Too Dangerous For a Lady

by Jo Beverley

  “Ah . . .”

  Mark turned back. “Sir?”

  “You must live a charmed life, Granger.”

  “Why?”

  Waite was fiddling with an amber-handled penknife. “In my wife’s letter from Warrington, she urged that you be declared a traitor. From what she said, it seemed reasonable.”

  Mark knew what that meant. “The Brotherhood has been told to watch out for me?”

  “Rather more than that, I’m afraid. They’ve been told to kill you. I’m surprised you’ve wandered the streets of London for days without injury.”

  Damnation. His position in the Crimson Band was over after all.

  “I will rescind the order immediately, of course,” Waite said, “but that may not reach everyone.”

  “I take comfort that few know me on sight.”

  “As for that, Tregoven produced a sketch.” Waite opened a drawer and took out a print. “Quite a good likeness.”

  Mark took it. A damnably good likeness of a bristle-chinned man in a low-crowned hat. Apart from the style of hat, it was himself at the moment. “He applied himself to the task with enthusiasm. But then, he would have his reasons.”

  “Could Tregoven truly be in league with Solange against me and still dine at my table?”

  “There is no limit to the depths, sir.”

  Waite was losing his noble demeanor and looking more a confused old man.

  Mark folded the print and put it in his pocket. “I must go, sir. I’ll report to you on any progress. Please take care.”

  “You think I am in danger?” Waite tried for disbelief, but fear shivered beneath the question. “I have no one to stand by me. Stay here, Granger. You will be safe here.”

  Be your new Boothroyd? “I can’t search for Mrs. Waite from here, sir.”

  “You can’t search for her when in danger.”

  “Now I’m warned, I’ll assume some disguise.”

  A wig and mustache, or bosoms? But it was no longer humorous speculation.

  Waite unlocked a drawer and took out some banknotes. “Take these to help you get by.”

  Mark didn’t want to take money from a man he meant to destroy, but to refuse would look odd. He put them in his pocket. “Thank you, sir.”

  “God go with you. Find Solange and Isaac for me. Bring them home.” The words were sincere and pathetic.

  Mark bowed and returned to the kitchens to leave by the back door. The thin footman still eyed him suspiciously and now Mark wondered whether he was a member of the Brotherhood. Had he already sent word that the traitor had been found? He left the house and walked down the back lane feeling as if he had a bull’s-eye painted on his back.

  Devil take Solange. Well, he was sure Lucifer would in the end, but not perhaps before she got him killed. He needed a safe haven and a transformation.

  Chapter 27

  He hired a hackney cab at the first stand and traveled in its concealment to Braydon’s rooms. He was relieved to be inside.

  “A damnable situation,” Braydon said when he’d heard the tale, “but insane of you to think of trying to keep up Ned Granger. What disguise will you assume now?”

  “It’s time for Lord Faringay to return from Mauritius.”

  “That won’t change your appearance sufficiently. What if you come face-to-face with the Frenchwoman, or anyone else from the Crimson Band?”

  “I’m hoping they’ll remember that Granger was a nobleman’s by-blow and come to a desirable conclusion.”

  “Jupiter! That you’re a half brother? Did you have this in mind when you devised your story?”

  “I’m not that farsighted. I merely wanted an explanation for my manner. I didn’t think I’d be able to hold to a lower style.”

  “You didn’t think ahead to when the masquerade would end? That’s not like you.”

  True enough, Mark thought. Perhaps he’d avoided the subject. The end of the masquerade had always meant returning to Faringay Hall.

  “Most of the Brotherhood don’t know me,” he said briskly. “They’ll never imagine an elegant lord is the man in that drawing.”

  “True, but an elegant lord? I don’t remember you ever being a beau.”

  “Amazing the effect a couple of years in the south Indian Ocean can have on a man. Desperate for civilization, I have returned via Paris, where I embraced good barbering and tailoring, all the latest styles.”

