mission of swiftly bringing the fiend to the end of a noose. There was no one in Britain more driven to catch the heinous spymaster. But, confound it, Alex didn’t know the man’s face! Morgan suspected that the spymaster performed some weird sort of mesmerism on anyone he spoke with, mesmerism that made them forget what he looked like. None of their spies were immune.
Pursuing The Traitor (Scandals and Spies Book 5) Page 2
