He could no longer deny the strength of his fascination with her. He looked forward to the next Ball, the next soiree, only so that he might see her, might dance with her again. If she had been any other woman, he might actually have been pleased to discover himself interested in her – but the shadow of the secret correspondence, and the mysterious poet, Mr L Brooks, hung over everything. For, if there was anything nefarious afoot in the Duke of Elbury’s household, then Trent could not risk allowing himself to become associated with it, in any way.
He worried at the mystery, his thoughts tumbling in circles, from the beauty of Lady Lily’s face, to the shrouded identity of Mr L Brooks. He needed to think more clearly, to analyse the information he had, again. His father would have mocked his inability to solve the puzzle, would have looked at him with that disapproving sadness – and once, Trent would have allowed that look to crush him. Now, the memory of it drove him on, drove him to prove his father wrong. Fingers tracing the indents of the tooled pattern in the leather of his desktop, he thought.
He reconsidered all of the facts.
It was quite certain that the correspondence between Mr L Brooks and his publishers ran through Elbury House.
That correspondence was carried out in a secretive manner.
Mr L Brooks was a recluse – he had never met his publishers in person – in fact, Trent’s men had been unable to discover a single instance in which Mr L Brooks had been seen – by anyone.
Yet the poet must exist, for where else did the poems published in that slim volume come from?
If Trent allowed that the poet was just that, and nothing more, that there was nothing nefarious concealed by the correspondence, then one question remained – why was it all done in secret?
And from that question, came the final one – who, exactly, was Mr L Brooks?
Trent had confirmed that there was no servant, male or female, employed by the Duke of Elbury, who bore the name of Brooks. And that led him to only one possible conclusion, he realised. Mr L Brooks had to be a pseudonym – he wondered why he had not realised it before – it seemed so obvious now, when he slowed the swirl of his thoughts, and looked at the facts logically.
But that only brought him back to the question – who? Who hid behind the innocuous sounding name? And why? Most people, if they had such skill as the poet displayed, would wish for the fame, would wish their own name on the cover of that published volume – vanity was a natural human characteristic.
What possible reason could there be, to seek anonymity?
He drew out his notebook from the desk drawer, and uncapped his inkwell. He would write down all of his thoughts on the matter, and while he did, he would ruminate on that final question. An hour later, with some pages of neat notes written out, he was faced with the fact that he could only imagine two possible reasons for the choice of anonymity by the poet.
Either the poet was a servant, who was afraid to reveal what they did, lest they lose their position, and then have no source of income if the return from the poetry was not good, or the poet was a woman, afraid that society would scorn her work if it was published under her own name.
The latter, he was saddened to acknowledge, was the more likely – for society was unforgiving in its judgement of what activities were suitable for a lady of quality, yet the work demonstrated such skill, such a depth of education in its structure and command of form, that he could not imagine a servant having the education to create such work.
If he allowed himself to accept that conclusion – that the poet was actually a woman of quality, then he was faced with a new question – in a house where there was the Duchess, and seven daughters to choose from, how did he work out which of them was most likely the poet? In the immediate moment, he did not know – but he was at least satisfied that he was on the right path to finding the answer.
He rose from the desk, and went up to his bedchamber, to prepare himself for the evening’s event, unable to prevent his thoughts from returning to Lady Lily – and his desire to dance with her again – perhaps that very night…
<<<< O >>>>
Lily glared at the page before her. Where were these poems coming from? Everything that she seemed to write of late was about love, and the despairs of those who were not loved in return. Surely, she could find something more original to write about? But it seemed not, for when she put pen to paper, what arrived on the page was always about love. And as she wrote, in her mind, it was always Lord Canterford’s face that appeared, always herself and Lord Canterford cast as the main characters in her love poems.
It seemed, she reluctantly accepted, that Mr L Brooks’ next volume would be entitled ‘Reflections on Love’, which, she supposed, went well enough with the first two volumes – ‘Reflections on Living’ and ‘Reflections on Friendship’. There seemed to be an alarmingly infinite number of things one could say about love – a fact which she would not have thought to be true, but a few months before.
She laid her pen down, finding that, for that day, her inspiration had departed. Instead, she let her gaze drift out of the window, to where the trees on the square were beginning to be shrouded in bright new leaves, as the weather warmed. Tonight, there would be another Ball – the Season had well and truly started, and more invitations were arriving every day. Would Lord Canterford be there? Would he dance with her? And, if so, would it, could she be lucky enough for it to be, a waltz?
Her mind went back to the feeling of being in his arms, of finding herself lost in his eyes, of forgetting everything, even poetry, for the duration of the dance. She wanted to feel that way again – as often as possible – for, as Hyacinth had so acidly observed, she was completely smitten with the man.
<<<< O >>>>
Barrington House was imposing, Trent thought, as he should have expected, for the town residence of a Duke, but, somehow, because its owner was such a personable man, he had expected something less… overwhelming. It was beautiful, full of carefully chosen pieces of art and furniture, the result of obvious taste in everything. But his attention did not stay on the building for long.
