by Alyson Chase
“So, your new maid, have you tupped her yet?”
Marcus swallowed saliva down his air pipe, and started coughing furiously. Rothchild clapped a hand to his back, but the duke shrugged him off. When he could breathe again, he turned in his saddle and glared at his friend. “What the devil kind of question is that? You know I don’t dally with my servants.”
Rothchild raised a black eyebrow. “I know that used to be your policy. But the way you were looking at, Miss Smith, was it? I was sure that had changed.”
“Well, you were wrong.” He gripped the reins, and Darkwing tossed his head. “And what do you mean ‘by the way I was looking at her’? I look at her as I look at any of my maids.”
A full-throated laugh tumbled from his friend’s mouth. He held his side as though it would split.
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Are you finished?” His voice could have frozen water.
“Just about.” Rothchild chuckled for a couple more seconds before sighing deeply, a smile curving his lips. “Thank you. I needed that amusement.”
Marcus growled.
The earl merely smiled wider. “Come, come. You do not truly believe that Miss Smith is like any other maid to you. No, don’t try to convince me otherwise. I have never seen you look upon any other servant, or any other woman for that matter, as you did your maid. It was positively indecent.”
Marcus turned his horse from the field they were crossing onto the dirt road that led to the village. He considered his friend’s words. No other woman challenged his self-control the way his little bird did, but that didn’t mean she was incomparable to other women. He’d lusted after plenty. He just found her more intriguing, more sensuous. The fact that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen didn’t mean . . . Damn it!
He goaded Darkwing into a faster walk. For fuck’s sake, he was infatuated with the chit. It was time he admitted it. That didn’t mean he would act on his attraction. He rubbed at his chest absently. Why, of all the women to whom he’d been introduced, did the one who caught his eye have to be a servant? One so far beneath his station as to be virtually impossible to have a relationship with?
Marcus had been raised with the understanding that it was his duty to marry well and breed future heirs for the Montague line. It was a future he had contented himself to. But until he’d met Miss Smith, he hadn’t given much consideration to the woman he would align himself with.
Now he knew what he wanted. A woman with strict self-control on the outside, but with a fire raging within, flames that only he could stoke and satisfy. A woman like Miss Smith. He sighed. There must be someone like her among the ton, he supposed. A woman who could make him forget the dark flashing eyes of his little maid. The thought left him oddly depressed.
Slumping his shoulders, he glanced at his friend. “Was it that obvious to everyone?”
“What, your infatuation?” Rothchild shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so. Only your most trusted friend—”
“Pain in the ass, more like,” Marcus muttered.
“The person who knows you best in the world noticed.” They approached the village, but Rothchild pulled back on his reins. “But you need to be more careful. The way you two were looking at each other almost made me feel dirty just being in the same room. No one would raise an eyebrow if you were to bed your servant, at least no one who doesn’t know you well. But developing a tendre for your maid, well, that would be something else entirely.”
“I do not develop tendres for anyone.” Disdain dripped from his tongue at the notion. “But I will be more careful in future.” Rothchild opened his mouth. Not wanting to hear any more on the subject, Marcus tapped his heels into Darkwing’s flank and trotted to the public house, dismounting before the conversation could progress.
The men entered the small building, empty at this time of day except for two farmers, and strode to a private room in the back. Seeing his man was already ensconced at the rickety table with a pitcher of ale, the duke closed the door behind himself and Rothchild.
The man poured ale into more mugs and pushed them across the table as Marcus and Rothchild took a seat. He lifted one in a salute. “Well met, Your Grace, my lord.”
Marcus raised his own mug. “Thank you for coming, Harding. What information do you have?”
“Your man, Sheffield, and me have been diggin’ into you swells in the House of Lords.” Harding snorted. “Right lot of rascals if you ask me.” He pulled several folded sheets of paper from his pocket and handed them to Marcus. “Here’s the list we’ve got so far and all the misdeeds they’ve done. From stepping out on their missus, to buggery, to gambling, it’s all there.”