  Braydon let out a laugh. “I’m to achieve this miracle?”

  “If you will, kind sir.”

  “The barbering will be easy enough and I’ll be glad to see the end of your shaggy hair and bristles, but clothes? Clothes take time, especially the finest.”

  “Time I don’t have. Secondhand?”

  “A rag shop?”

  “Don’t faint. Then is there anyone of my size who will sacrifice in the cause?”

  “Better,” Braydon said. “Let me consider. As I do . . . Johns!”

  An impeccably neat, gray-haired valet entered. “Yes, sir?”

  “You’ll be pleased to know that this disreputable gentleman is no more. He needs a bath, a shave, and a short but stylish haircut to begin the transformation into Viscount Faringay.”

  The valet accepted this with enthusiasm. “Yes, sir.”

  “I assume you have answers to my other quibbles,” Braydon said to Mark.

  “I hope so.”

  “Then I’ll quibble later.”

  Mark had no objection to baths, but wasn’t sure how he felt about short hair. As Braydon said, he’d never been interested in his appearance, and in the army he’d done without the fuss of shaving and barbering as much as possible.

  Braydon’s bath was large and the filling of it efficient, so he was soon lounging in it, going over his plan, seeking weaknesses. There were dangers, to be sure, but he’d no mind to creep about London dressed as a beggar, never mind as a brawny woman.

  The valet shaved him and then snipped away at his hair with scissors.

  “Do you cut Braydon’s hair?” Mark asked, hiding nervousness.

  “Definitely not, my lord, but I am quite competent. I assumed you would not want a gossipy barber to engage in the primary transformation.”

  “True enough.”

  There was a knock on the door and the valet went to it. After a murmured conversation, he returned with a small bottle.

  “What’s that?” Mark asked.

  “Venables Hair Tonic, sir. It can change the color somewhat.”

  “My hair is black,” Mark said warily. “What can you change about that?”

  “Not quite black, my lord. This will enrich it.”

  Mark surrendered. When the valet was satisfied with the haircut, he massaged the contents of the bottle into it. “Before coming to work for Mr. Braydon, I was employed by a gentleman who favored Venables. He was not so dark as you, but the tonic gave an interesting hue to his rather undistinguished hair. It did no harm, I assure you.”

  “As long as you don’t turn me orange.”

  The valet gave a polite chuckle and rinsed. “If you will rise from the bath, my lord?”

  Mark did so and was rinsed again, then swathed in an enormous towel. He’d have a few of those for his own, he decided. A glance at the mirror showed his hair to be alarmingly short but still normally dark. Once he was dry, he put on one of Braydon’s banyans—an excellent garment of soft brown wool lined with silk. He might get a taste for some aspects of dandyism. The valet steered him to the chair in front of the dressing table and combed his short hair this way and that.

  “To have it dry just so, sir. It is the fashion. Now, if you will oblige, your nails?”

  Mark surrendered to having his nails and cuticles pared and lotion applied.

  When Braydon came in, Mark said, “I’ve been right all along. Dandyism is
a dead bore.”

  “It might yet keep you alive. I’ve thought of the very person. Right build and just back from Paris with a new wardrobe. I need to go in person to persuade him to surrender some to the cause.”

  “I can’t imagine why he should.”

  “He’s a kindhearted fellow. Your plight, returned from pagan lands in such a state, will touch him.”

  “And my story of having acquired my clothing myself in Paris?”

  “I’ll persuade him to support that. Even mention encountering you there if that seems necessary.”

  “You must be very persuasive.”

  “He yearns for my approval.”

  “Don’t tell me—you’re the new Brummell.”

  “Gads, no. That would require hobnobbing with the Regent. Adieu.”

  “Adieu,” said Mark with a laugh as the door closed. “How did you come to be employed by Braydon, Johns?”

