One night last year, when Jack was almost fully recovered, she found herself restless and unable to sleep. Deciding to retrieve her book from the front parlor, and not wanting to disturb anyone else, she made her way down the stairs in the dark. As she reached the bottom, she noticed a light coming from beneath the library doors. Thinking a servant left a candle burning, she went to put it out, but stopped when she heard voices inside the room.
Curious, and still expecting to see servants, she peaked through the slightly open door. She was surprised to see her brother out of bed and talking to two other men. Assuming it was some important shipping venture that couldn’t wait, Morgan started to withdraw. But her attention was quickly captured when her brother began talking.
“I was sent to investigate a suspicious group with Rodney, a new and untrained, agent. The case was supposed to be low risk, but highly sensitive due to alleged involvement of high-ranking members of the ton. I protested taking a new agent, but due to who his father is, it didn’t make a difference. Rodney was sent with me.” Jack frowned and watched the brandy swirl in his glass. “We found the group, but Rodney, along with a large sum of money and vital information, disappeared.” Jack continued to outline the events that led to his current condition.
She sat, riveted by her brother’s tired voice and his description of the prison, the vile conditions, and the torture. Apparently it was only pure luck that he was found and rescued by one of these men. He would not have survived those conditions much longer. The thought of almost losing her brother, and realizing, she must not know him at all, threatened to overwhelm Morgan. Her brother was a spy for the Crown. Wanting to be alone to digest this information she started to withdraw, but the sound of one of the stranger’s voice stopped her.
“Rodney is still missing. So is the money. It was the very devil to prevent the Marquis from making things public. We need to plan the next move on this group. We don’t know if they have the scrolls or not.”
The voice sent shivers down her spine; she had to see the face that went with it and then almost wished she hadn’t. He was devastatingly handsome with dark hair. He was too far away to see the color of his eyes, but his face was angular and strong. She shifted to get a better look. He stood on the other side of the mantel, part of his face in darkness, part illuminated by the dancing flames. Although dressed in gentlemen’s clothing, there was something dangerous, almost wild about him. Morgan felt a primal, sharp edge of desire, and was shocked at her visceral reaction to him. She realized she was holding her breath and let it out. At that moment he glanced toward the door and frowned. She was so startled she almost fell back—his eyes seemed to bore right through her. Morgan wanted to stay, but would just die of embarrassment if she were caught like this. And despite her curiosity, and attraction to the stranger, she really didn’t want to know anything else right now about her brother’s true life.
Morgan gazed unseeing out the window as she pondered the latest incident and Jack’s lack of a response. She was startled out of her reverie as a coach pulled up to the house. The flawlessly matched set of grays announced the unexpected, and unwelcome, arrival of Lord Montrose, Marquis of Talbot. Morgan exhaled with exasperation. This was the last thing I needed today! He was once again a most persistent suitor despite her attempts to put him off and Jack’s prior indication his suit would not be accepted. Those measures did not deter him however. The last time he came to call the arrogant fool thought to have her acquiesce by explaining she was actually beneath his station, too old, and should consider herself fortunate to have his attention.
She really did not want to receive him, especially after this morning. But one unsociable Westfall was already almost more than the ton would tolerate. Some of them still couldn’t understand how she could refuse him. She could be a Marquess! If it were only that easy. “I’ll tell Paul to show him to the front parlor. Will you be joining us?”
Derek hesitated and looked uncomfortable, “No, I believe I will address this morning’s event with the kitchen staff. He is here to see you after all, but you might want to change first.”
Morgan realized she was still wearing her fencing attire and sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to change. Very well. Paul, please tell Lord Montrose I’ll be down shortly.”
TWO
Morgan entered the room silently. Lord Montrose’s back was to her, and he was looking at a vase Jack brought back from Greece. She took some satisfaction at seeing him startle at her greeting when he did not hear her come in.
“Really, Morgan, you ought to train your staff to announce you, your household obviously needs a firmer hand.”
Morgan chose to ignore this and attempted a pleasant, but disinterested smile as she sat and gestured for him to do the same, “To what do we owe your visit Lord Montrose?” Morgan never gave him leave to use her first name, and she refused to give him the satisfaction of reciprocating the relationship he presumed.
“I understand you had another unfortunate incident. Since your brother seems unwilling or incapable of dealing with it, I thought to offer my assistance.”
Morgan ground her teeth and ignored the slight, but only because she was startled he knew. She considered denying anything had occurred, but it was really pointless, and she wasn’t a very good liar.
“I wasn’t aware our incidents were such interest or that news traveled so quickly, it was only discovered this morning.”
“Yes, yes,” Montrose waved his hand about in a bored manner clearly indicating he had no interest in her opinion.. “It was already being discussed at my club. You know how servants, especially undisciplined ones, can gossip.”
That was certainly possible, she knew how fast word traveled, but it still didn’t ring entirely true. Regardless, Morgan had no intention of discussing what she considered to be a private matter. She also had no intention of letting him know how much this one had affected her. This time, the person had been bold enough to enter their house! It frightened her more than she was willing to admit—even to herself.