As soon as he stepped into the ballroom, his eyes scanned the room, coming to rest upon Lady Lily Gardenbrook, where she stood with her family, near the terrace doors. A tiny sigh of relief escaped him – she was here, and he would, he hoped, get a chance to dance with her. Her golden hair caught glints of light from the sparkling chandeliers above, and she seemed impossibly beautiful in that moment.
Her sisters surrounded her, and Trent forced himself to consider them all carefully – it was difficult to imagine that any one of them was secretly a poet, yet… one of them must be – he could find no other valid conclusion from the evidence that he had gathered. He knew that he would worry at it, mentally, until he resolved it – he could rarely leave an unsolved puzzle alone. He moved across the room to greet the family, all the while watching them. Who could it be? He would need to pay more attention to the other sisters, to learn more about them – yet… he did not wish to, he wished to spend more time with Lady Lily, not with any other woman.
When he reached them, he bowed in greeting.
“Good evening Your Grace, Your Grace, I trust that you are well?”
The Duke and Duchess both smiled, and, as they replied, Lady Lily turned, from where she had been speaking to Lady Hyacinth and Lady Rose. Her eyes met his, and he barely heard the Duke’s words.
“Well indeed, Canterford, and I trust that you are equally well?”
Trent forced himself to look away from Lady Lily, and respond.
“I am in excellent health and spirits Your Grace. I do believe that the warmer spring weather is good for me.” He turned back to Lady Lily, bowing. “Lady Lily – may I say that you look beautiful tonight?” he glanced past her, and saw Lady Hyacinth’s sharp eyes upon them. “As do you Lady Hyacinth – and, I must admit, so do all of you lovely ladies – a family blessed by beauty indeed.”
At his first words, Lady Lily’s eyes had softene
d, and a blush had risen to her cheeks, but, as he continued, her expression subtly changed, to something harder, to something which held an echo of that look his father had always used – the look of disappointment, the look that came when Trent had somehow failed. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to maintain his calm and pleasant expression, when he wanted to flinch, to turn away, to hide.
He did not understand what it was about his words, surely completely socially acceptable, which had caused her expression to change, but he knew that he never wished to bring that look to her face again. He turned back to face her directly – he would not allow that expression to drive him away. He intended to dance with her, if she would allow it.
“Lady Lily, may I dare to hope that you have a space still open on your dance card?”
He felt the Duke’s eyes upon him, and Lady Hyacinth’s, and knew that he was being judged in some way – that their opinion would also turn on how Lady Lily chose to reply. It was deeply unnerving. She considered him calmly, before lifting the card to examine it.
“Why Lord Canterford, I do believe that you are fortunate tonight – there is but one dance remaining unclaimed – immediately before supper. I think that I must therefore note down your name against it.”
He released the breath that he had not realised he was holding, and bowed again.
“That is wonderful, Lady Lily – I look forward to the moment.”
He spoke with the Duke and Duchess for a few minutes more, acutely aware of Lady Lily’s presence for every second of those minutes, then moved on to speak to others. But all the while, his mind turned over what he knew of the Gardenbrook sisters. When the time for his dance with Lady Lily arrived, he was no closer to working out who the poet might be, even though he racked his mind for any clue that might exist in what he knew.
He had realised, however, that the name ‘Mr L Brooks’ did contain at least one clue – for surely ‘Brooks’ derived from Gardenbrook. Now that he had seen it, he was amazed that he had missed the connection earlier. But which Gardenbrook female? Perhaps, whilst dancing with Lady Lily, he would learn something of use.
He bowed before her, and offered his arm, leading her to the floor as the orchestra struck up. It was a waltz. She had granted him a waltz! His heart sang at the fact of it, even whilst he chastised himself – he could not afford to become attached to her – apart from the cloud cast over her entire family by that secret correspondence, there was the fact that marriage was not a thing well suited to a man who was a spy, in however quiet and genteel a manner.
For the spying would bring danger, he had no doubt, and a need for excursions into society, and less polite places, which could not, ever, be explained to a wife. The direction of his thoughts shocked him – he pushed them away, unwilling to contemplate the ideas that they raised.
Instead, he allowed the sensation of the dance to sweep him along, the heady scent of her perfume – appropriately, a mix of lily of the valley and something deeper, more sensual – amber, perhaps or a musk - and the warmth of her in his arms. As with every time that he had danced with her, it was perfect, a smooth connection between them, that made the steps seem effortless, and the time to pass in a haze where no one else existed.
When the music ended, he led her in to supper, and sat with her, conversing lightly, but seeking, very carefully, any indication of who the poet might be. His clue came unexpectedly, as supper ended, when she drew an embroidered lace handkerchief from her tiny reticule, to dab at her lips. For the handkerchief bore one single letter – L – in a style remarkably reminiscent of the L embossed on a slim blue volume of poetry.
Chapter Seven
Lily was waiting, with some dread, for the moment when Hyacinth got her alone. For Hyacinth knew, full well, that Lily’s dance card had been nowhere near full, and that she had given Lord Canterford the waltz before supper intentionally. Lily was quite certain that Hyacinth would tease her, would demand that she admit her manoeuvring, and would want the truth of what she thought of Lord Canterford. And Lily did not want to discuss any of it.
