Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  Picking up her reticule, she rose and walked toward the door. “As for me, I have a rendezvous with a special gentleman, and I do not wish to keep him waiting.”

  He caught her arm, unwilling to let her go. “Might I write to you as I sort these things out? If you found my letters interesting, you could write me in return?” He watched as she turned the idea over.

  “When you have discovered what you need to know, you may write to me here in care of Mrs. Wells.”

  “To whom should I address the letter? I must admit, I’ve lost my playbill.”

  She thought for another moment, then smiling, answered, “You were once a sailor?”

  “In His Majesty’s fleet.”

  “Then address the letter to Circe.”

  He laughed. “Am I in danger of being turned into a pig?”

  “That, sir, depends on what you write.”

  “Then, Circe, I look forward to our correspondence.” He raised her hand to his lips and offered a chivalrous kiss, then he let her go.

  Harrison stood alone in the gypsy’s dressing room. To the right of her dressing table, a rack held the cast’s costumes from the first play and the first part of the afterpiece. Mrs. Wells’s infuriating headdress was perched next to the gypsy’s blousy shirt and slit skirt.

  He stepped to the rack and let his hand caress the material. The shift was as soft as he had imagined from the way it had clung to her curves on stage. But it held no hint to her identity.

  Circe. He smiled. The sorceress whose song tempted Odysseus to abandon his wife and land, and who turned into animals all those who displeased her. An unexpectedly literate answer.

  He started to leave, but stopped when he saw an envelope on the floor beneath the costumes. What could it be? A love note? Instructions for an assignation? Or something more mundane, like pages from a script? If he were lucky, the letter would be hers, and it would reveal her true name and her address.

  There was no address on the outside of the packet, only the recipient—An Honest Gentleman—lettered in a bold, flamboyant hand.

  Interesting.

  For the last year, the Gentleman had been making quite a stir in Parliament. In fact, at the last parliamentary committee Harrison had attended, one of the Tories had waved a copy of the World and declaimed loudly: “Rights and reform! Haven’t we seen where such complaints lead? To the Bastille! To the execution of Louis XVI! To the end of peace and order for a dozen years! No, sirs, the best thing we can do for our nation is to find, try, and if necessary execute this Dis-Honest Gentleman.”

  Over the last several months, Harrison had read all the Gentleman’s essays carefully. He’d been impressed with the thoughtful and convincing arguments. Few men were as well-informed as the Gentleman, and of those, even fewer took such care to be rational and balanced. Recently, however, the Gentleman’s letters had grown more provocative. None of it was too dangerous . . . yet, and Harrison had grown increasingly interested in finding out who in the government was passing sensitive information, and to what end.

  Clearly it was a letter from an informant to An Honest Gentleman. He turned it over. An address, but no postmark and no frank. Had the informant come to the theater to deliver the letter to Mrs. Wells? Or had Mrs. Wells received the letter at the World and brought it to one of her fellow thespians?

  He surveyed the gypsy’s dressing room with new eyes. The odious man who had confronted the gypsy earlier had insisted that she had secrets; he had even thought that keeping her secrets mattered enough that she would pay. Was she keeping secrets for An Honest Gentleman?

  Looking to see that the dressing room door was shut, he unfolded the packet and began to review the pages. Dread curled with cold fingers around his heart. He knew that the Prince Regent had instructed the Home Office to watch the reform societies, but to his knowledge all they had done was watch. But whoever had written this list made it appear that the government’s role was far more active, and that the societies and their members were being actively targeted and suppressed. If true, the list was a damning indictment of the government’s policies. Of course, he didn’t believe it, but Harrison knew—and suspected the writer did as well—that truth didn’t matter. It simply had to be believable, and then it would spread on wings of outrage. What laborer with too little bread wouldn’t embrace the information as an excuse for his discontent? The people’s confidence in the government—already low—would be shattered.

  This document was more dangerous than any he had seen before from An Honest Gentleman. But who had written it, and who was intended to receive it? Mrs. Wells? The gypsy, or some other cast member? Because the person who wrote this list was either a traitor or consorted with one. He needed to find out who—and soon.