Marcus pressed his lips together. He still didn’t know the identity of the traitor, and the list Harding gave him didn’t narrow it down much. The letter that had arrived the day before didn’t contain the information he’d hoped for. Summerset had persuaded Princess Catarina to betray Napoléon, detail all she’d been able to learn at court, but her information didn’t contain the name of the damned traitor. The princess had never overheard that intelligence.
She had heard talk of troop movement towards Dresden. If the British government could get word to the Austrians in time—
Rothchild jabbed his finger at one of the names on the papers. “I knew Staunton was a molly. No man wears heels that high unless—”
Marcus cut him off. “You’re just annoyed because Staunton beat you in that race through Hyde Park and you lost your bay mare to him. The rest is irrelevant.” He turned to Harding, who was busy wiping the white froth of the ale off his lips with the back of his sleeve. “While this list is very extensive, I need to know who would be subject to blackmail over his misdeeds, or who is in desperate need of money. No one cares if a peer takes a mistress and most turn a blind eye if that paramour isn’t of the female persuasion. Who on this list could be turned against the Crown?”
The spy pursed his lips. “Well, the Viscount of Kent is in a right financial hash. He has three by-blows he’s trying to do right by, one younger sister with a spending habit, and is in debt up to his eyeballs. The Earl of Summerset—”
“He is not the traitor.”
“But he’s said to have a relationship with—”
“Move on.”
Rothchild stifled a laugh. “Let the man speak, Montague. You never know what Summerset is up to in Paris.”
Marcus glared at him. “Next prospect.”
Harding harrumphed. “Well, the second son of the Marquis of Stanwick is said to owe a fortune to a number of gambling hells around London. He could have access to his father’s secrets.”
Marcus made some notes on the list. “Anyone else?”
“The Earl of Westmore is spending more than his estate brings in. But he does like to gamble and we haven’t been able to find out if he’s winning more or losing.”
Marcus stilled. Westmore wasn’t a name he’d expected to hear. He didn’t like the man, but the earl had never appeared to either have any great love for the French or ever be in need of funds. But he was now missing a maid, one who had turned up in the duke’s own household. Coincidence?
He kept his expression even. “Find out. If Westmore is spending a farthing more than his income provides I want to know.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Harding drained his mug. “I can get a couple hours’ ride in before dark if I leave now. Unless you need anything else?”
“That is all. Thank you, Harding.”
Rothchild let him sit in silence for a couple of minutes after the spy left. Marcus refolded the list and tucked it into his breast pocket, his fingers brushing against the princess’s letter. He traced the wing of the falcon on the raised seal before pushing back from his seat. He strode into the main room and headed for the barmaid.
“Westmore’s name caught your attention,” Rothchild said, trailing after him. “Why?”
“I have no reason to suspect him more than any other.” Marcus conferred with the woman and p
ocketed the apples she gave him. He left a coin on the bar and exited the building.
“And yet?”
Marcus tossed an apple to him, fed the remaining treat to Darkwing. The horse’s nose brushed against his palm, soft as a warm blanket—or a woman’s skin. The steady crunching of the apple steadied his nerves. “And yet.” He leaped into the saddle. “I need to update Liverpool. Will you take my letter to him? It’s too important to go by normal channels.”
“Of course. Anything to get out of houseguest duty.”
Marcus shook his head. His friend meant it. Rothchild would rather face five toughs in a back alley than have his movements watched and proscribed by society.
And he thought Marcus had problems.
They rode their horses out of the village at a trot. For once Marcus wasn’t eager to return home for the chance of a glimpse of his new maid. His insides twisted uneasily. The woman hid much under her mask, but he didn’t think she hid the heart of a traitor.
And yet.
Chapter Eleven
Liz’s knuckles scraped against the rough wooden door, her attempt at a knock barely making a sound through the thick plank. Thinking back to the linen and silk gloves she used to wear, she sighed. The littlest things she no longer took for granted. She had raised her hand to knock harder when a woman’s voice called out behind her.
