by Jayne Davis
“That’s it,” Molly whispered. “If anyone opens it, keep going. The door to the breakfast room is just beyond, you might be able to get back to your room that way.”
“Thank you.”
Molly hurried off the way they’d come, and Bella crept towards the faint line of light. The sun had not yet set, but even on bright days the dark walls in the parlour made the place gloomy. Her father would not move from his chair once he was seated, so she only needed to worry about Aunt Aurelia spotting the open door.
All she heard at first was the chink of glassware.
“Yes, yes. Leave the decanter.” That was her father’s voice, his words muffled. “Give Lady Cerney her drink before you go.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Bella scuttled a few paces down the passage as footsteps came closer, in case her aunt saw her through the open door. Langton’s tall figure blocked the light for a moment—he nodded in her direction before carefully pulling the door almost closed and walking off down the corridor.
She crept forward again—her aunt was speaking.
“—what is this about? You implied that Isabella is to be introduced into society, but that doesn’t sound like you.”
“I’m not well, Aurelia. I want her settled in a good marriage. Soon.”
“Naturally. But why the sudden summons?”
“Damned girl’s getting too friendly with the local curate.”
Friendly? She’d only spoken to him twice after church, and merely about starting a school for the village children. The curate hoped she could persuade her father to fund it, but Bella knew better than to even ask.
“Nothing will come of that,” Aunt Aurelia said. “Forbid her to speak to him, or get rid of the curate.”
“I’d have to replace the man, and who’s to say the girl won’t want to befriend the new one? No, she’s as likely to be as contrary as Wingrave. Better to sort it out by having her safely wed—she’s old enough.”
Sort it out? Bella scowled in the darkness. She knew her father did not love any of his children, but it still hurt to be reminded that she was regarded as little more than a problem to be solved.
“It’s very late in the season—why don’t you just arrange a marriage? There must be some suitable prospects willing to make an alliance with the Marstones.”
“Pah. Most don’t want to agree until they’ve seen the girl in company. Better to have them meet her in public. If they come here, she’ll work out why they’ve come, and heaven knows what mischief she’ll cause to put them off.”
She would certainly do whatever it took to avoid a match arranged by her father.
“The girl seemed obedient enough to me,” Aunt Aurelia said.
“Hmpf. So did the other two, until I arranged their marriages.”
“You’re not making this sound an attractive proposition, brother. Why should I put myself out to help?”
“Money, as I said.”
“Ask Honora. She’s in more need than me. Cerney isn’t complaining.”
Bella wished she could see her father’s face; she was enjoying hearing someone argue with him.
“Not yet, but from all accounts you’re heading that way rapidly.”
“You’ve been spying on me? What are my finances to do with you?”
“Aurelia, your penchant for gambling is common knowledge.”
Bella wouldn’t put it past her father to have bribed her aunt’s servants. All she heard in response from her aunt was a muffled tut.
“I’m not giving Honora the opportunity to bleed me dry again. She failed last year, allowing the girls to marry against my wishes. Understand this, Aurelia—”
“You were in Town last year. Why didn’t you stop them?”
There was silence for a moment—Bella could imagine her father’s scowl at being questioned.
“I want a suitable match for Isabella,” the earl went on, ignoring Aunt Aurelia’s question. “And by the end of the summer, at the latest. That means marriage to someone of rank. There’s been enough dilution of our lineage, what with that damned brother of mine, then Wingrave.”
“You picked Wingrave’s wife.”
From what Bella had read in letters from Theresa and Lizzie, and Will himself, her father had made a happy choice.
“Only to ensure he got an heir before he ended up dead in a duel. I wanted someone higher than the granddaughter of a viscount for him, but I needed to arrange things in a hurry.”
“If you’re so fixed on status, Marstone, why did you pick the daughter of such a woman for your heir’s bride?”
“What do you mean, such a woman? Her mother was a baron’s daughter.”
“Ah, so you don’t know.” There was definitely triumph in Aunt Aurelia’s voice. Bella put her ear as close to the gap as she dared. Too close and she risked pushing on the door and giving away her presence.
“Charters was married twice,” Aunt Aurelia said. “His first wife was indeed a baron’s daughter, and he had two girls by her. When she died, he married the daughter of a rich merchant—for her money, without a doubt. Your heir’s wife is from that second marriage.”
“What?”
Bella started at the roar from her father, then smiled. Did Will know? She thought he wouldn’t mind.
“Oh, yes. You should check your plans more carefully.” Her aunt’s tone of smug satisfaction told Bella she wasn’t the only one amused by her father’s rage. “There was even a rumour that Charters wasn’t the current Lady Wingrave’s father. When Wingrave does produce an heir, the boy could well be the son of a bastard.”
Bella heard a sucking in of breath and a thump. “I’ll get the marriage annulled!” Another thump—her father must be banging his stick on the floor. “Deceit, that’s what it was! Damn Charters.”
“Good luck with that, dear brother. If Wingrave doesn’t complain, the Church won’t give you the time of day. An annulment would make bastards of Wingrave’s children.”
