Letty put a hand up to the bandeau of pearls with the five ostrich feathers. Shoulder-length lappets hung down from it. “I shall find it hard to see when I turn my head.” She suffered another hot surge of anxiety.
“I’m sure you’ll do well. I don’t recall hearing of a debutante falling over before the queen although one or two might have stumbled.”
This failed to fill Letty with confidence. She swallowed as her ankle gave a throb, reminding her of the weakness there.
“You will do nicely, Letitia,” Arietta reassured her, at Letty’s gasp of dismay. “What a pity your family are not here to see you.” She gestured to the door. “I shall take the part of the queen. You must enter the room, walk toward me, make your curtsey, and back away again.”
Letty slowly crossed the drawing room Axminister carpet to where Arietta waited on a sofa near the fireplace. She curtsied low as she’d been instructed.
Arietta nodded approvingly. “Your curtsey is graceful. Now, walk backward, but keep your eyes on me.”
Gathering up the train, Letty retreated, the long lappets stirring oddly against her neck.
Arietta clapped her hands. “You did that very nicely. Do it a few more times, it will give you confidence. I am sure you will make me proud. Afterward, I shall write to your uncle and aunt and tell them how well you did.”
After two more attempts, Letty did feel a little better.
“Go upstairs and have my maid help you out of the dress. You don’t want it crushed.”
Arietta’s warmth and encouragement threw Letty into confusion. The late-night visit from Monsieur Pierse consumed her thoughts. She’d slept badly, and tired, struggled to act naturally while questions flooded her mind. How did they come to know each other? And how well? She tried to recall Pierse’s conversation with Fraughton in the library while she and Brandon hid in the closet, and was fairly sure that neither Arietta nor her husband were mentioned. Surely Brandon would wish to hear of this. He would want to see this Frenchman, perhaps he was searching for him. Brandon might attend the card party tonight.
She bit her lip. Brandon had ordered her not to get mixed up in this affair again. It was plain that he’d prefer her to return to Cumbria. Conflicting emotions warred within her. It hurt that she was nothing to him but a nuisance. But what else could she do? She must tell him and would be greatly relieved for him to take this on his shoulders.
But that evening, Brandon did not appear amongst the guests. Letty searched the busy reception rooms and the card tables where whist and faro were played. She wandered through the townhouse without success. The thought struck her that as he was no longer following Fraughton, he might not come to many parties. Or indeed, he might have left London!
Her suspicion was confirmed when he failed to come to the Jameson’s soiree. Letty became so fidgety, she drew a concerned comment from Arietta. But thankfully, she put it down to her coming presentation.
Letty was at a loss to know what to do next, but as her curtsey to the queen was to take place the following day, the matter would have to wait.
Brandon had spent two days on the hunt for Robert Marston. He had not been seen at any of the haunts he favored in London, so he rode into Surrey to Marston’s country house. Marston’s servant informed him that his master had returned home, packed a portmanteau, and left again on horseback, planning to visit friends in Ireland. The fellow was believable, but whether Marston had told him the truth was another matter. The Irish Sea was a long way from Surrey, and Brandon reasoned that Marston would not have gone all the way to the ferry on horseback.
His frustrating search continued as he inquired at the coaching inns along the road and found no trace. Brandon’s inquiries revealed Marston had a cousin living in the county. There was a chance that William Marston might have some idea of Robert’s direction.
Brandon spent the night at an inn, and the next morning after a fortifying breakfast, rode past farms and water meadows along a road bordered by Windsor Forest toward the village of Addlestone.
It was close to noon when he sighted the famous Crouch Oak, believed to have existed in the time of Queen Elizabeth I. It was said the queen stopped beside it to have a picnic. At the village inn, The Red Lion, he was told the way to William Marston’s property, and more information besides. The loquacious innkeeper expounded on the famous oak tree, which was a great symbol of the town. It had been around since the eleventh century and marked the boundary of Windsor Great Park.
