The Match of the Century

by Cathy Maxwell

  “No one will know. This will be our secret.”

  She placed her hand against his face. His skin felt good beneath her palm. “I can’t decide if I like you clean-shaven. I’d grown accustomed to your whiskers.”

  He pressed his lips against her forehead, his clever, clever hands at her waist. “You must return.”

  “I don’t know why. No one notices me. They are more interested in pleasing Baynton, as you predicted. And he easily becomes completely entrapped in duties and responsibilities—not to say his work is unimportant.”

  “I know.”

  “But I want to be important to the man I marry.” Something her father had thrown at her when she’d tried to talk to him about Ben haunted her. “Or do you want marriage?”

  “I want you for my wife, for my lover, and to be my helpmate and the mother of my children. Your father has warned me to stay away from you. I don’t wish his animosity, Elin. I know how important he is to you.”

  “You may never win him over. He is set on his belief that his grandson will be a duke. It all sounds so silly now. He was deaf to my explanations about how, if it hadn’t been for you, I would be dead. Ben, let us not wait. Let us run away.” She gripped the lapel of his coat. “Please. There is nothing wrong with your brother—”

  “He is a good man.”

  “But I love you. I can never be the wife he deserves. And if I have to spend every evening of my life at affairs like this, talking circles around politics, I shall die of boredom. Or worse, return to Heartwood and live apart from my husband. That is not the married life I want.”

  “Will you trust me, Elin?”

  “Of course.”

  “This may take time.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you I want to do this right. I didn’t garner goodwill when I was last in London. I need to make some amends, but I hope to change that. I don’t want us to be a scandal. I love you too much to let you be food for the gossips. I want our love for each other to be noted and praised.”

  “I want you to make love to me again,” Elin answered candidly. “This is all your fault. You’ve turned me into a wanton woman. Ben, I miss you.”

  His answer was a kiss, one that framed better than words his devotion to her.

  “Don’t take too long saving us,” she said, leaning into the haven of his arms. “Please, don’t take too long.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “And you will tell me what you are doing? My curiosity can only be held at bay for so long.”

  “I will. I’ll send a note or something.” He took her face in his hands. “However, trust that I’ll never be far from you, Elin. I want to keep you safe.”

  “Father is convinced that Darby and his men really wanted to kidnap me for ransom.”

  Ben was quiet a moment, then he said, “Tell me again what the Frenchwoman said to Darby?”

  “That he was not supposed to approach the coach until it reached a certain place.”

  “And what else? What did Darby say before he shot her?”

  “That ‘he’ had told Darby to kill Madame Odette. I suppose to not have any connections leading to him.”

  “Possibly.” He gave Elin a quick kiss. “Come, you need to return.”

  She groaned. “I’m really not ready.”

  “I’m not either.” He gave her a kiss. “But you’ve been gone for some time.”

  “I wonder if anyone will notice?”

  “Your father might.”

  His words reminded Elin of something that should interest him. “My father is flirting with your mother.”

  “What?”

  Elin stifled a laugh and nodded. “Do you mind?”

  Ben released his breath. “I suppose not. Has Gavin noticed?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Mother,” Ben said under his breath as if she exasperated and pleased him at the same time. “You need to go. One moment.” He opened the door a crack and checked the hallway. “It is clear. Go. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t make it too long,” she whispered, gave him another quick kiss, and slipped out the door.

  New people were gathered at the hall near the ballroom, but they were involved in their own flirtations. No one paid attention to Elin.

  She had been gone close to an hour. She hoped that what she’d been doing didn’t show on her face. She was glad Ben had been clean-shaven.

  More guests must have arrived because the ballroom was an absolute crush. Elin made her way over to her father. Theresa and Robbie were still talking to their friends. Baynton was standing even farther away, and there was a heated discussion taking place with him in the center. Elin recognized the prime minister and several prominent leaders gathered there. Her father was also in their midst.

  Gavin caught sight of her and smiled. In that moment, he appeared charmingly boyish. He was a handsome man. Uncommonly so.

  But her heart belonged to his unruly brother.

  And then she was dismissed from Gavin’s thoughts as a gentleman must have said something so audacious, he had to be challenged. The politicians were a nucleus of opinion and argument in the middle of guests sharing gossip and stories of their children, and flirtations, and the swirling of dancers—and Elin felt quite apart from it all, even as she stood in their number. This was not where she belonged.

  “Did you see Benedict?”

  Marcella’s question startled Elin. She glanced to her left, where the Dowager had slipped beside her. Elin tried to be calm. “Is Lord Ben here?”

  The duchess’s expression said she was not fooled. “Be careful, my girl. Be very careful.” Not waiting for a protestation or an answer, she walked over to the politicians, pulled Elin’s father from their group, and the two of them walked toward the supper room.

  And Elin was alone.

  Ben stole a look into the ballroom. He couldn’t help himself. He saw Elin standing by herself, vibrant, unique, and ignored.

  He longed to cross the room to her, to take her hand, and lead her onto the dance floor. He’d never been much of a dancer, but he would do anything to be close to her.