Bella resisted the urge to push the door open further. Putting her eye to the gap revealed only the fireplace and the back of her father’s chair. She jumped at the sudden sound of splintering glass.
“Tut. Temper.” Aunt Aurelia sounded like her old nanny; Bella had to cover her mouth to stop a giggle escaping. “Do not take on so, brother. You’ll have an apoplexy.”
A swish of skirts must be her aunt standing up. “If you still require my assistance, we can discuss the terms in the morning. I bid you goodnight.”
Bella stepped away from the service door as her father muttered something. She felt a little less apprehensive at being put in Aunt Aurelia’s charge after hearing that exchange, but the next few months could still decide her fate and she would have little control over it.
Chapter 2
Brooke Street, London
Nick raised his head as the library door opened. Father shuffled into the room, and his annoyance at the interruption vanished. He put a weight on the papers he’d been studying and got up to hold the door.
“Don't fuss.” Lord Carterton settled his thin frame into his usual chair with a sigh of relief, leaning his stick against the arm. “Don’t mean to interrupt your morning for long, Nick,” he said, when he had recovered his breath. “Not to beat about the bush, but I wanted to discuss your matrimonial prospects.”
Oh—that talk again.
“You should be out at balls or soirées,” his father said. “How are you going to find a wife if you spend all your time holed up in here with that?” He waved his hand at the papers and books on the desk.
“It’s the middle of the morning, Father.”
“I know, I know. But I’ll lay money you’ll still be at it this evening. Does it matter if the new text is really by Euripides? If it’s a good play, is that not sufficient?”
They’d had this debate before, but Nick was quite happy to avoid the marriage lecture. “If the transcription is truly from a lost fragment of the play, collectors would pay a fortune for the original
.”
“Yes, well. If it’s not Ancient Greek, it’s that damned stuff about workhouses and paupers that keeps you hunched over that desk.”
Or the analysis of intelligence information he did for Talbot, Nick thought. His father didn’t know about that.
“It’s not good for you, my boy. You should be out enjoying yourself.”
“I do go out—I’ll be meeting friends at Angelo’s this afternoon.” After his appointment with Talbot.
“A fencing salon isn’t what I mean, and you know it.”
“There are so many frivolous, chattering women out there, Father—they would drive me demented within a month. Why bring this up now? I’m only twenty-four—there’s plenty of time.”
“Come, Nick. You must have noticed that I’m not well. I’d like to see a grandchild before I go.”
“You have five already, and you dote on them whenever my sisters bring them for a visit.”
His father coughed. “Yes, well. It’s not the same as having a grandson with my name. I’ve nothing against your cousin Cedric, but I’d like the title to go to one of my blood.”
Nick sighed. It was a reasonable request, he had to admit.
“Pity about that Stanlake chit, Marstone’s daughter. Don’t see why you wouldn’t offer for her.”
“Father, you arranged that with Lord Marstone without asking either myself or Lady Elizabeth.”
“I know.” Lord Carterton flapped a hand. “I should have consulted you first, but I only asked you to consider the girl.”
“You did. It is too late now, though—she’s married.”
“Missed your chance there, boy. You could have got to know her before offering.”
“I did, last year, when she and her sister were brought out properly. We did not suit.” He’d found her pleasant, but too willing to agree to everything he said and with few ideas or opinions of her own. He’d like to have some intelligent conversation with his spouse.
“What about her sister…Theresa, wasn't it?”
“She’s wed too. See, Father, I have been keeping abreast of social events.”
“It’s no use having a list of women who cannot become your wife.” Lord Carterton rolled his eyes heavenwards. “Isn’t there another chit? Younger?”
“Yes.” Lady Isabella would be seventeen or eighteen now. “But I have no wish for Marstone as a father-in-law, political connections or not.” Now was probably not the time to point out that although Marstone’s politics were similar to his father’s views, his own ideas differed greatly.
He intended to play a full part in politics once he came into the title, although he hoped that day was still many years off. His work for Gilbert on the effects of the Poor Laws would be useful experience when he took his seat in the Lords. Until then, he was enjoying his work with Greek texts and on intelligence matters—very different topics, but both requiring analytical thinking. If he had to marry, he needed a calm woman who would not expect him to dance attendance on her all the time, and with wit enough become a political hostess in the future.
“Very well,” he said. “I will go about more in society and make an effort to find someone who’ll suit.”
“Good, good.” Lord Carterton set his glass down and picked up his stick. Nick stood and helped his father out of his chair, waiting for him to catch his breath before going to open the library door.
“Don’t stay in here all day, Nick.”
Nick watched as his father made his way slowly up the stairs, then returned to his desk. He tried to resume work on his Greek texts, but his concentration had gone. He couldn’t help smiling as he recalled that evening at Marstone House, two years ago. Was Lady Isabella still as forceful, or had she matured into a placid young woman like her sisters? It didn’t matter—neither temperament would suit him.