  Chapter Seven

  Mistress! Olivia pulled her large valise from the boarding house wardrobe and set it roughly on the table in the middle of the room. The first conversation she’d had with her husband since he’d left for the wars, and he’d thought her a whore. When would she learn?

  Olivia stopped packing and leaned back against the wall, covering her face with her hands. But she had no tears. She’d spent them all long ago, when she still hoped they might make a marriage work. In the early years of their marriage, she’d dreamed that Harrison could come to love her, that he would recognize all the ways he and Olivia were suited for one another. But in the end, Harrison’s longing for adventure never disappeared, and Olivia was left alone.

  Without thinking, she slid down the wall until she was curled up in the small space beside the wardrobe. The tight quarters felt safe, protected.

  She brought her knees to her chest and folded her arms on top of them. But as soon as she laid her head on her arms, she pulled back. He had touched her hand and left behind the faintest hint of his cologne, a distinctive musk made from green lemon and pinewood. It was the same one he had always worn, and she remembered how catching hints of it unexpectedly had pained her for months after he’d left. Then one day she realized every trace of it was gone, and she’d wept for hours.

  She caressed the spot on her hand where he had kissed her, imagining that the warmth of his lips still burned her flesh. He was more handsome than he had been when they’d parted, and he had been handsome enough then. The rich blue of his eyes, the strong line of his jaw, the broadness of his shoulders narrowing to the flat plane of his stomach, all left her breathless. She felt the ache of missing him.

  It was good that she would be leaving the estate. She might never learn how not to want him, but she already knew how to live without him.

  She remembered her first day at Mrs. Jeraldine Flint’s School for Exceptional Girls. She had felt homesick, abandoned. She had curled into a corner in just this same way, and Mrs. Flint—kind and brusque and wise and impatient all at once—had come and sat on the floor beside her. Since then, when she felt overwhelmed, she would imagine what Mrs. Flint would tell her. Today Mrs. Flint’s voice came easily.

  Now, listen to me, girl. He will never, ever want you. As much as you want him, as much as you long to feel his lips in a kiss, or his hand holding yours, you must stop being a fool. Even now he isn’t trying to convince you to marry him again. No, he had your letter for less than a day and started interviewing mistresses—and making a mess of it, I might add. But did you expect anything less? It was unlucky that you were the actress who caught his eye, but eventually Beatrice or one of the others will be happy to catch a rich lord and his ample income. But that won’t be enough for you. You won’t be satisfied with anything less than his heart. Now get up and build yourself another life . . . a life worth living . . . a life where your actions matter.

  She pulled herself up from the boarding-house floor, not because she wanted to move, but because it was foolish to remain there. She straightened her skirts, then wrenched open the door of the wardrobe and began pulling out the makings of her various costumes. When Olivia wasn’t in town, the materials remained in a trunk in the attic, ready for her next visit.
As she packed, she began to plan how her new life would proceed.

  Her obligations at the estate required that she be back no later than Wednesday morning. She would leave the day after tomorrow. Until then, she would fill her time with writing and meetings with her informants. Based on the information she had gained from Cerberus, she would draft another essay for the World, and deliver it to Mrs. Wells for printing. Then, if she had time, she would meet once more with Mentor. After that, she would return to the estate for the last time and begin the work of letting him go.

  * * *

  “Ouch!” Harrison pulled the straight pin out of his thumb and watched the blood pool. Strange how much a small wound could hurt. But at least the pain drew his mind back to the present task, away from the questions about his wife, the gypsy, and An Honest Gentleman that had kept him restless half the night.

  “The great spy felled by a pin.” Joseph Pasten, the adjutant for a secret division of the Home Off ice, grinned. To keep track of the division’s various operations, Joe had created what he called the mission table: a map of England glued to a heavy linen backing and laid out under the only natural light in the basement room, a row of windows running along the top of the walls. Joe’s good humor accompanied a stalwart and courageous heart. During the Battle of Waterloo, Joe had saved the life of Mr. James, his superior officer and now the director of their division. Cut by bayonets and then trampled by a terrified horse, Mr. James would have died on the field had Joe not dragged his body to safety, then spent months nursing his broken body back to health. Few doctors would have even attempted what Joe accomplished.