“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Robert Marston in these parts for nigh on a year,” the innkeeper informed him, placing a chicken pie and a tankard of ale before Brandon. “Not to say he hasn’t visited his cousin, though. He resides at Cottleshield Manor, five miles north along this road. You’ll come to Brown’s Lane. Take that, it leads you right to his house.”
William Marston’s square, thatched-roof manor house sat amid a cottage garden. Brandon dismounted and knocked at the door. As he brushed the dirt from his boots, it was opened by William himself, smoking a pipe. There was no mistaking the tall man. He had similar features to Robert, but was of a narrower build and lacked the signs of dissipation which had begun to appear on his cousin’s face.
“Cartwright, sir. I have come in search of your cousin, Robert.”
“He is not here, Mr. Cartwright. But do come in.”
“Will a servant see to my horse?”
William called his groom and gave the order. “May I offer you a glass of wine?”
Brandon accepted and was taken down a narrow hall into a bookroom where tomes were stacked on every surface. One book lay open on an oak desk. A cheery fire burned in the hearth.
He handed Brandon a glass of claret. “Robert stayed last night with me.” He shrugged. “We don’t have much in common. He found it dull here, I suppose. He left only a few hours ago. What is your interest in him, may I ask?”
“He needs to return to London. An important matter. I’m afraid I can’t say more.”
“Trouble, no doubt.” William nodded and sucked on his pipe. “Robert seems to attract it.”
“Did he mention a trip to Ireland?”
William frowned. “No. He was going to visit friends as I understood it. Wanted to get away from London for a while. Things have not been going well for him of late.”
“Where might this friend live?”
“Reading, I believe. Didn’t say who it was, however.” He frowned. “I thought him in very low spirits.”
Brandon emptied his glass and rose. “Thank you for the wine.”
“I hope the matter can be resolved.” He looked doubtful as he escorted Brandon to the door.
He wished to quell the man’s doubts, but unable to do so, could only thank him for the wine and leave. With a pat of his horse’s neck, Brandon mounted and set out along the road toward Swindon. He glanced up at the sun. Past noon. While he wouldn’t ride his horse into the ground, he hoped to catch up with Marston before nightfall.
Brandon had been riding for two hours when the terrain changed into the rolling verdant hills of Wessex Downs and its grazing sheep.
As he rode down a hill, he spotted a rider about a half mile ahead of him. Marston, at a slow trot. This was open country, with very few trees. Marston wouldn’t hesitate to take a shot at Brandon, so he held back, steeling himself to be patient.
Dusk was a mere hour away. Brandon, waiting for better cover, kept Marston in view. If he noted Brandon’s presence, he made no sign of it. Long shadows rippled across the hills as the day drew to a close. Brandon dismounted when his horse began to tire, and led him by the rein. He expected to lose sight of his quarry and would have to make up ground tomorrow. But rounding a bend in the road, he found Marston bent over his horse’s hoof. The animal had lost a shoe. He swung around and saw Brandon approaching.
“I’m not here to kill you, Marston,” Brandon called. “I witnessed Fraughton’s attack on you. It was self-defense. I can vouch for that.”
“Forget it, Cartw
right.” Marston shook his head. “Even if you do mean it, you can’t help me.”
When Marston raised his gun, Brandon threw himself to the side. The explosion ricocheted around the hills as the scorching heat of the bullet grazed his arm.
Marston threw down his gun and began to climb the rocky hill.
“Devil take it!” Brandon tied a handkerchief around his arm and went after him. It would be even more difficult now to overpower the big man. “Don’t be a fool, Marston, there’s nothing around here for miles!”
Marston ignored him. He must have been aware that Brandon could easily pick him off. As if he had some clear objective, he climbed strongly, while Brandon followed, his wounded arm sending a protest with each movement.
Marson stopped beside a large cluster of rocks. Fearing he had a knife, Brandon took cover behind a rock. “Give yourself up, Marston,” he yelled.
“Go to hell,” Marston cried. He climbed onto a large boulder that jutted out from the cliff and stared down at Brandon as if inviting him to shoot him.