  Instead, he backed away from the guests. He didn’t recognize anyone, and few knew him—

  A man pushed his way through the guests and walked past Ben. He moved gingerly and groaned with every other step, the sound like the lowing of a bull. That is when Ben recognized him. He followed.

  “Roger? Roger Cooper?”

  The man stopped, shifting his weight from the ball of one foot to the other and peered through thick spectacles to see who was speaking. “Whitridge?”

  “It is I,” Ben said, genuinely happy to see Roger. Coop had been one of his first friends in the military. They’d been ensigns together. Coop was one of the worst soldiers imaginable. He was portly in size and abhorred giving orders. Many a time, Ben had either backed him up or taken the task over for him.

  In truth, Ben admired the talents Coop did have. Not only did he have a brilliant mind, he also had the ability to locate and procure needed supplies everyone thought impossible to find.

  He was also a cousin of the Duke of Marlborough. A heady connection.

  “It is good to see you, Whit,” Roger said, taking Ben’s offered hand. “Especially on an evening like this.”

  “You don’t want to be here?” Ben asked innocently, knowing full well the answer. Coop was a notorious hermit. He could have happily lived out his life in a library.

  “Dancing is not one of my passions. However, I have a wife now. Demanding creatures. When I received the invitation, there was nothing for it save we come. She has talked about this one evening for weeks. And she will probably go on about it for weeks after. Here, follow me.” Without waiting for Ben’s agreement, he hastily went on his way, again with the strange mincing step as if his shoes were too small.

  He pushed open the door to the room set aside for the gentlemen. Ben followed. The room was
empty save for a footman there to service any needs.

  Coop threw his considerable bulk onto a tufted settee and pulled off his shoes. He began scratching his feet, sighing happily as he did so.

  “That is such a relief. The itch was about to drive me half-mad.”

  “So, what are you doing nowadays?” Ben asked. The footman had poured fresh water in the bowl of one of two washbasins, and Ben took advantage of it. Lord Caldwell had set out a lemon-scented soap. Ben rather liked the fragrance. He must tell George to purchase some.

  “Working in the War Office.” Coop stopped his furious itching. “They have me responsible for fielding supplies. It is a frustrating business. There isn’t a politician worth his salt, save for Liverpool.” He spoke of Lord Liverpool, the Minister for the War Office and the man responsible for seeing Wellesley placed in charge of the Peninsula army.

  “You like him?”

  “I admire him.”

  “That is high praise from Roger Cooper.”

  Coop grinned, pleased. And then his expression changed as if he was struck by an idea. “What are you doing?”

  Ben leaned a hip against the washbasin. “I’m at loose ends.”

  “Would you like to do something of service?”

  He had Ben’s attention. “What do you have in mind?”

  “The War Office is understaffed with knowledgeable people.” Coop padded over in stocking feet to the washbasin next to Ben’s. “You can’t imagine the silliness of civil servants. Sometimes I think they believe we are planning a picnic instead of trying to defeat the French. Liverpool is frustrated as well. The minister was railing to me just the other day,” Roger continued, “about how he needed men who understood the situation in Portugal working for him. I tell you, Whit, it is dire, dire indeed.” He took the linen towel offered by the footman and dried his hands before saying, “If you were of a mind to, we could use someone with your knowledge. Would you be interested?”

  Would he be interested? It took everything Ben had to not leap into his friend’s arms and kiss him for the opportunity.

  Instead, Ben replied soberly, “I could be convinced.”

  Coop’s face came alive in delight. “That would be capital.” He took Ben’s hand and shook it vigorously. “We need you, Whitridge. We need you. Come to my office tomorrow. Liverpool was here tonight, but he’s left. I’ll speak to him in the morning, and I’m certain he will want you on the staff. However—” Coop paused as if measuring his words. “—You may not want to say anything to your brother about this opportunity. Baynton and Liverpool are at cross-purposes right now.”

  “I won’t whisper a word.”

  “Good. Good. Tomorrow then.” Coop then groaned as rubbed a stockinged foot furiously against the calf of his other leg. “Damn it all,” he muttered.

  “My man might have something that could help you with that,” Ben offered helpfully.

  “Truly?”

  “I believe so. He’s quite focused on feet. He says a good washing with a stiff brush will do the trick.”

  “Stiff brush,” Coop repeated as if wanting to log the information into his memory.

  “He may have other tricks,” Ben said. “I’ll have George talk to your man.”

  “Thank you, Whitridge. Thank you, thank you.”

  Ben said his good-byes then. He left Coop scratching away. He then took his leave of the Caldwells’ house. He’d wanted to find Elin and share the news of his interview; however, it would not be wise. Not yet. The next time he ran the chance of meeting Fyclan Morris, Ben wanted it to be on his terms.

  George did have some ideas to share about Coop’s itch. The valet chattered happily away on the subject and remedies he had discovered until Ben ordered him out of the room. The next day, Ben was up early, too excited to sleep.

  He didn’t share his plans for the day with his mother, and his path did not cross his brother’s.

  At half past ten, he presented himself to Cooper’s office. Lord Liverpool was there as well. After a good two hours of meaningful discussion, Ben was proud to join the War Office as one of Liverpool’s personal aides.

