by Nikki Poppen
Tristan suspected the appropriate parties would get wind of his situation within a week, maybe sooner. Things would happen quickly from there on out. Thanks to the nearbotched mission last fall, the double agent knew Tristan’s true identity and knew that vital information had been passing through him to other agents in the field via “love notes” from a “secret admirer.” Waterloo might be over, but there was still plenty of work for the government’s secret agents. No one was ready to risk another escape attempt by Napoleon.
For all its simplicity, the “love note” tactic had worked exceedingly well given Tristan’s cover as a gallant officer with a talent for romance. No one had questioned the amount of bouquets that found their way to Tristan’s quarters on Rue de Madeleine. No one had questioned the night time hours he kept, supposedly sleeping in boudoirs other than his own. Then, after years of success, someone suddenly had.
A frisson of ice snaked down Tristan’s back, unbidden as he recalled how close it had been on the Parisian docks the night he discovered his secrets had been betrayed. His everpresent stiletto had been all that stood between him and certain death. The informant had run bleeding into the night but he’d gotten what he came for, Tristan’s identity.
Tristan knew that in his line of work that was just the same as being dead. Once an agent was known, his days were numbered. So he’d come home, not so much to die, but for the chance to live. This last mission was about his freedom. He’d find the man who posed a threat to his life and then he’d retire with as much peace of mind a former spy could have.
Seven years ago, he had not imagined such repercussions for his hasty decision to embrace a life of espionage. Some people drank away their mistakes, others turned to opium, but not him. He turned his agile mind to the all-consuming world of intelligence gathering. The foreign office established a cover for him as a modern day Lancelot of sorts and the world did the rest, spinning tales of his entertainments and affaires des coeurs. In the dangerous world of espionage, his good looks had been his coin and seduction his lingua franca. But it wasn’t him, at least not the real him.
At first he’d told himself the deceit was part of the job, for king and country. His justification hadn’t lasted long. At some point, his cover became his reality. He’d become what he had pretended to be. Only now, when he wanted so badly to find his way back to the light, did he realize how far he’d fallen into darkness.
He’d come home to Isabella and subjected her to the company of Beatrix Smallwood, an agent like himself. Compared to Isabella, Beatrix appeared coarse and unpolished. Seeing the two women next to each other served as a reminder that Isabella was not one of his war time conquests to be treated so casually. It also illustrated to him in the bluntest of fashions just how far he’d fallen. For all his handsome features, title and fortune, he felt himself nothing more than a beast arrayed in fine clothing.
He knew that was exactly how decent women saw him. After the rumors had started to fly, he’d come to understand that men found his sexual exploits worthy of praise, but women, at least the right sort of woman-the woman a gentleman married, found his behavior disgraceful.
Isabella was the right sort of woman. She’d fallen in love with him once before. Could he convince her to do so again? Persuading her to do so was at the heart of his plan to have her help him find a wife. He had not seen her since the debacle at Lady Hampstead’s a week ago, but he’d heard of her valiant attempts to thwart the rumors. He hoped to show her through his gracious behavior that he was capable of being the man she once believed him to be, that this other man he’d become was a fiction.
Tristan laughed at the irony of his situation. He’d spent the last seven years seducing women based on the forbidden intrigue of his ungentlemanly behaviors, now he had to seduce the woman he loved by stifling those very tendencies which had been his stock in trade.
The bell rang, jarring Tristan from his ruminations. He answered it himself, startling Alain, who stood on the porch, his mouth wide open at such a breach of etiquette. “I hope you gave the butler a good reference, Tristan, and the valet too,” he said dryly, taking in his friend’s dishabille. Alain lowered his voice. “Is this a bad time? Is there a lady in the house?”
“No, of course not. No gentleman brings dalliance into his house. What kind of man do you take me for?” Tristan said irritably to hide his disappointment. He knew the answer already. Alain believed the rumors. It was a credit to his friendship that he believed the gossipmongers and had still lent his support by coming here.