Brandon warily emerged from his cover and continued up the incline, still hoping to take him alive.
With a shout, Marston suddenly leaped headlong into the air, his arms flailing. He came crashing down, limb over limb, sending dirt and rocks flying, then lay twisted and still at the bottom of the cliff.
Brandon, cursing loudly, descended as fast as he could. On reaching the inert man, he bent over him, aware of what he would find. Marston’s blank gaze stared up at him.
Brandon’s veins flooded with ice and he shivered. The awful moment when Freddie Maxwell fell from the church tower, flashed vividly into his mind’s eye. Freddie laughing at Brandon, suddenly cold sober, urging him to give it up and come down.
Brandon sank to the ground and buried his head in his arms, deeply shaken.
Chapter Seventeen
Letty feared she might faint. It had been a long time since she’d eaten. She’d barely touched her breakfast and was far too nervous to eat a bite of luncheon.
With Arietta beside her, she waited in the presentation drawing room of St. James’s Palace for her name to be announced by the Lord Chamberlain. How did women in the last century manage these hoops every day? She placed a hand to the headdress of ostrich feathers, fearing it had not been secured well enough. She was so tired. She’d been made to stand for hours, for no one sat in the queen’s presence.
When her turn came at last, Letty managed her deep curtsy to the queen without mishap. The queen deigned to speak to her, asking how Letty liked London, and was she enjoying the balls?
Letty answered her with a smile, and they chatted for several minutes. Heaven knew what the queen would think had she learned the truth. With a deep breath, Letty arranged her train over her arm and began to back away. She had gone a few steps when the ostrich feather headdress shifted alarmingly. It moved forward onto her forehead and would soon fall over her eyes. With a flood of warmth to her face, her smiled plastered on her lips, she continued her retreat, step by careful step, her breath shortening. Then, reaching the door, with a gasp of relief, she turned and entered the antechamber where she pushed the offending headdress back into place.
“That went extremely well,” Arietta said with a smile. “The queen seemed to enjoy your conversation. I don’t know why you were so worried. I told you it would!”
Still shaking, Letty stifled a giggle.
The next day, she accompanied Arietta to Hookhams Lending Library in Old Bond Street, to purchase tickets for the opera the following week.
“On Wednesday, we will attend a dance at Almack’s,” Arietta said as they partook of luncheon in Grillion’s hotel dining room. “And tonight, we have a musicale. The Willard’s niece is an aspiring soprano.”
“How pleasant,” Letty said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. She doubted she’d find Brandon at a musicale.
Brandon arranged for Marston’s body to be placed in the care of his saddened cousin. The local apothecary treated the powder burn on his arm with basilica powder and bound it up, then Brandon rode back to London. Willard was in his office in Whitehall.
“You look done in, my boy,” Willard said, as Brandon took the chair opposite him. “I’ll send for coffee. I am eager to hear more of your news. And I have some interesting news of my own to impart.”
Brandon, his back stiff in the chair, related the facts about Marston’s death. “I am sorry I could not bring him back to London as you wished,” he said, his voice a low growl. The weight of the man’s death still weighed heavily upon him. He put it down to his failure to carry out Willard’s orders and bring Marston back alive.
“Not your fault that Marston chose to die the way he did. He was well aware of what would happen to him as a traitor.” Willard studied him. “This has hit you hard, hasn’t it?”
“It’s somewhat inexplicable,” Brandon admitted. “Not as though I liked the fellow. He was a brutal, unfeeling devil, who would have dispatched Miss Bromley and me without a second thought. I had nothing but contempt for him. And I’ve been involved in worst situations and seen many people die in one skirmish or another.”
“But the manner of his death has some resemblance to your friend’s, is that not so?” Willard, astute as ever, suggested. “I confess to being glad you do feel the weight of it, Brandon. That you are not hardened by the work you have performed for the Crown. Honorable though it is.”
“Honorable? Some would not say so.”