“Yes, miss? Was there something you needed?” The woman walking up the path was skinny to the point of bones. Greasy hanks of hair framed a haggard face. She was carrying a bucket in front of her, her shoulders rounded from the heavy load. The shawl covering her simple dress slid precariously down one shoulder.
Liz met the woman and reached out a hand to grasp one side of the bucket’s handle. The woman gave her a grateful smile and held the other side as they walked to the door. “Are you Mrs. Blackmun?” The woman nodded her head and led Liz inside the small cottage. “I’m Miss Smith. I work at Hartsworth House.”
Mrs. Blackmun dropped the bucket, some grain spilling to the dirt floor, nearly yanking Liz’s arm from its socket in the process. “Are you a friend of my Bob’s? Have you come with news of him?” The woman’s eyes brightened with hope.
Liz’s heart sank. It seemed they were both to be disappointed when it came to obtaining information in this visit. “No, I’m sorry. Being new to the duke’s service, I only met your nephew once. I’d hoped you might have information as to his whereabouts.”
Mrs. Blackmun’s face crumpled, deep lines creasing the skin around her mouth and eyes. “Oh. When you said . . . I hoped . . .” She shuffled to a wood chair and sank down.
Liz bit her lip. “I’m so sorry to cause you any further pain.” She sat down next to the woman. “So you didn’t hear from Bob before he left? You don’t know where he is?”
Mrs. Blackmun shook her head. “Bob used to come home twice a week for supper and a visit with me and Mr. Blackmun. Such a good boy, he was. Me and the mister never had any children of our own, so when Bob’s parents died, we were glad to take him. A happy child, even with his loss.”
Liz shifted on the hard chair. “Do you know if Bob was attached to anyone in particular? There are some rumors that he might have eloped up to Gretna Green.”
The blacksmith’s wife snorted. “My Bob was a good boy, kind and loving. But he was very shy where girls were concerned. And even if he had found someone and her parents would have objected me and Mr. Blackmun never would have. Bob would have sent us a note, let us know what he was doing. Not run off without a word.” She lifted her head and gave Liz a pleading look. “That boy was always so concerned about me and the mister. When he came for supper, he’d bring along leftovers from the duke’s kitchen and always leave a coin or two of his wages for us. My husband’s back hasn’t been good and he can’t work as much as he’d like, you see.”
“Of course.” Liz leaned forward. “He sounds like a sweet boy. I wish I’d become better acquainted with him.”
Mrs. Blackmun rolled the frayed edge of her shawl. “If you didn’t know my boy well why are you here asking about him?”
She’d thought about what she’d say to that question on the ride over. She wasn’t happy with what she’d come up with, but right now it was all she had. “As I said, I am quite new to the duke’s service. One always hears stories of, um, maids going missing, or family ghosts who threaten the servants.” She flushed at the drivel spewing from her mouth. It had sounded better in her head. After all these months working for Westmore, she really should be better at deception. “And as I’m all alone with no family nearby I guess I was hoping that you would say that Bob had merely moved to London and that would be one less story to be scared by.” She swallowed hard. “I know you must think I’m awfully silly fretting about such things, especially with you so worried about your nephew, but I find being in a new position so unsettling that it’s difficult to sleep at night.”
Mrs. Blackmun leaned back in her chair, away from her, Liz noted. “Well, I don’t know about ghost stories and the like, but Bob was never anything but happy at Hartsworth. He got along with everyone, never had any problems.”
“Of course.” Liz smoothed her hands down her skirts, and stood. She’d expected the visit to be unfruitful, but the disappointment still stung.
“No problems except that one time with the groom.”
Liz sat back down. “With Mr. Pike or another groom?”
“Pike, that was the name.” Mrs. Blackmun’s mouth flattened into a line. “My Bob saw him talking with another man late one night and asked Mr. Pike who that other man was. He didn’t recognize him as belonging to the duke’s service. Bob was a curious boy, didn’t mean no harm by his question.”