  Had the fact Ben was Baynton’s brother played a part? Liverpool did not mention the Duke of Baynton, but Gavin’s political presence was in the room.

  For once, Ben didn’t mind. That he was related to the powerful Duke of Baynton was a reality. However, the cabinet minister spoke as if he wanted to know Ben’s mind and not his brother’s.

  “I’d thought you hotheaded,” Lord Liverpool said. “However, right now, I need a man who understands the war. Your presence is fortuitous. Wellesley asked about you in one of his dispatches last week. He believes you are a good man. Prove him right.”

  “I intend to, my lord,” Ben answered. With that, Ben was given instructions on reporting to Lord Liverpool’s office the following week, followed by a handshake.

  “We shall do great things together, Whitridge,” His Lordship said, and left the room.

  Coop was happy. “I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed him taking two hours with anyone. He likes you. You will do well here, Ben. Very well.”

  “I plan to do so.”

  “Now,” Coop said, leaning on his desk, “have you told your man to be in touch with my man? My feet, Ben. My feet.”

  “Have no fear,” Ben said, “George promised he has a few cures and should be in contact with your man even as we speak.”

  “Bless you.”

  Ben laughed and took his leave, deciding the time had come to turn his attention to solving the mystery of who had wanted to murder Elin.

  Her father and his brother acted as if the attempt was of no consequence. Ben thought differently. Perhaps it all had ended with Darby’s death. Maybe she was safe. He needed to be certain.

  Mulling over the matter, Ben decided to start with the dressmaker, Madame Odette.

  Leaving Whitehall, he made his way to Bond Street, home of many fashionable shops, and, after a few discreet inquiries, discovered the location of Madame Odette’s. Her establishment was on a side street off of St. James’s, of all places. St. James’s was a busy thoroughfare but known more for gentlemen’s clubs than dressmakers.

  Ben found her choice for the location of her shop curious. However, he did learn that she had been building a strong reputation and had several patronesses who were the wives of ambitious young men.

  Ben could believe that having an account like Fyclan Morris’s would be a boon to her business as well as to her pocketbook. He wondered how Fyclan had chosen the woman’s services. Who had recommended her?

  The mystery deepened when Ben found her shop and discovered it closed.

  He peered into the dark shop windows. The place was deserted. There was furniture inside, but all was dark and, from what he could see, dusty. She’d been closed for some time.

  Ben walked to the alleyway behind the dressmaker’s building. There was a sturdy wooden door and no window.

  The door was not a problem. Glancing over his shoulder and seeing no one in sight, Ben gave a strong shove of his shoulder. The lock broke.

  He slipped inside. The back room was a thin darkness. He let his eyes adjust. There were curtains with feminine stripes that separated this room from another. Long tables had been set up as workspace. Chairs were shoved to one corner. He could see signs that there had been sewing activity recently, but most of the dresses, material, scissors, and other sewing supplies were gone. What was abandoned was broken or useless. Certainly, he could see no sign of a thriving business.

  Ben moved into the room beyond the curtains and looked into each of the dressing rooms. Again, there was nothing of interest.

  He poked his head into the shop itself. The only item left was a small, dainty bell on a painted desk. It would have been used to ring for service. He could imagine how this shop must have looked with ribbons and fabrics on display. All was gone. There wasn’t even a ledger for him to explore in the desk’s drawer.

  Either someone had thorou
ghly cleaned out the establishment, or Madame Odette had done it herself . . . which would make sense only if she wasn’t expecting to return.

  Ben suspected the latter.

  He walked toward the back of the shop, flicking aside the curtain out of frustration over the lack of clues.

  Then again, the absence of any professional or personal belongings indicated the attack on Elin’s coach had been planned well in advance.

  But where could Ben go from here?

  Just as he was reaching for the door handle, he heard voices outside. He stepped back, listening—and recognized Gavin’s deep rumble.

  The Duke of Baynton was right outside.

  Chapter Nineteen

  What the deuce was his brother doing here?

  The Duke of Baynton rarely did anything himself. He had servants and men like Perkins to carry out his wishes. Or was there a whole army waiting on the other side of the door for Ben? His brother was talking to someone. Ben couldn’t distinguish the words of their conversation. They were moving toward the door.

  They were about to enter the shop.

  Ben stepped back and leaned against the wall, letting the door shield him from view.

  “Damn it all,” a male exclaimed. “Pardon me, Your Grace, for my temper, but the lock is broken.”

  “So it is,” Gavin answered.

  The door swung open. Gavin stepped into the room first. He paused and looked around, cautious. Ben could have reached out and tapped his brother’s shoulder if he so desired. Instead, he held still.

  A narrow man with the air of business walked in behind him. “Whoever broke in was disappointed. Sally didn’t leave anything of value when she left. She was a wise one, she was. Always feathering her own nest.”

  “Sally?” Gavin said, asking the question Ben wondered.

  “You don’t think she was truly French, do you? I mean, she sounded the part and looked it. However, when she first rented from me three years ago, she was Sally Mays. She was from Devonshire. She did well for herself. Pretty girl with a skill for the needle. Hated me every time I called her Sally. She always corrected me, and I kinda liked it.”