When he had asked her to walk on the terrace, she had wondered, for a moment, if he was just like all of the others, if he sought to seduce her, or take liberties in some way. But he had seemed so sincere. The cooler air had been pleasant, and the moonlight beautiful – beautiful enough to inspire her mind towards another poem. But that would have to wait until she got home – carrying one poem on her person was quite dangerous enough for now.
The thought of that poem left her warm and happy – for it was, she thought, one of the best she had ever written – it captured the emotions so strongly. Her emotions, to be exact, when she thought of Lord Canterford. He stood behind her, allowing her the peace of the moonlight, and she was grateful, until the moment when he cleared his throat. She turned towards him, and the oddest expression crossed his face. Then he spoke
“Lady Lily, I find that I must ask you a most impertinent question.”
She started, for those words were the furthest thing from what she had expected. What on earth could he wish to ask her about?
“A question, my Lord? About what, pray tell? For I cannot imagine what I might inform you on – unless, of course, you are determined to pursue our conversation on poetry?”
The thought of that horrified her, for she had barely deflected his well-meaning questions inside, without revealing far too much.
“Not exactly, my Lady. Although this question does indeed, have a poem at its heart.”
She blinked at his words, confusion and fear filling her in equal parts, and consciously worked to keep her face calm and steady.
“A poem at its heart? I do not understand, my Lord.”
And then he did something which tore her world apart, in an instant. He lifted his hand, and uncurled it, to reveal the tiny rolled paper of her poem, its red ribbon tie almost glowing in the faint light. Terror filled her. And her hand instinctively went to her reticule, although she already knew what she would find – the cloth was not disturbed by anything long and thin – the poem was gone from her reticule – the poem which she had written tonight now rested on his open palm.
What could she do? What did he know? What would he do? What did this mean for her secret double life? And, most importantly of all, how could she get that poem back – for she doubted that she could write it again, exactly as it was. Even if she tried.
Then he spoke again, and his words confirmed her worst fears.
“This, Lady Lily, I believe to be yours. Not just your possession, but your work, for I confess that I have read its contents, and recognised the hand as yours.”
Her breath came unevenly, she felt every beat of her pounding heart acutely. He waited. What could she say? For if she admitted it, she would be ruined in a way, she would be a scandalous disgrace in society, and that would reflect on her family – but she might get the poem back. If she denied it, she would almost certainly never see that poem again.
“I do not know what you speak of, my Lord.”
Her family mattered more, regardless of how it tore at her heart to lose the newly written poem. Keeping her secret mattered more, even if part of her heart desperately wanted to admit everything to this man. His hazel eyes met hers again, and he gave a tiny shake of his head, looking almost sad.
“Oh, I think that you do, but that you are afraid to admit it. For I also recognise the style of this poem, the quality of the writing, the exquisite technical skill of the poet. And those things mark it as the work of one Mr L Brooks, a recently published poet of growing renown. The only conclusion that I can draw from those facts, is that you, Lady Lily Gardenbrook, write secretly under that pseudonym.”
Panic filled her. She forced her expression to settle into a bland public face. He knew! How had he worked it out? Had someone betrayed her? But who could have, for no-one knew! She needed to deny it, utterly, she needed to flee.
“My Lord, I do not know what you speak of – are you confused in your wits, to think that I, a lady of the ton, might do such a thing? How ridiculous!”
He did not look in the least convinced, and she went to turn away, to flee in truth. He stopped her with a hand to her arm, turned her own hand up, and dropped the poem onto her palm, then wrapped her fingers around it, and released her. She should drop it, deny it, if her other denials were to be credible. Yet her fingers tightened instead – she could not lose it, not now. She turned and fled back to the ballroom, tucking it securely into the space between her breasts as she did. His damnable scent wafted up from it, dizzying, delicious, frightening.