Light-headed, Liz sucked in a deep breath. “Of course.”
“Well, that Mr. Pike nearly snapped my boy’s head off, to hear him tell the story. Told him if he didn’t mind his own business he’d make sure Bob got the sack. When Bob told us the story, he was laughing about it, but I’ll tell you, that man had no call to speak to my boy like that, not for asking a question.”
Liz cleared her throat. “Did he have any further problems with Mr. Pike?”
“No, Bob tried to steer clear of the groom after that as much as possible.”
Which probably wasn’t possible all the time. Liz didn’t know how often Mr. Pike held clandestine meetings with Westmore’s men, but if a curious boy such as Bob came across another one what would Pike have done?
A sick feeling gathered in her stomach. She’d hoped she’d find Bob, perhaps a bit bruised and angry, and with a story to tell. Something she could use as leverage against Pike and, ultimately, against Westmore.
But she didn’t think she would find Bob alive and well anymore.
Ice raced down her spine as she remembered the threats Pike had leveled at her. Her jaw clenched. She had gotten herself into this trouble by her own choices. But Bob was an innocent. If he’d been harmed because of Westmore’s scheme she’d . . . well, she didn’t know what she would do. But she had to do something.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Blackmun.” Liz rose to her feet, and the woman followed suit. “If I hear anything regarding your nephew I’ll inform you immediately. And if you hear from Bob please do let me know.”
“If you’d like.” Mrs. Blackmun’s shoulders hunched as she walked Liz out. She gave Liz a trembling smile as she shut the door between them. Liz could tell by the expression on the woman’s face that she didn’t hold out hope that any news would be good.
Liz found Joseph, the kitchen boy, down the lane playing with a group of children. With a jaunty tip to his small cap, he led her to the cart they’d driven into the village. Climbing onto the cart, Joseph waited until she was settled before slapping the back of the plow horse with the reins and turning towards home.
Her young driver tried to start a conversation, but Liz was too distracted to engage with him. Her mind raced from one possible scenario to another as the boy whistled a merry tune. A boy not too much youn
ger than Bob Blackmun. Did the footman have a similar turned-up nose and freckled face? Liz sighed. How far would Westmore and his men go to rob the duke? She’d witnessed blackmail, threats, and intimidation, but she’d never seen any evidence that the earl or his men would go so far as murder.
The bump of the cart evened out as they turned onto the graded drive to Hartsworth House. Her eyes filled with tears, and she quickly closed them before any could roll down her cheeks. She was overwhelmed and needed someone to talk to. “Oh, Amanda,” she murmured.
The whistling stopped. “You say something, miss?”
“No.” She cleared her throat. Movement by the stable caught her eye. Turning her head, she watched as Mr. Pike, a saddle tossed over one shoulder, made his way to the tack room. “Yes, I did say something. Let me off here, please.”
“All rightie, miss.”
The cart shuddered to a halt, and Liz sprang off. She stalked to the tack room, having no idea what she wanted to say to Mr. Pike, but in a hurry to say it. She entered the large storage space and made a beeline for Pike. Her stomach unclenched slightly when she saw three other men at the far side of the building, far enough away not to hear her conversations but close enough so her “second cousin” couldn’t harm her.
He stood with his back to her, his focus on the torn leather of a saddle’s girth. She had no evidence of any wrongdoing on his part to accuse him of, only a gut feeling. And a lot of anger. She decided not to mince words. “What did you do to Bob?”
His body jerked, but when he turned around to face her his expression was calm. “Who’s Bob and why would I have done somethin’ to him?”
“Bob Blackmun, the footman. The young man you had an argument with and threatened after he caught you with”—she swiveled her head left, then right, and dropped her voice—“one of Westmore’s men.”
He snapped the leather strap taut between his hands. “Shut yer mouth about the earl. I’m not the only one with somethin’ to lose if it comes out we’re working for him.”