Alain stepped inside and sniffed, looking polished and well turned out in buff breeches and an elegantly tailored jacket of deep green. “Lud, you weren’t joking. This place smells like a perfumery. I had to come and see for myself. I know it’s early but I’ve had the devil’s own time trying to catch up to you this past week. You’ve been spending a lot of time at the clubs and hells. We’ve missed you at the more genteel entertainments. Giles and Chatham insisted I check up on you. Isabella sends the message that she can’t help you find a wife if you’re invisible. She’s been quite chagrined by your absence this week; she takes her matchmaking seriously, you know.”
Alain strolled through the black and white tiled entry hall looking at the various arrangements and stopping to study the latest one, fresh in the bowl on the round table in the middle of the hall. He picked up the card, looking at the bold hand on the short note. “Do you have any idea who it is?”
“No. And I don’t particularly care. I am not interested,” Tristan said curtly as he tucked in his shirttails and finished buttoning his shirt.
Alain waved a hand airily. “Don’t get dressed on my account” He stopped in front of another arrangement of roses and fingered the card propped inside. “I would think a man who was hunting for a wife would be very interested.” Alain squinted and peered hard at the card before continuing. “Of course, that assumes the secret admirer is a woman, Tristan.”
Tristan looked up sharply from his buttons. “What do you mean?” He would have to send word to Halsey to get a different writer. If the notes were too obvious, the informant wouldn’t fall for the bait. The agent would know it was a trap and Tristan would be dead. The hope of getting more information out of Tristan was the only reason the agent hadn’t tried to kill him yet. At this point in the game, the informant had the advantage. He knew who Tristan was. Tristan knew only that the double agent was a titled English lord with a twisted sense of loyalty.
Alain crossed the hall and stood next to him, flourishing the card and doing his best imitation of the dreaded Professor Snodgrass from their Oxford days. “The handwriting on these cards is very manly. Women don’t tend to write in such a firm hand.” Alain held up the boldly scripted card for Tristan’s inspection. “This person is trying too hard to be romantic. Have you read these messages? Women aren’t so stilted when it comes to pretty phrases”
Alain chuckled and reverted to his own voice. “In fact, Old Man, I have to say this note qualifies as the worst love note in history and no doubt written by a rank amateur.” He winked at his friend. “So you’re even gathering virgins to your standard these days, eh Tristan? I was under the impression your discriminating tastes were reserved for the racier set alone.” In spite of the teasing tone, there was a condemning quality underlying his voice that set Tristan on edge.
“Are you quite finished analyzing my love life?” Tristan responded querulously. He was in no mood to divulge the intricate truths and falsehoods of his life.
“No, actually, I am not,” Alain replied in a vague tone that suggested his mind was hard at work on a problem, his eyes focused exclusively on the card in front of him.
Tristan swallowed hard, warnings sounding in his head from years of seeing conspiracy in unexpected places. At school, Alain had been a whiz at problem solving and puzzles. All the boys had been agog at Alain’s ability to discern patterns and give them meaning.
“Tristan, I can’t make it out instantly, but I think your fine
admirer is sending you secret messages,” Alain said in astonishment. “Which would explain the awful prose” Alain slapped Tristan on the back. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice, and you were a reconnaissance officer!”
“That’s right, a reconnaissance officer, not a spy. I went out and surveyed enemy territory and troop placement before a battle. That’s a little different than spying.” Tristan said more tersely than he’d meant to. What he told Alain wasn’t exactly a lie. Reconnoitering was different than espionage. He knew. He’d engaged in both.
Attempting a lighter tone, Tristan said, “Enough Alain. Give me the card. I doubt my admirer is smart enough to code anything. Let’s go down to Brooke’s and have an early luncheon.” He reached for the card but Alain held up a hand.
