He had asked about Merry when he had seen her at the museum, she remembered. What role did Merry play?
"Was he not the Englishman you overhead?" Eversley asked.
She thought for a moment. Had she misheard? No, she knew Merry's voice.
"I did not see their faces," she said, "so I suppose I cannot speak definitively. But it certainly did not sound like Merry. I imagine I would recognize his voice if I heard it again. I know I would recognize the Frenchman," she said.
He rubbed his knees. She did not think it was Merry? But how could that be? It did not add up. Merry was believed to have taken the list. White had instructed him. Merry was the suspect. Then Miss Quinby overhears a conversation between a man with a list and a Frenchman wanting to buy it. She had to be mistaken. It must have been Merry. Then, after his brief conversation with the Frenchman, he could have located Miss Ditherfield.
"I wish we knew when he expects the funds by," he said.
"Mmmm." She nodded. "Might I inquire about the list? What exactly is it a list of?"
He grimaced. "I'm afraid I cannot tell you that. I can tell you that it never should have been made in the first place. If I get my hands on it, I'm burning it without reading it."
"What will you do now?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I shall continue to follow the leads that we have," he said.
He was used to the methodical drudgery of spywork. So often, people assumed that it was excitement and swashbuckling and derring-do. More often, it was watching and waiting and hoping for the best. And he had been fortunate already. What a lucky break, Miss Quinby overhearing the conversation.
"I must thank you for your assistance," he said to the lady. "Your ability to break the code of the note, and to remember in such detail,the conversation which you overheard, quite impresses me."
She laughed. "I suppose that is something," she said. "I must tell you, since encountering you in the garden last night; my life has become exponentially more dramatic."
"Exponentially?" he asked, quirking his eyebrow.
"Exponentially," she declared. "To the power of three, at a minimum."
"Tell me," he said, "you've revealed considerable musical and mathematical talent, and are undaunted by cryptograms. Do you have any other hidden accomplishments about which I should be aware?"
"They are not accomplishments," she said. "They are passions. Accomplishments imply that I do them for society. Passions I do for myself."
"I stand corrected," he said. "Any other passions about which I should be aware?"
~.~
Chapter Nine
Four hours later, Miss Markham found them, still sitting in the music room, the fire died down to embers, the room dark, still sitting, discussing music and mathematics and a mutual secret fondness for novels. He, embarrassed by the enthusiasm which he had felt in Miss Quinby's presence, and the happiness, the lightness of being, which he had experienced as they sat speaking with each other, quickly stood to take his leave.
There was an awkward moment of silence. He did not wish to go. There was nothing for him at his mansion --nothing but the ghost of his wife. James was tracking Merry, so he could not even look forward to that.
"It has been a pleasure, Miss Quinby," he said. "I hope our paths cross again."
"Yes, so do I. And do you know what is rather odd? The Rosetta Stone should not be either British or French," she said. "It's Egyptian."
He laughed. "I suppose you are right," he said. "I wonder if they will ever get it back."
~.~
~Part 2 ~
The Mad Heiress and the Search for a Spy
Chapter One
There was a note from James when Eversley returned home. Merry had made his way to the gambling clubs.
As it was more difficult for James to gain entry to certain hallowed establishments--footmen were generally not allowed to enter at will-- Eversley set off for the clubs himself.
When he arrived at the gambling den, Merry was deep in play. He was intent on the cards, and Eversley could see the drip of perspiration trickling down the side of his forehead.
What was Merry doing? Gambling intensely, stealing lists for the French? What had happened to the jovial, happy boy he'd been at Eton and Oxford with? The Merry he knew resembled a Labrador retriever; this Merry was more like a beaten whippet.
After watching him for some time, Eversley decided to take a seat at the table. He settled down to the game of faro, nodding at the other gentlemen there. They all stood and bowed.
"Please, gentlemen, let's not stand on ceremony." Eversley waved his hands and they sat together. Again and again, he was being reminded that he was a Duke. When he was undercover in France, the highest position he had assumed had been a wealthy merchant; more often he pretended to be a member of the criminal class. No one bowed at him in France.
And no one expected anything of him, he realized. No one wanted his thoughts on politics or farming or the state of the empire. Here, he was constantly being consulted; people were forever asking him what they should do. Had he been shirking his duties as Duke? Had he been so consumed by Blanche's death that he had forsaken the people who relied on him?
Perhaps.
"Merry, old boy, how are you?" Eversley adopted a friendly, jocular tone. "I haven't seen you in some time."
Merry wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and smiled faintly at Eversley.
"We haven't see you in Town for almost a decade," he said to the Duke. "I'd given you up."
"I dare say, I'd given myself up as well," Eversley said.
Merry nodded. "I'm terribly sorry about the Duchess," he said. "I must admit that I understand much better now what you must have gone through. Love--"
"Why, if it isn't Eversley. And Merry Meryton." Lord Fletcher gave a jocular laugh as he came over to the table. He glanced down at the cards.
"Still after your fortune, eh, Meryton?" Another laugh.
Merry colored. Lord Fletcher laughed again. He leaned in conspiratorially to Eversley.