Before entering the parlor, Paul told her none of the servants were able to shed any light on how someone gained entry. They did not immediately contact the police, as Derek refused, and Morgan knew Jack would prefer to keep things private. She wondered now if that was a mistake. Morgan suppressed an involuntary shudder and turned her attention back to her unwelcome guest.
Although the material was expensive, and Montrose used one of the best tailors on Oxford Street, his clothes always seemed to be uncomfortable for him. His frame and carriage did not do his tailor justice. He was a tall man with a thin, but not un-muscular build. His profile did nothing to disguise the sharpness of his features, and although he wasn’t necessarily unattractive, she noticed his smile never seemed to reach his eyes. His title was old, and he was rumored to be well off, but some of his business dealings were questionable. He was another person who was furious when Jack refused him as an investor. Morgan believed in following her instincts, and her instincts told her he was not a man to be trusted. She continued to observe him as he circuited the room, pausing here and there to pick up various objects’ de art.
Morgan quirked her brow and muttered, “I hope he finds it to his satisfaction.”
He’d kept his distance after Jack returned last year, containing himself to the occasional dance. But he called on her at the townhouse offering assistance with the damaged dam and crops. Morgan politely, but firmly declined his offer then, and certainly did not intend to accept one now. He presumed too much without any encouragement as it was, he could be intolerable!
“I can also only assume your tardiness in greeting me was also due to your staff’s incompetence. You really should allow me to lend you some help.”
I wonder what you’ll say when you realize I haven’t instructed tea to be served she thought.
Lord Montrose continued to walk the perimeter of the room, seeming to assess various furnishings. When he prodded a valuable vase with his cane, Morgan’s fingers i
tched to smash it over his head. She really wasn’t a violent person, but he seemed to bring out the worst in her. As he walked, his cane caught her attention. It was made of ebony, and elaborately carved. The head of the cane was silver, and an odd shape. There was some decoration or design on it that she could not distinguish. It really was rather garish. Too late she realized he stopped talking, and was looking at her expectantly. Morgan had absolutely no idea what he had been saying as her mind wandered, but she was fairly certain he would have continued his discourse on the lack of refinement in the house. She knew she should wait to respond, or let it go, but the recent letter, combined with Jack’s absence, left her feeling rather annoyed, with only one person available to needle.
“I’m so sorry you were kept waiting,” Morgan couldn’t stop herself from widening her eyes, clasping a dramatic hand to the base of her throat, and then glancing up through her lashes—barely stopping herself from rolling her eyes at his obvious posturing. She managed to continue with a straight face and achieve some level of chagrin in her voice, “I assumed my fencing attire was not appropriate to receive you in.” For good measure, she batted her eyelashes to keep from bursting out with laughter at his shocked expression. Montrose blinked his eyes a couple of times, obviously preparing a response to her outrageous comment. She expected a reprimand, but his reaction was much more than she expected.
“You will cease to engage in this inappropriate behavior!” His eyes practically bulged out of his head. “You and your brother think you can flaunt the conventions of polite society, and you should count yourself lucky I continue to consider my suit, but I warn you Morgan, I won’t put up with any more!” Montrose’s face was a mottled red, and spittle flew from his mouth as he continued his discourse.
“I’m tired of waiting. I will apply to your cousin since your brother can’t seem to grace us with his presence, and we’ll see what decisions are made then! You obviously need to be with someone who can take you in hand. Maybe you both should be declared incompetent and sent to the infirmary. Your brother’s choices have obviously been remiss, and no one would disagree!”
Morgan was too startled to move or respond at first. She was shocked, and a little frightened, by the change in his appearance. He towered over her, a shock of his oily black hair in his face; his eyes burning with unmistakable rage. It was disturbing, but it was his words that made her pause. Not that she believed his statements were true, but she did stretch some of the conventions, and nobody really questioned her. They were all fairly harmless individually: cantering in Hyde Park, using one of the more daring modistes for her gowns this season, the fencing, all fairly small things. But members of the ton could be vicious, especially to those considered to be somewhat on the fringe. Loathe as she was to admit it, Montrose had a point. She did not want to bring any more notoriety to the family and needed to be more circumspect, at least outside the house.
“Did you ring, miss?” One of the maids stepped through the parlor doors, and stood waiting for her mistress’s response.
Montrose looked even more furious, if that were possible, but knew he overstepped the bounds of propriety and didn’t want an audience. Stepping back, he averted his face as he dabbed at his perspiring upper lip with a handkerchief and tried to get his breathing back under control. Morgan was able to regain her resolve. She would not allow him to know just how much affected her.
“Yes, Katie. Have Paul see Lord Montrose out, he was just leaving.”
When he opened his mouth to speak, Morgan continued coolly, “Although I appreciate your concern, I assure you we are capable of handling these incidents. I have been in correspondence with my brother (she considered it minor point that he had not yet responded), and he does not welcome others interfering in his affairs.”