  “Walgrave’s been cursing for the better part of an hour.” Adam Montclair looked up from his desk. “But now that he’s wounded himself, we should all be wary. I predict a bloody overthrow of our map of England.”

  “In my years abroad, I acquired several hand gestures to indicate displeasure.” Harrison rubbed the blood off with his other fingers, but it quickly pooled again. A deep one then. “But I have held off using them—out of respect for Joe and his belief that this damned board is vital to our planning.”

  “If hand gestures are all you acquired abroad, you should count yourself lucky.” Adam threw a scrap of linen at Harrison, who wrapped it around his thumb. “But Walgrave’s right, Joe. We’d have burned that damn table years ago, if you didn’t spend half your time mollifying us.”

  “A dozen groups, both at home and abroad, threaten the peace of the nation, but my task is to pamper battle-hardened men wounded by straight pins.” Joe lifted his face and hands as if supplicating Heaven. “The table stays, pins and all. It’s my mnemonic. Each time one of you dolts forgets something vital, I simply gesture at the table.”

  Harrison cleaned his blood from the head of the pin with the linen. “I submit to the judgment of my betters—and by my betters I mean Joe.”

  “Your words have wounded me.” Adam spoke dryly, returning to his papers. “How ever shall I go on?”

  Harrison returned to his task of pushing pins into the map. Joe had carefully painted each pin a different color, and each one represented some aspect of an operation in motion. The blue pins indicated groups or individuals engaged in suspicious, but perhaps not illegal, activities. The green pins signified an agent of the Home Office, either a trusted local or an officer—whether in disguise or not—dispatched to watch over the area. The black pins—well, Harrison tried to make sure there were never too many of those—but sometimes agents died, and there was not one damn thing you could do about it. He pushed the next pin—a black one—into the map with more force than necessary. A woman. Missing in the north of England for weeks, her body had just been found in the mountains. None of them knew how or why she had died.

  Harrison stared at the pin. When he had first come back from the seas, his seat in Parliament had been enough to satisfy his restless spirit. He’d used his skills as an orator to argue for improvements to the lives of all English citizens, and his reputation grew with each speech. He’d relied on arguments appealing to each man’s self-interest, knowing that at the end of the day what mattered most to the other lords was a full stomach and a full wallet. But he’d always believed injustice, and he’d always hoped that by beginning with me, his listeners would be enlightened enough to end with us. One day, however, he’d realized that for many, the questions “What is best for me?” and “What is just for all?” were answered by a single sentence: What is best for me is just for all. On that day, he’d drunk himself to oblivion.

  The day after—still feeling his disgust in the roiling pit of his stomach and his disappointment in the aching throb of his head—he had made his way back to Whitehall. But instead of heading up to the parliamentary rooms, he’d descended to the basement, through a maze of offices to a secret suite that housed an equally secret branch of the Home Office. Harrison had thought his life as a spy had ended with the wars and that a life as a public servant would be satisfying enough. But when Joe Pasten had opened the door and, smiling, led him in, Harrison had felt like he’d found his way home.

  His secret work for the Home Office had made his life useful, even meaningful. But recently he had been unable to overcome a growing sense of emptiness. Sure, he could remind himself of all the threats he’d averted or how many people he’d helped, but more and more often, it didn’t seem to matter.

  Joe put his hand on Harrison’s shoulder and looked at the black pin. “It never gets easier. You’d think after the wars we’d be inured to death, but each one still catches me off guard. What was her name?”

  “Mrs. Louise Gail. She was a good correspondent, observant, timely. She was watching the northern reform societies for evidence of rebellion. A cottager found her body at the base of a ravine.”