"Our Merry here is desperate for funds," he said. "A certain lady won't wed him without them." He tapped his nose.
It was interesting, Eversley thought, how often Lord Fletcher tapped his nose. And how much he disliked it --and the man generally. He knew Merry was a traitor to the Crown and in possession of a list of spies for the Crown, but he found himself defending the man.
"You presume, Fletcher," he said coldly.
The man drew back, sputtering. The others at the table stared. The long-reclusive Duke of Eversley cutting Lord Fletcher? It would be on the tongues of all the gossips by morning.
Eversley closed his eyes. He should not have been so cold. He did not want gossip, especially not in an effort to help a traitor. He summoned up a smile. He would smooth this gaffe over.
"I am looking forward to the ball," he said to Fletcher, in an attempt to placate him. "Please tell her Ladyship."
Fletcher opened his mouth. His skin was mottled. Eversley wondered if he was going to tell him off.
"She will be delighted to hear that you plan to attend," he finally said. "Your tendency to avoid such events has not gone unnoticed. No doubt my lady will consider your presence a coup."
Eversley nodded. He turned back to the table and play resumed.
Fletcher wandered off shortly, much to Eversley's relief.
Merry, silent, looked down at the cards.
"It's no use," he said. "Fletcher was right to poke fun."
"How so?" Eversley asked.
"I keep thinking that perhaps miraculously I will somehow win enough, that someday I could approach Miss Ditherfield as a man of means."
"I understood Miss Ditherfield to have quite a sizable inheritance of her own," Eversley said. "Could you not simply marry her? Would that not address some of your own financial woes?"
"Certainly, but how will she know that I love her? I cannot allow her to believe that I only care for her because of her money. I cannot go to her father,
seeking her hand, without having more to offer," Merry said. He mopped his brow once more.
"But what of your love for her?" Eversley asked. "Are you willing to live apart from her? To sacrifice what you might have?"
"I cannot submit her to a life less than what she deserves," Merry said.
Play continued. Eversley, through no effort of his own, watched as his winnings grew and Merry's dwindled. Why was it that the men most desperate were always the ones to lose? Why was Merry so dedicated to winning here in a gambling hall, if he was about to obtain considerable wealth from the French?
Finally, feeling vaguely ill, Eversley pushed away from the table. Merry looked up at him. Eversley put a hand on his shoulder. He wanted to tell him that Miss Ditherfield would marry him no matter the depth of his pocketbook, if she truly loved him. He wanted to tell him that no man ever found his fortunes in gambling dens. He wanted to tell him to stop making stupid choices based on pride --refusing to marry the woman as he was, always seeking more fortune. But he knew it would not be kindly received.
"Get some sleep, Merry," he said instead.
~.~
Chapter Two
The next morning found Eversley seated at his breakfast table, enjoying a good steak and some breakfast tea. Joseph, another reliable footman, had been dispatched to watch over Merry's movements, which meant that Eversley had the freedom to read the paper and then begin to attend to the mountains of estate business that had amassed over the last decade.
It was in this contented state --tea, steak, newspaper-- that his sister and her husband found him.
"Charles." Judith bent down to present her cheek for a kiss and then settled into a chair. "Imagine my surprise, learning you were in town."
Lady Judith, Eversley's younger sister, was a beautiful woman. She was tall and regal, with golden hair and a strong nose. Her eyes were green and very beautiful, although all too frequently they were narrowed, which lessened their effect somewhat. Today, she wore a fine pelisse, decorated with a Greek key pattern. Judith had never worn anything but that which was all the rage.
Eversley nodded to Sebastien and offered him tea. He had not seen his friend for many years. Sebastien looked much the same. Handsome and dashing, with a lock of hair falling artistically in the middle of his forehead. His clothing was fine --a single-breasted morning coat in green-- and his Hessians boots were impressively shined.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" Eversley asked "Not that you need ever have a reason, my dear sister. I merely wonder as to your attendance at my breakfast table.” He reached for the marmalade. “I never knew you to be an early riser."
"To what indeed?" Judith laughed. "Do you know, we heard the most ridiculous rumor last night, when we were at Vauxhall? I positively lost my breath, did I not, Sebastien?"
"Indeed, you did, my dear. I do not know when I last saw you so shocked."
For a moment, Eversley nearly dropped his knife. Surely Meryton had not spread about rumors as to the names on the list? What if everyone became aware about his secret activities over the last decade? His mouth grew dry. If it came out that he was a spy, many peoples' lives in France would be at stake. He had spent years developing friends and networks.
"In the past two days, you have been seen twice in the company of Miss Georgette Quinby," his sister said. “Twice,” she repeated.
Eversley hid a sigh of relief --he had not been exposed as a spy-- by attacking his steak. So, this was about Miss Quinby. He should not have been surprised. No doubt the gossips had gone mad over his interactions with the formerly disgraced fiance of his sister's husband.
"And there's been suggestion of a third time," Sebastien added. "A visit to her home."
Goodness, the gossips were certainly busy. Then again, he had not bothered to hide his visit. Why should he?
"Miss. Georgette Quinby." His sister stabbed her finely gloved finger on the table to punctuate each word. "You cannot mean to be interested in her, brother."