“Wait, Tristan. This prose might not be very good, but there’s a riddle inside, I swear it. The letters all occur in some type of order. Can I keep this and work on it?” Alain said gamely. “You can help if you want, it’ll be like old times at school. We can pretend it’s the latest math problem from Professor Snodgrass.”
Tristan’s mouth went dry as he considered the implications of his best friend’s request. Could the informant be Alain? Was that why the Home and Foreign Offices had wanted him on the mission, to flush out his best friend? Who better to get close to the culprit than someone already close to him? Tristan’s mind warned him not to draw rash conclusions, but his thoughts ran rampant.
“Leave the card here. I must confess I hadn’t read the cards closely. I’ll look at them later. If they stump me, I’ll let you know.” Tristan was all nonchalance as if the request hadn’t seemed strange to him at all.
“Good, I need something to occupy my mind these days. Sommes is here with the rest of your clothes. Hurry up, I am starving.” Alain surrendered the card goodnaturedly and turned the conversation to other things as the butler handed Tristan a waistcoat and his valet hovered nearby ready to help with the cravat. “Isabella suggested that you come to the Burton soiree tonight. It’s a political gathering, but several lords will be there with their families.”
Tristan nodded at the suggestion, letting his valet fuss over tying a “mathematical” with the cravat.
Over lunch, he proceeded to brood, making the appropriate responses so as not to alert Alain to his distracted frame of mind, which kept returning to Alain’s interest in the card. He tried to create a motive. Why would Alain be the informant? He didn’t have any financial problems that Tristan knew of. Tristan doubted there were any. Isabella’s marriage had restored the family coffers. Her wealth alone would keep them both comfortably for years.
Tristan knew men didn’t inform for money alone, though. They did it for loyalty. What would be Alain’s connection there? A rush cold of sweat turned his palms clammy. The baroness, Alain’s mother, had been French. Alain had taken much teasing from the boys at school over the French origins of his name. Such a circumstantial link was ridiculous, the other part of his brain argued. There were several French emigres living in Britain and absolutely loyal to the Crown. So far Alain had done very little to be considered suspect in this matter. A man searching for information and engaging in spy work would not be so blatant about his interest in the cards. Nor would he act as Alain had by calling his attention to the possibility of the verse hiding a message in code. A guilty man would find a way to secretly take the cards.
Still, Tristan knew from experience, one of the best ways to hide was to hide in plain sight. He had done it himself. That cover would suit Alain perfectly for this foray. For Alain, it was the perfect set up. He’d already laid the groundwork for Tristan simply handing him the cards. Tristan suspected that Alain wouldn’t even need to remove the cards from his household. He’d just sit down with Tristan over whisky one night and talk him into translating the cards with him for entertainment. He might even invite Giles and Chatham over to do it and make a game of it.
That would complicate matters severely. There would be no proof that the agent was Alain unless Tristan told the Home Office. If he held off telling, it would be treason on his part. Could he turn Alain in? He thought about showing Alain the ugly scar on his left hand to see his reaction. He tried to rein in his galloping thoughts. He was getting ahead of himself. He wasn’t even certain Alain was guilty and he had too little to go on to get worried over the coincidences … yet.
The Burtons’ home buzzed with the hum of intelligent conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter from groups mingling in the various interconnected rooms. In the main salon, a room done up in the Egyptian style, Isabella held court under the light of a hundred candle chandelier, the flames catching the fire of her diamonds whenever she swiveled her head. Ostensibly, she turned her head to divide her attention between the various gentlemen surrounding her. Covertly, she used the opportunity to divine Tristan’s state of mind. Her attention span was severely taxed trying to keep track of her own conversations while watching his.
He’d arrived twenty minutes ago and had yet to approach her. He was engaged in an animated conversation with Giles, Chatham and a few other men she knew by name. His relaxed posture and conservative evening dress did nothing to suggest that he was the target of much disreputable gossip. Anyone looking at him would not guess anything was wrong. He looked and acted much as he had acted prior to the scandal erupting. Didn’t it bother him to be at the center of such notorious attention? Perhaps the lewd speculations didn’t upset him because they were the truth? And perhaps he didn’t care.