Chapter Ten
Trent had, again, not slept well, plagued by odd dreams featuring Lady Lily Gardenbrook – in his arms, then revealed as a traitor, then transformed to a lover again. It exhausted him. Lately, breakfast seemed to have become his thinking time – he suspected that his cook would be righteously offended, if she ever saw the complete disinterest with which he approached the morning’s food.
He sipped his coffee, and then selected another mouthful of whatever was on his plate. In his mind, he replayed the previous evening. His confrontation of Lady Lily, with the poem, had not really gone as he had hoped at all. Whilst he was now utterly certain that she was the mysterious poet, he had completely failed to get her to admit that. She was, he thought admiringly, made of rather stronger stuff than most of the ladies of the ton. She had managed to maintain her composure, and to declaim her innocence well enough that most men, not trained as a spy, would have been completely fooled.
She would, the thought came, make an excellent spy herself.
He pushed the idea away. For now, he needed to concentrate on finding a way to prove that she was the poet, in such a manner that she would have no choice but to admit it. Perhaps different tactics were called for. If he could catch her in the process of sending one of those clandestine letters, surely that would tip the balance?
The food disappeared off his plate, without him being at all aware of the process, as the thoughts ran on in his mind. He had a man, Simmons, planted in the Duke of Elbury’s household, as a groom. He had hoped that Simmons would be able to befriend the stableboy who carried the letters, but so far, that had failed – the boy was canny and cautious. And so far, Simmons had not managed to see the stableboy receive one of the letters, from anyone.
But, now that Trent knew that Lady Lily was the most likely candidate for the poet, he could make sure that Simmons paid especial attention to what went on, whenever Lady Lily visited the stables. Satisfied with that idea as a beginning, he left the breakfast room, and went to his study. Not long after, a most ordinary looking letter left his house, destined to arrive in Simmons’ hands, by agency of the carter who delivered hay to the Elbury House mews.
<<<< O >>>>
Lily looked at the letter in her hand. The final letter to Frockmorton and Thackery, before the point at which she would send the full bundle of poems for the next volume. All this letter did was confirm that all was agreed, and the poems would be sent to them in two days’ time. She folded and sealed it, with Mr Brooks’ seal, then slipped it into the pockets of her day dress.
Once her escritoire was returned to its innocent state, she rose, and unlocked her door, and went down to the stables. The sooner the letter was on its way, the better. Posy was munching away contentedly in her stall, and barely lifted her head when Lily arrived. Lily laughed lightly.
“I can see where your priorities in life lie, Posy. If you want me to scratch you in that spot above your eye, you’ll have to stop eating for a moment, and come over here.”
The mare munched on for a few more minutes, then turned and came to the stall door, nudging Lily with her nose expectantly. Lily scratched and patted in her usually preferred spots, watching as the mare closed her eyes and let her head droop. While she stood there, Tom appeared by her side.
“Good day to ye, Lady Lily. Is there summat ye be needing today?”
Lily smiled, never ceasing in her attention to the mare, as Tom stood close by her side. But her hand that was not on the m
are slipped into her pockets, and the letter passed into Tom’s hand along with a coin or two.
“No thank you, Tom. I just came to see Posy for a bit, before getting on with my day. I really haven’t been riding her often enough of late, with the Season bringing so many Balls and soirees. They finish so far into the night, that I am really not very good at getting up the next morning in time to ride!”
The stableboy nodded, as if understanding, and gave a little bow.
“Alright then, milady, I’ll be off about me work. You just call if’n you need me.”
“I will.”
The boy left her side, and Lily relaxed, glad that the letter was on its way. The mare snuffled at her hand, then decided that, after all, food was more appealing than attention, and turned back to her hay. Lily stood watching her for another few minutes, then went back into the house.
<<<< O >>>>
Trent felt frustrated, in so many ways. There had, remarkably, been no social events to attend for three days now. In one way, it was a relief, a chance to rest, but in another, it left him irritated and impatient – impatient to see Lady Lily again. And impatient to hear from Simmons. He supposed that a few days was far too little time in which to expect a result – after all, they had been watching the stableboy at Elbury House for weeks, nay months, now. But he wanted a result.