“Resign,” Willard stated flatly. “Such work can strip a man of his values. Leave this business before it drags you down to a place you do not want to go.”
Brandon noted Willard’s furrowed brow. “You wish me to leave the service?”
“It is something I suggest with reluctance. You are one of my most reliable agents. But I have always felt some measure of responsibility for you, as you know, since I was instrumental in bringing you into the business.”
Brandon was about to object, but the door opened, and their coffee was brought in.
“Don’t make a decision now,” Willard said. “Give the matter some thought.”
“I will.” Brandon picked up the coffee cup and took a sip as the prospect of a life without purpose struck him with force. “Now what have you to tell me?”
Willard opened a drawer and drew out a fat, black leather journal.
“Is that what I think it is?” Brandon leaned forward, excitement tightening his chest.
“Arrived by special courier this morning. I have much to tell you, but first read it.” He pushed the journal over the desk to Brandon.
His heartbeat picking up, Brandon held the journal in his hands. He flicked through the pages. The four men were listed again and again over the course of several years. Beside each was an amount and a date. “Bullion.” Brandon glanced up at Willard. “They sent Napoleon gold to finance his campaigns, and in return, he sanctioned their smuggling ventures.”
Willard stirred his coffee. “Some quite sizeable amounts.”
Brandon sat back with a grin. “Treason. We’ve got them.”
“Indeed, we have. They are being rounded up as we speak.”
“Ah, this is interesting,” Brandon said, after going back a few pages. “Kendall is listed.”
Willard nodded.
“What about that associate of Fraughton’s by the name of Pierse? I don’t find him here.”
“No, the Frenchman was Napoleon’s aide and his courier. These men would have continued to make use of Pierse after the war. We are searching London for him.”
“So, does this mean that Lavalette has been freed?”
“Free as is the wind,” Willard said, quoting Shakespeare.
“But by what means?”
“Best read this first.” Willard pushed a letter across to him. “The account came with the journal.”
Brandon scanned it. It explained how during the changing of the guard, the comtesse had been permitted to visit her husband. She entered the prison cell w
here they exchanged clothing. Lavalette had then left the prison dressed in his wife’s clothes. “Audacious,” he murmured, deeply impressed.
“Simple but ingenious, wouldn’t you say?” Willard said. “The prison guards didn’t discover he had gone until the next morning.”
Brandon looked up. “But the comtesse expects to remain in prison?”
“Yes, for a period,” Willard said.
“What an extraordinarily brave woman.”
Willard leaned back in his chair. “Indeed. Her husband was furnished with a passport and has since crossed the border into Belgium. And so ends stage one.”
“Elford and Decrier’s lawyers won’t get them off this,” Brandon said. “And stage two?”
“To free the comtesse,” Willard said.
Brandon nodded. “I am eager to see that done.”
“Like to be involved in it?”
“Perhaps.”
“But before we discuss that possibility, you should know that the Regent has taken special note of this treasonous affair. The prince likes to best Bonaparte in any way he can. Even if the general is beaten. His highness is most pleased.”
“I can quite see he would be,” Brandon observed. “The Regent hated that Bonaparte was a superb strategist and soldier, something he could never achieve himself.”
“Now, a matter of lesser importance to us, but not Mrs. Willard. She is holding a musicale here this evening. My niece is to sing for us.”
Brandon’s eyes widened. “The niece who makes her debut this Season?”
“The same.” Willard chuckled. “Never fear, Angela won’t bite. At least I don’t think she will.”
Brandon grinned. It would be the perfect distraction. He’d stop wondering how Letty’s presentation had gone, and if she was well and safe. He had an urgent desire to see her to banish his concerns, and also to tell her what had occurred since they parted. But he was unable to disclose much of it. To give in to the impulse to see her was unwise as his next mission would take him out of the country. Now that Lady Arietta was of interest to the Home Office, it was to be hoped that Letty would soon return to Cumbria. The fact that she might meet a possible husband before she did, was something he refused to contemplate.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 36