Isabella was both eager and reluctant to have him approach her. She wanted one thing from the evening, clarity. She wanted to confront him about the truth of the rumors so that she knew where she stood. During the long week, she’d wrestled with her thoughts and this morning she’d awakened with an epiphany. If the rumors were true, she could not in all good conscience let him pay court to innocent young debutantes. They would be helpless against his purported rakish techniques. She would not be a party to such one-sided matchmaking. She needed clarity on her position with him as well. Had he meant to declare his love before Beatrix Smallwood’s interruption? She could not risk her heart without the truth.
Disappointed but convinced that Tristan was not going to materialize at her side in the near future, Isabella snapped open her fan and applied herself to the conversation at hand, hoping her court hadn’t noted her distraction. “What of you, Lord Driscoll, what do you make of Lord Burton’s bill for the orphanages?” Isabella said as she turned to the fairhaired gentleman next to her.
The little knot of admirers chuckled and one of them spoke up teasingly, “Haven’t you learned by now, Lady Westbrooke? If it doesn’t have to do with horses or hunting, Driscoll hasn’t a worthy thought in his head?” This brought another round of laughter, which Driscoll took goodnaturedly. He spread his hands in defeat and used the opportunity to turn the conversation in another direction.
“It’s true. Cunningham has the right of it.” He smiled, revealing straight white teeth that added to his already attractive athletic looks. “I am more interested in horseflesh than any other thing or person in the whole of England, except my Lady Westbrooke, of course” Avery Driscoll gave Isabella one of his dazzling smiles while the laughter rolled at his own expense.
Everyone in Isabella’s long standing court of gentlemen knew Avery Driscoll was head over heels for her, and Avery made no attempt to hide it, regardless of the fact that Isabella herself seemed oblivious to his intentions, treating him as nothing more than a highly esteemed friend. That treatment was part of her great charm.
As a young widow she had a certain amount of license to behave more freely with gentlemen, nonetheless she had never behaved loosely with any of the gentlemen who sought out her attentions. Consequently, her circle had grown accordingly in appreciation for her virtue. She had a reputation for treating men respectfully and fairly. She talked horses and hunting, putting them at ease with her conversation. Even if she had not been stunningly beautiful, men would have flock
ed to her by dint of her generous conversation. She did not toy with them or flirtatiously play them off against one another. She dealt with them honestly, each in their own turn. But no one mistook her for a manly woman who eschewed the more feminine pursuits of domesticity. Lady Westbrooke was unquestionably a lady.
“I say, Lady Westbrooke, I heard a rumor the other day that you were interested in Middleton’s stallion,” Driscoll continued once the laughter died down, turning his cerulean gaze on her alone.
“You heard correctly,” Isabella confirmed, her eyes dancing as they had yet to do that evening. Nothing failed to spark her interest like horseflesh and she definitely needed a distraction. Her eyes darted back towards the door.
The collective gasp of worry mingled with disapproval from her group drew her back to the conversation in time to hear Darcy Prendergast elaborate on his concern. “You cannot be serious. Hellion? Why do you think Middleton is selling him? Certainly your brother is not thinking of letting you go through with it?” Darcy, always the stickler for propriety in the group, exclaimed with real horror.
“Prendergast is right, Lady Westbrooke,” Cunningham put in, “the horse is called Hellion for a good reason. Middleton has been thrown at least four times and he’s one of the finest riders I know. It would be a waste of money to purchase a horse you’d never get to ride.” Of them all, Isabella liked Cunningham the least but beneath his priggish demeanor, he was polite and thoughtful which was why she tolerated him. Tonight his penchant for rightness was beyond the limits of her patience.
“Do you doubt my abilities?” Isabella said with a touch of steel in her voice that made Cunningham dart his eyes around the group for support. He was saved from answering by Alain’s arrival.