  “Do you think it was related to the information she was gathering?” Joe touched the pin reverently.

  “My gut tells me yes, but I have no proof.” Harrison picked up a letter and handed it to Joe. Anger simmered at the edges of his control, but he forced his voice to sound dispassionate. “Only days before she disappeared she wrote that she was investigating a new threat.”

  Joe read the letter slowly, then chewed the end of his pencil for a few minutes. “Was she a graduate of Mrs. Flint’s school?”

  Montclair joined the two men, looking regretfully over the table. “No, she wasn’t one of Flint’s. She was a widow who moved to the north when she inherited a cottage. I met her at one of the reform society meetings, and she welcomed the chance to be of use.”

  Joe pointed to one of the new green pins somewhat nearby. “Who’s that?”

  “The new governess to that American industrialist who wants to buy up all of our tin mines.” Harrison tapped the top of the pin. “In Jeraldine Flint’s words, Miss Blackwell can ‘unsnivel a pack of sniveling children’ and pick a lock in fifteen seconds.”

  Joe chuckled. “I’m not sure which will be the more useful skill. Which one was she?”

  “Fresh-faced, blond.” Adam grimaced.

  “Ah, yes, a winsome smile. She should discover her employer’s secrets easily. As I remember, she offered a striking demonstration of her ability to read a handwritten document upside down.” Joe read over Harrison’s list of new pins. “A skill I’ve always wanted to cultivate.”

  “I expected you to say you enjoyed it best when Blackwell threw Adam—a man double her size—over her hip to the floor.”

  “Well, it does suggest she can hold her own with the rakes and roués common to country house parties.” Joe tapped the list. “I see you are almost finished.”

  “With this and with all the other reports and correspondence on my desk. I was hoping to shift my attention to some new inquiries.”

  “That’s our Walgrave: never able to give a big messy pile of documents to the next man. No, everything must always be tied up with a neat bow before it can be passed along.” Adam laughed wryly and returned to his desk. “You do know, Walgrave, that some of the newer fellows would be grateful
for a mess of their own to sort out.”

  “At least this way, I know who to blame when something falls apart.” Walgrave without thinking touched a black pin to the east of England—Princess Marietta, a minor Hapsburg princess, killed by highwaymen. Another death on his watch. He would never confess to Adam, or any of the other men, that he worked so hard to atone for all the agents he’d lost.

  “You can’t always predict all the possible outcomes.” Adam shook his head ruefully. “Sometimes situations change in the middle, and the best you can do is adapt. And you adapt better than any of us.”

  “You’ve been on edge all morning.” Joe noticed the black pin and laid his hand on Harrison’s shoulder. “Is there something amiss? I mean other than the loss of a correspondent.”

  Harrison held his hands out to his sides, pushing down the bone-deep loneliness that he’d battled for months. “I believe I saw my wife yesterday walking down Bond Street. Same build, same hair. I followed her, but somehow she eluded me.”

  “She eluded you?” Adam’s head bobbed up from his papers. “A mere woman escaped our best spy. I believe Shakespeare would say, ‘There is a mystery.’”

  Joe shook his head at Adam, as if to say not now, and Adam mouthed Troilus and Cressida, then returned to his work.

  Joe looked at Walgrave, his face filled with concern. “If you were certain yesterday, why are you not certain today?”

  “Last night at the theater I saw an actress similar to my wife in build and height. I could have seen her on the street instead.”

  “You mistook an actress for your wife?” Joe’s face clouded. “When did you last visit your estate?”

  “Joe! Must you even ask? Walgrave cannot tell the difference between a woman on the street, an actress, and his wife,” Adam interjected. “He has been away too long.”

  Walgrave chose his words carefully, knowing he could not avoid looking like a lout. “My work keeps me often in town, and Lady Walgrave is an exceptionally competent manager.” He was not yet ready to reveal the rest; he would sound an even bigger fool. What woman would willingly give up the rank of countess to become a nobody? It was unimaginable, and, though Adam had been joking, many would lay the fault firmly at Walgrave’s feet.