He repressed his irritation, and turned his attention to the other reports on his desk – reports from men that he had watching other noble families, and the men’s clubs of London, listening for any hint of disloyalty to the Crown or plots against the government. On the whole the members of the ton were delightfully innocent of that scale of wrongdoing. They might be cheats at cards, have mistresses and a clutter of illegitimate children, or be generally rather obnoxious people, but they were rarely passionate enough about anything to bother with more threatening activities.
It was those on the lower end of the scale of rank, and those of the merchant class with pretensions to rising higher, who were more of a threat. He made notes on a few files, then tidied the rest of the paperwork away, and locked it into his cabinet.
There was a tap on the door, and Horton entered when bid do so.
“My Lord, there is a… gentleman… here to see you. A Mr Simmons. He… well, he rather reeks of the stables, my Lord, if I may say so.”
“Show him in Horton. And yes, I expect that he does, given that is where I have asked him to work lately.”
Horton tilted his chin up in that distinctive way, which indicated that he disapproved of his master’s actions, but did nothing other than nod once, and leave the room. Moments later, he showed Simmons into the room. Once the door was closed and locked, and Simmons seated on the hard wood chair before Trent’s desk, Trent spoke.
“So, Simmons, what brings you here today – some good news, I hope?”
“Yes, milord. It’s me afternoon off, and I took the chance to come t’tell ye about what I saw this mornin’. Once ye’d told me to be watching for when Lady Lily came t’ the stables, ye made m’job easier. The lady came down this morning, t’ see that mare of hers, like she often does, and I watched close like. She talked to the mare, and while she did, that stableboy wanders up, and asks her if’n he can help her with anything. She talks to him all nice, sayin’ no thank you, but while she says it, she slips a letter out’n her pockets, and hands it to Tom, all pretty much hidden by the fall o’ her skirts. He takes it quick smart, and tucks it in his shirt, and then goes back to his work, as if that letter never existed. Then, an hour later, he’s off out on some errand or another, no doubt to send the letter on.”
Trent could not help but smile.
This was progress indeed.
“Thank you, Simmons. I’m hoping that Smith will have seen the boy leave, and followed him. Soon, we’ll know just what is in that letter. Now, be off, and enjoy your free afternoon.”
“Yes, milord, and thank you.”
The man bowed, and Trent showed him out of the room. An hour later, Smith arrived, to report on the latest letter, which he had, as Trent had hoped, intercepted.
“It’s a simple letter milord – confirming that the poet will send the final poems for the next volume two days hence. It seems they finally agreed on a price, and the contract is set.”
Trent sat there a moment, considering, then nodded to himself.
“Excellent news, Smith. Let me know if anything else happens between now and then, but I suspect it won’t – I think that package will be the next thing we’ll see.”
“I’d be thinking you have the right of it, my Lord.”
Trent nodded again, and they spoke of other things for a few minutes, before he sent Smith on his way. Then he poured himself a brandy, and settled into the armchair near the fire to think.
An hour later he had come to a conclusion – there was only one way that he could see to move this forward, to confirm, once and for all, what was going on with Lady Lily, an imaginary poet, and the clandestine correspondence. When Lady Lily came down to the Elbury House stables two days hence, with a package of poems, he had to be there, had to catch her in the act of passing the package to the stableboy.
<<<< O >>>>
Two days later, dressed in the scruffiest clothes that he had worn since he was a boy, and with his face part hidden by a rough hat, Trent forked hay beside Simmons, in the Elbury House stables. Hay that had arrived with him, on the cart that he was shifting it from. His respect for farm labourers and delivery men had increased tenfold in the previous ten minutes, as his arms, back and shoulders began to ache from the strain of the work.