Talbot got to his feet as Nick was shown into his office. He was clad in his usual ornate garb, with heavy embroidery decorating his coat and waistcoat and a full wig. Although he must be at least twenty years younger than Nick’s father, the spymaster’s face looked gaunt with heavy shadows beneath his eyes. Nick was surprised to see Marstone’s heir sitting across the desk from Talbot. Lord Wingrave’s reputation before his marriage had been that of a reckless womaniser, although there had been no rumours in the last few years.
“Afternoon, Carterton. Pull up another chair. I believe you know Wingrave?”
“Indeed, yes. Haven’t seen you around for some time.”
“Good to see you again, Carterton.” Wingrave smiled, without humour. “I prefer spending my time in Devonshire while my father’s still alive.”
“Tell Wingrave what you explained to me last week, would you, Carterton?” Talbot leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, but Nick had no doubt that he was paying attention.
“In essence, Talbot has a new informant in Paris, but some of the information he provides is at odds with what we’ve already been told.” Nick took his summary from his satchel and handed it over. Talbot had given him the information from both informants to compare with other intelligence.
Wingrave looked down the list. “The main discrepancies appear to be connected with the forthcoming peace negotiations.”
“Yes—in terms of the likely French and Spanish demands.”
“Which we will learn soon enough,” Wingrave pointed out.
“The crux, Wingrave,” Talbot said, “is that one, or both, of the informants is lying. Possibly feeding us false information.”
Wingrave nodded. “And you need to know which. But I don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“You’re in the business of dealing with spies,” Talbot said.
Nick’s brows rose—it wasn’t Talbot’s practice to divulge that kind of information to uninvolved parties like himself.
Wingrave tapped the papers. “Not these two.”
“Which is why I have arranged your passage to Paris. I need someone to determine which of them is misleading us, and why. An envoy unknown to them.”
Wingrave shook his head. “No. I’m in Town because my father is about to send my sister here. The staff received orders to open up Marstone House several days ago, although none of the family has yet arrived. I’ll do my damnedest to stop him marrying Bella off to someone unsuitable. I can’t go to Paris now—you’ll have to find someone else.”
Nick waited for Talbot’s attention to turn to him—could he plead his father’s ill-health as an excuse? He was perfectly happy sticking to his analytical work, and wouldn’t have the first idea how to deal with Talbot’s problem.
“I need you, Wingrave. I cannot use my normal contacts, as one of them may be complicit.”
Nick breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m sure Carterton could ensure Lady Isabella comes to no harm at Marstone’s hands,” Talbot went on.
What?
“He did help you two years ago when Marstone was trying to marry off your other sisters.”
Only by helping Wingrave to win a great deal of money from Lady Theresa’s prospective husband.
“Carterton can talk to Lady Isabella more easily than you, I should imagine, Wingrave,” Talbot said. “If your relations with your father are still as dire as they were, he’ll do his best to keep you away from her.” He leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. “But this is all a distraction; you can discuss it with Carterton later. You will be added to the team conducting preliminary negotiations, and you will travel to Paris next week.”
Wingrave opened his mouth, but Talbot carried on talking.
“That gives you long enough to get home to make your excuses to your wife in person, and return here in time to travel with them.”
“Only just,” Wingrave said, seeming to have accepted his fate.
“Prove yourself, Wingrave,” Talbot said, more kindly. “You could make an even greater contribution to the government’s information network than you do at present. However, I will need a specific achievement to convince others t
hat you are capable, without letting the more loose-mouthed amongst our rulers know all the details of what you do in Devonshire.”
It was masterly, Nick thought. That combination of praise and future preferment might well have worked on him, too.
“Why don’t you send Carterton?” Wingrave asked. Talbot’s brows drew together and Wingrave spread his hands. “My wife will ask why someone else could not be sent. You will get more use from me if I go with her agreement.”
A quip about being under the cat’s foot was on Nick’s lips, but he bit it back.
“I need him here to continue to analyse any further information sent. And no, I don’t want him doing it in Paris. Any documents we glean must be treated with a level of security that can only be ensured in London.” Talbot waited, but Wingrave said no more.
“Call on me when you get back to Town, Wingrave,” Talbot said. “I will have a detailed briefing for you then. Carterton, I will be in touch when I have more for you. You will excuse me, gentlemen, if I do not get up.”
Nick exchanged a glance with Wingrave, and the two men left the room.
“We need to talk,” Wingrave said as they left the building. “White’s?”
“I live in Brook Street,” Nick said. “It’s not far, and it’s a pleasant day for a walk.”
“How long have you been working for Talbot?” Wingrave asked once they had handed over hats and coats to Hobson and settled themselves in the library with a tray of coffee.
“I don’t work for him, as such. He occasionally gives me information to analyse or comment on, that’s all.” He slid a glance at his companion. “What is your involvement?”
Wingrave did not reply.
“No need to tell me if you’d rather not. Talbot would tell you not to, I’m sure.”
Wingrave shrugged. “Talbot trusts you. I transport spies, mostly.”