He wasn't interested in Miss Quinby. But his sister's attitude rankled.
"Why should I not be interested in Miss Quinby?" he asked sipping his tea.
"Have you been beggared?" Sebastien asked. He smiled as if that would be a fun joke. Eversley supposed it would be ironic, given the amount of money he had given to the two of them over the years.
"Did you lose some excessive amount of funds?" Judith asked, her brow furrowed as if she had not considered such a disaster.
"No, I remain as wealthy as ever," he said, calmly.
"Did your injury from fox hunting also affect your brain?" she asked.
He had told his sister that his wound had been the result of a fall from a horse. She was still ignorant as to his presence in France over the past decade. She believed he had spent the years holed up in one of his estates in the north.
"No," he said. "None of those things."
"Then what in heaven's name are you doing with Miss Quinby?" she demanded.
He set his cup down. "Miss Quinby is quite enjoyable company," he said.
"Miss Quinby is a spoiled heiress," Sebastien said.
"Was," Eversley said. He was beginning to feel almost angry. "She was a spoiled heiress, and even that statement could be up for debate. She was sixteen and she adored you."
"She tried to steal Sebastian from me!" Judith said.
"Is that how it happened? I thought she was engaged to Sebastien," he said, looking to his friend for confirmation.
Sebastien sighed and nodded his head. He might be relatively devoid of character, but he did tend to admit the truth.
"And you, dear sister, decided to take him from her," Eversley said.
"She did not deserve him," Judith said. She threw Sebastien a look of adoration. He patted her hand.
"That may well be," Eversley said. "I am inclined to believe that the two of you deserve each other far more. But that certainly is no reason for me to not associate with her."
Judith snorted. "My dear brother, if you are eager to find a lady, I am happy to assist you. Surely you can do better than her. I have many friends who are eligible young ladies. I would be happy to introduce you. Indeed it is time, you set about finding wife. The dukedom requires an heir."
"Yes, but I find I do not wish to set about finding a wife. I had one, lest you forgot. And I loved her. While you might so easily forget Blanche, I do not."
"I did not mean--" Judith began.
He stood, cutting her off.
"I am suddenly tired, Judith. Nor do I care to have this conversation again. As far as I can tell, you won your husband with absolutely no consideration of the heart or sentiments of the young lady to whom he was engaged."
He turned to Sebastien.
"And you, my dear friend, led her to believe you loved her. Perhaps the both of you are feeling guilt due to ruining her life, and this is why you speak of her in such terms; it is a defensive gesture. Whatever it may be, I am in no mood to entertain it. I enjoy Miss Quinby's company, and I intend to continue enjoying it. We are friends."
"But you're a duke," Judith sputtered. "You cannot go about becoming friends with common spinsters."
"You are a duke's daughter, Judith," Eversley said. "I've seen no indication that that has instilled in you any sort of manners. Why should I not be friends with common spinsters of enjoyable conversation?"
Judith, already waspish, opened her mouth to retort.
"Judith," Sebastien said. He laid a hand on her arm. "Let us not bicker with your brother. I believe we should be glad Charles is out and enjoying Town."
He looked at Eversley. "It is good to have you back, old boy."
~.~
Chapter Three
It was cruel, Georgette thought, how something could happen in one's life to make it suddenly full of color and excitement, and then that color would disappear as a abruptly as it began. She always felt alive, to be sure. One of her resolutions following her heartbreak, when she was younger, was to always appreciat
e the life she woke up to. But it seemed especially cruel to spend time helping a duke engaged in espionage and service to the Crown on day, and then be left to stare at droplets running down window panes the next.
The days following the moment at the British museum, and the Duke's subsequent visit, were marked by foul weather. Georgette and Fanny had been primarily restricted to the indoors, being outside only to travel from the door of their townhome to the covered safety of the carriage. Not wanting to trouble the servants, they had limited their activities outside the home to only the very necessary outings.
This had meant that the two of them had spent an excessive amount of time in each other's company. They had embroidered. They had played cards. They had read aloud to each other. They had read in silence. Fanny had modeled and Georgette had drawn her. Georgette had played the piano and Fanny had sung. They began the whole sequence again with embroidery, and cards.
On the morning of yet another dreary day, Fanny bounded into the breakfast room.
"This was just delivered," she said. She placed a package at Georgette's elbow.
"Whatever could it be?" Georgette tore it open.
It was a packet of music with a note.
I enjoyed our discussion several days ago. I thought you might appreciate some new music to play, to liven any boredom you might be feeling due to the icy rain and wind. I hope to see you again soon.
Yrs. Eversley
"He sent you a piano arrangement of Beethoven's ballet." Fanny was thumbing through the music while Georgette read the note. Heavens, he must like you even more than I originally believed."
"He does not--"
Fanny held up a staying hand. "No," she said. "No, you will not persuade me. This is enough." She snatched the note out of Georgette's hand and read it. Then she lifted an eyebrow, daring Georgette to say that the Duke was not interested in her romantically. Which he was not, Georgette knew, but she understood that Fanny was not to be swayed.
The Mad Heiress and the Duke – Miss Georgette Quinby: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 1) Page 4