But even if Hyacinth made her monumentally annoyed, it was worth it. The sensation of being in his arms, of swirling about the dance floor effortlessly, the rich scent of his unusual cologne – some mix of leather, the honeyed note of beeswax, and something more exotic, camphor perhaps – which reminded her, oddly, of the comforting scent of a well-kept library – all combined to make her breathless, distracted from any thought of anything but him – even from his blatant flattery of her sisters at the start of the evening, which had made her doubt his nature, yet again.
And as they sat at supper, they had actually talked – this time, she had not been struck speechless – a fact she was rather proud of. They had spoken, of all things, of books and reading, which had quite startled her – for gentlemen rarely expected women to read anything of substance, let alone be able to discuss it. Yet he had actually raised the topic, and seemed genuinely interested in her answers.
She had found herself freely discussing poetry, and her preference for that, over novels. That moment had shaken her out of the daze he induced in her – it was a perilous topic, one which skirted far too close to her secrets, and she had turned the conversation away from it rapidly. But, in her mind, she could still hear his words, so casually uttered – ‘I find that I must admire anyone, man or woman, who can master the skills required to write well, be that poetry or prose, and do so in a way that engages the reader’s emotions deeply. For emotions are fundamental to us all,’ – those words had resonated deep within her, so close to her own opinion, so clearly demonstrating that the man thought far more deeply than most men of the ton.
Was it possible that he might truly be different? She found that she hoped so, with every fibre of her being.
<<<< O >>>>
The morning light was painfully bright – not because he had over-imbibed the previous evening, but because sleep had been elusive, and then populated with strange dreams, in which Lady Lily had danced with him, whilst reciting a poem in a masculine voice. He felt as if he had not really slept at all. The clock on his mantel informed him that it was past the time when he would normally rise, so he winced, and flung back the covers.
Once Farrell had assisted him with his preparations for the day, and he felt himself presentable, he went down to break his fast. The dream kept coming back to him, accompanied by that moment after supper the previous night, when he had glimpsed Lady Lily’s handkerchief. The conclusion seemed obvious, no matter how much he wished it to be otherwise.
Mr L Brooks was Lady Lily Gardenbrook.
He barely noticed the food on his plate – he ate mechanically, out of pure habit, whilst his mind worried at that conclusion. She was the only Gardenbrook female with a name starting with L. And he knew that those who took on false names, for whatever reason, almost always chose names with some link to their real name – the same starting letter, or a similar meaning. It seemed that she had done exactly that. But why?
Was it all as simple as that? Or was some more nefarious thing caught up in it? He could understand why she, as a woman of the ton, would wish to hide the fact that she was a published poet – it would be quite the scandal if it came out. And, if it was true, and as simple as that, what would happen when she married? For no man that he knew – with the exception, he thought, of Lord Setford and his closest associates, would tolerate such an activity from his wife. Was that, the thought came to him, the reason that she was, at two and twenty, as yet unmarried?
He swallowed, and reached for his coffee. He did not, he realised, truly understand his peers. Personally, he valued skill, and intelligence in any person, be they male or female. He needed to know more, to confirm his suspicion, to understand the truth of the whole matter.
For, if his assumption was true, then his view of Lady Lily would be irredeemably altered. For the better. If it was true, she was astute, cunning, very clever, and subtle – far more than most men he knew, let alone mos
t women of the ton. To have not only the skill to write poems such as those of ‘Mr L Brooks’, but the ability to secretly arrange their publication, indicated a vastly capable person. A person who would, the thought came, be well suited to the work of a spy.
That thought gave him pause. How many women were spies? He would have to ask Setford. And, whispered that small voice in the depths of his mind, what better sort of woman to be the wife of a spy, than one with such skills. He shied away from the thought, and reminded himself sternly that marriage did not align well with spying. But the thought did not disappear – once having thought it, he could not unthink it.
He returned to the simple business of eating and drinking, resolved that, soon, he would find a way to discover whether his assumptions were true, or not, and whether there was any more to the situation, than simply a person needing to conceal who they were, in order to achieve publication.
<<<< O >>>>
The weeks passed, and Lily continued to live her double life – in the mornings, writing poetry – more feverishly than ever before, all of it a tangle of love and confusion, delight and despair – and in the evenings attending Balls and soirees, dancing with a variety of gentlemen, and appearing as ordinary a woman of the ton as possible. Those evenings had become focussed on the time that she spent with Lord Canterford, dancing, or conversing. She had come to treasure every moment.
Finally, Frockmorton and Thackery had agreed to her terms of payment for the second volume, and she was preparing to send them the final bundle of poems, for volume two – ‘Reflections on Friendship’. Doing so was a bigger risk than even the extended correspondence that it had taken to reach an agreement – for the bundle was large – far more obvious a thing than a simple letter. But it would be delivered – she was determined of it.
A Spinster for a Spy: Book 1: Lily - Clean Regency Romance (A Duke's Daughters: The Elbury Bouquet) Page 5