Montrose paused, and his too-knowing smile sent shivers up her spine. “Really? And just what does your brother have to say? What instructions has he given you to follow?” Morgan felt like an insect pinned for observation as he once more advanced towards her. She stood her ground. “As I said, my brother does not appreciate others being in his affairs, and doesn’t believe it is any of your concern.”
“It may be of immense concern to others, Miss Westfall. Many have invested with your brother; it would be a shame if they thought he was running the business with as little attention as he runs his household.”
Morgan bristled inwardly at the implied threat and struggled to not show it. She knew it was only a matter of time before that exact kind of speculation began, even without encouragement from Lord Montrose. She was also not naïve enough to think that Montrose was without some measure of power. Society was not in the habit of supporting unconventional, unmarried females left to run a household. As much as Jack abhorred social obligations, and avoided them like the plague, he was not ignorant of the workings of society. His extended absences, and silence, were of increasing concern.
“I will be back. I’m growing weary of this game Morgan, especially when we both know the eventual outcome.” With an expression that appeared both smug and sinister he continued. “I’ll give you two weeks. If there is no indication your brother has returned, I will take action.” Montrose turned and walked out of the parlor, making sure he conveyed his contempt for all that he passed. Although his last statement was said quietly, it seemed to hold the most threat.
THREE
Tristan nudged his bay stallion through the crowded streets of London as he headed toward the docks. At well over six feet, with hair the color of burnished gold, he was hard to miss. Most women stared openly, but there were a few who tried to pretend they weren’t looking. He acknowledged some with a polite, but distant smile. He did not want to encourage any further interaction. Men were quick to note the broadsword he wore across his back. It was an added deterrent in the part of town he was venturing, and he was more than capable of wielding the deadly instrument. As he guided the horse through the increasing crowd, the strength of his legs was apparent as the muscles were displayed through the fine fabric of his riding breeches. His broad shoulders nicely filled the superfine of his coat, cut by one of the premier tailors on Oxford Street. His hair brushed the collar, and was a little longer than the current fashion. Men and women alike noticed his eyes. The color of whiskey, they missed nothing, and hinted at something slightly untamed just beneath the surface. If he chose to speak, it would be with the burr of the Scottish Highlands, although he was able to mask it if needed.
His father, the Marquis of Corling died two years ago. As the second son, he didn’t inherit the title, but his father was generous. And although his finely chiseled features and clothing were suited to that of a gentleman landowner, he preferred to leave that role to his older brother Colin. Tristan sought a different profession, and he was extremely good at what he did. It was pleasant that money wasn’t an issue, as he did enjoy the finer things, but Tristan preferred a life with action and purpose. He had little use for the so-called ‘gentlemen’ who had only money or a title to account for their prestige.
The horse pranced sideways and Tristan murmured soothingly to his stallion. Southwark was not exactly what one would call a fashionable part of town, but right now he was interested in information, not fashion. His nostrils were assaulted by the stench of waste, coal fires, and rotting food. This was something he never missed about cities. The highlands of Scotland were swept with fields of heather and lavender. The air this time of year was turning cold, snow already forming in the highest regions. To be fair though, the port of Edinborough was just as dirty as London’s docks.
Some of the local ‘ladies’ became bolder, calling out to him or reaching to touch his leg. “Well hello guvna,’ you lookin' for sumthin special?” Baring her breasts in the daylight another called, “I’ve got just what you need handsome.”
Although Tristan would never treat any woman with disrespect, he had no interest in those who chose this profession. He kept his face impassive as he passed by the woman who may have been pretty at
one time. But too much gin and a poor diet left her with few teeth, matted hair, and sunken features.
Tristan didn’t care for English women particularly. He found them more suited to ornamentation than anything practical. The young misses he encountered in the ton were all cut from the same cloth. They were simpering, spoiled and without an independent thought in their heads, short of when the next ball was or the latest fashion from Paris. He never lacked for female companionship; but the women he chose were experienced, often married, and knew not to expect more from him than brief interludes of pleasure. The arrangement suited him. Tristan could not afford to be attached to someone, or have someone attached to him. It would make his business more dangerous. Once, he thought he might have to marry, as his older brother had been similarly dispossessed of the idea of marriage, although for very different reasons than Tristan. He smiled briefly as he thought of his brother Colin and new sister-in-law and their happiness. He was glad for them, but refused to acknowledge the pang of some feeling that washed over him. He forced himself to focus his attentions on his current mission instead.
That he was being sent on this mission wasn’t unusual. Tristan was skilled in many areas, but he was also discreet. He believed it was the last characteristic that got him assigned to this particular mission. Another missing agent was not good politics, and the agency wanted to keep it quiet.
The agent in question was sent to follow up on tracing a group rumored to have scrolls from the library of Alexandria. These scrolls were believed to contain valuable, or powerful, information on subjects such as alchemy. The Crown insisted on maintaining these were rumors. Tristan’s friends had firsthand experience to the contrary.
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