  “He employed a gentleman in the army, my lord, where I assume there were not quite such demands. That individual wished to return to his home area, so Mr. Braydon persuaded me to take his place.”

  “Persuaded. Was your previous employer much put out?”

  “I believe there were words, my lord, but I am not a slave and the change suited me. Mr. Braydon wears his clothing in a most exemplary manner and he does not seek a rural life.”

  “You prefer Town?” Mark asked.

  “Infinitely.”

  “I’ll need a valet. Can you find me one who comes close to your excellence?”

  “Probably not, my lord, but I will do my best.”

  “One who won’t object to rural life. I have an estate to take care of.”

  “Very well, my lord.” Mark noted the silent commiseration with amusement. The valet and Braydon were lucky to have found each other. There wouldn’t be many rich dandies without estates of any kind.

  He had an estate, but he needn’t spend much time there. Faringay Hall had survived without his presence. After his father’s death and then his disastrous visit he’d never returned, but he’d appointed good people to manage the place and correct the decades of neglect. There was no need to return there at all. He could serve his country from bachelor rooms such as this.

  If he didn’t love and desire Hermione Merryhew.

  They could be a Town couple, but he knew that wouldn’t work over time. There would be children, and children should be raised in the countryside. As well, he suspected that was the life she’d prefer. She certainly wouldn’t want him to continue his dangerous work, but could he abandon it when the threat continued?

  What would she think of Viscount Faringay? He assessed his appearance in the mirror, rubbing a hand over his remarkably smooth chin. It would take at least two skilled barberings a day to keep it that way, but it did alter his appearance, especially with his short red-tinged hair. It was even curling a bit as it dried.

  A handsomer fellow than poor old Ned, but Ned was the man she knew.

  He glanced to where Johns was sweeping up a remarkable amount of hair, and thought of some men he knew who even at his age bemoaned the way their hair was abandoning them and called for the return of wigs. A fashion for wigs would certainly help with disguises.

  The valet persuaded Mark into the parlor and provided coffee and the day’s newspaper before returning to clear up the bath. The newspaper made interesting reading, for he’d been out of touch with events for a while.

  His eye was caught by an item on lunatic asylums. If not for his father’s care and sacrifice, his mother could have been in one. Perhaps he should take an interest in such places. A peer of the realm was supposed to have his benevolent interests. He’d definitely do what he could for wounded soldiers. The neglect of their needs was scandalous. Perhaps he’d be able to employ some, or even give them small pieces of land on his estates.

  Lord, was he turning into a Spencean? Why not? The man had had some sound ideas among the nonsense.

  Then he noticed something. The conscientious Chester coroner was making enquiries in London! A small notice sought assistance in identifying the body of a man found foully murdered, a man wearing clothing purchased in London. The description was clearly of Nathan Boothroyd.

  When Braydon returned, Mark showed him the item. “I suppose the man wrote to you for information.”

  “He did. Of course I had nothing to add, but it gave me the opportunity to drop in my grandmother’s name again.”

  “And put you above suspicion. All the same, it’s a pity we couldn’t have left him naked.”

  “Would have undermined the footpad thievery somewhat. The clothing could have led to identification, which could have been useful, but it turns out to have been purchased secondhand. The jacket had been skillfully altered, but who’s likely to find one particular tailor in London?”

  “Useful?” Mark asked.

  “We need to flush out Seth Boothroyd. Hence the item in the paper. We’ve had no luck with the woman or the chemist, but if Seth goes north to identify his brother’s body, we’ll have him.”

  Mark rose to his feet. “You and Hawkinville sent him north?”

  Braydon raised a hand. “Calmly, calmly. If Seth Boothroyd goes to Chester, he’ll be arrested. He’ll be no danger to your lady.”

  “No? If he goes to Solange with the news, she might suspect a trap. She’ll certainly stoke Seth’s fury. Toward whom? Me, but also Hermione. Remember, Solange might know Hermione’s precise location.”