None of the Elbury House stable staff blinked at his presence – he had come with the hay delivery, and was assisting with the unloading and the shifting of it, which seemed unexceptionable in every way. As he paused a moment in the shadow of a stall wall, he heard light footsteps. Lady Lily walked into the stables, the beam of sunlight that shone through the door casting her hair into spun gold, and showering her in an appearance of gold dust, from the fine particles of hay in the air. He was captivated by her beauty, all over again.
She went to one of the stalls, and called out to the mare who dozed in the corner of the space. The horse lifted her head, and came to Lady Lily with a little whicker of greeting. Trent stayed perfectly still, watching. Soon, as expected, the stableboy approached her, and they spoke – nothing out of the ordinary, just some chatter about the mare’s health. But as they spoke, Lady Lily pulled a rather solid bundle from her pockets, and passed it to the boy, who struggled to conceal it in his clothing. Trent smiled to himself. It was time to act.
He stepped forward on quiet feet, and captured the boy’s arm, just as he was moving back from Lady Lily’s side.
“Oy! What ye doing mister!”
The boys voice was loud, and he squirmed desperately in Trent’s grip, to no avail. Lady Lily spun around at the sound, her mouth open in an ‘O’ of shock. The boy’s flailing knocked the hat from Trent’s head, and Lady Lily gasped. Her voice shook a little as she spoke.
“My Lord? Lord Canterford? Whatever are you doing? Why have you taken hold of my stableboy?”
Her words were what might be expected, but in her eyes, there was fear – fear beyond what would be expected in such a situation.
“My Lady, I have taken hold of him, so that I might retrieve from him the parcel that you just surreptitiously passed to him.”
Both Lady Lily and Tom gasped in horror, and the boy stilled completely. Trent reached down and retrieved the bundle from the boy’s rather ragged shirt, then released him.
“Why… what… I don’t understand.”
Lady Lily’s expression mixed confusion and fear, and he ached to remove that fear from her face. As if suddenly completely overwhelmed, she dropped to sit on the mounting block beside her. Her eyes followed Trent’s every movement as he unwrapped the package, a growing despair in her expression. Trent looked at the pages revealed – as he had expected, a large bundle of sheets, each bear
ing one poem, or part thereof. They were written in what he had come to recognise as Mr Brooks’ hand, rather than Lady Lily’s – interesting indeed.
Trent went to her, and gently reached out a hand to tilt her face up towards him.
She did not flinch, but the look in her eyes spoke of disappointment, of fear of judgement, and of betrayal. That look was a knife to his heart. He swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost apologetic.
“I do not think that you can deny it any longer, Lady Lily, not given what I hold in my hand, and what I just saw.”
She gave the smallest shake of her head, then blinked, and looked around her. A ring of grooms and stableboys surrounded them, hovering, unsure what to do, but obviously worried that the lady was in danger. Lady Lily drew herself up, and that damnably bland expression appeared on her face.
“Be about your work please. I am in no danger. This is… a prank, organised by my brother.” They all relaxed, and tipped their caps to her, and did as she’d bid them. All over again, he was impressed with her cleverness, and her ability to think quickly, when stressed. She really would make a wonderful spy. And her choice of explanation left him wondering just what Wildenhall had done to his sisters, over the years. She turned her attention back to him. “I suppose I cannot, Lord Canterford. But what I do not understand is why you care, how you came to be here, like this,” her hand waved in a way that took in his ungentlemanly garb and the straw in his hair, “and how on earth you found me out in the first place.”
“That is, perhaps, a longer story than is best told here. But let me summarise it, for now. I discovered the clandestine correspondence leaving this house almost by accident. Dreadful as this sounds, I had your house and family watched – not because of you, specifically, but as part of a… program of work, shall we say… that I am undertaking on behalf of the Crown.”
Those green-gold eyes fixed on him, and fleeting expressions crossed her face, as her mind assessed what he had said.
A Spinster for a Spy: Book 1: Lily - Clean Regency Romance (A Duke's Daughters: The Elbury Bouquet) Page 8