  “And you have left guard duty,” Braydon said, inhaling. “We’ll send someone posthaste.”

  “Fortunately that’s not necessary,” Mark said, not one whit less angry. “Unless anything’s gone seriously amiss, Lady Hermione is on her way to London.”

  “To London?”

  “Where, she explained to me, she’ll be safer than anywhere else.”

  “She’s deranged!”

  “As it happens, she’s not.” Mark laid out Hermione’s arguments.

  “She’s right,” Braydon said, but shook his head. “I apologize for the lack of foresight. We couldn’t let the opportunity go, but we should have taken additional steps to make sure Lady Hermione came to no harm.”

  “It’s the government and military way, isn’t it? Always the broader picture with no consideration for individuals trampled underfoot.”

  “Would you let the revolutionaries have their way in order to keep Lady Hermione safe?”

  “Yes. No . . . Devil take it! I pray God it never come to that.”

  “Amen. The main thing is to find Solange Waite and her chemist and make an end of her.” Braydon broke off as his footman entered with a small trunk. He dismissed him and opened it to extract two complete outfits. “I could have persuaded Troughton to part with more, but these are the only two he hasn’t already worn.”

  “Good God.”

  “Don’t tremble on the brink.”

  The two of them had trembled on the brink of an argument and even a fracture, and though Mark still simmered with fury at the careless risk, continuing it would serve no purpose. He accepted the lighter tone, but he’d remember from now on that his purposes and the government’s might not always be in accord.

  “That jacket is pea green,” he objected.

  “Not quite, and it’s the latest thing. Not, I grant, what I would have chosen with your coloring, but a vast change from Granger. Short, your hair seems a different color.”

  “Venables Tonic.” Mark went to a mirror to inspect it. “Less ebony, more dark mahogany.”

  “A nice touch. I’ll congratulate Johns. And you’re ready in good time. I dropped by Hawkinville’s and there’s been an exploding letter.”

  That turned sharply. “Where?”

  “The Home Office.”

  “Addressed to Lord Sidmouth?”

  “No, to a subdepartmen
t to do with criminal transportation. It came into the hands of a minor clerk, too lowly to have been warned.”

  “Damned devious Solange! Was he hurt?”

  “No, thank God. It was damp, so he put it aside to dry. A few hours later there was a popping noise and it burned up, leaving a scar on his desk. People are alarmed, but if that’s the worst of it . . .”

  “It was a test, and I hope it was a disappointing one.” Mark considered it. “But not without purpose. Solange will need to know the results. There’ll be a Brotherhood member in that subdepartment.”

  “So there will.”

  Mark sat and wrote a letter to Hawkinville, and Braydon sent his footman to deliver it. “See how you’re needed. That hadn’t leapt to my mind.”

  “Hawkinville may have realized, but best to be sure. If she’s testing the explosives and our reactions, she’s nearly ready to act.”

  “How do we find her?” Braydon asked. “Hawkinville’s people have made enquiries at every place favored by the French, especially those with any taint of revolution.”

  “For God’s sake, she’d never go there. We’re more likely to find her knitting mittens for the poor in a Methodist church society.”

  “Knitting?”

  “Don’t leap at that. It was only an indication. By inclination she’s more likely to be honing blades and checking pistols.”

  “She goes armed?”

  Mark reined in his frustration. Even in the throes of war he’d been able to take a cool eye to pressing problems, but it was eluding him now. Crisis was imminent, but it was the danger to Hermione that had his nerves on edge—that and an awareness of how little Braydon and the others understood about Solange. If he’d come to London sooner . . .

  There was no point to what-ifs.

  “She probably does carry weapons,” he said, “but I was sketching her personality. She’s determined, ruthless, clever, and well able to present any appearance to the world in pursuit of her aim, including dull and respectable. However she appears now, it will have no connection to her true nature.”

  “No idea what disguise she might have assumed?”

  “It could be anything, including male.”