by Jo Beverley
Chloe obediently pulled out the handful of letters and began to sort through them in search of something for the impatient old lady. “There,” she said at last. “And the frank suggests it’s from Lady Mackering in Bristol.”
“Saucy chit,” said the Duchess as she snatched her letter.
“Lady Mackering?” queried Chloe with a twinkle. “Why, I would have thought her at least sixty.”
The Dowager cackled. “Seventy-seven. She is a year older than I. What airs and grace she put on about that year when we were girls!” She broke the seal and began to read greedily.
Chloe sorted the remaining post more methodically. Three missives were clearly accounts and she placed them to one side. One was addressed to Lord Stanforth, and this too she put apart. There had been three Lord Stanforths within the space of one year, and the current viscount was still abroad with his regiment. Anyone unaware of the confusion could hardly have urgent news to impart. The remainder of the post presented more of a problem. Chloe sighed.
Her grandmother looked up. “Are you maundering again, Chloe? Why don’t you just open them all?”
Chloe shrugged. “It is so distasteful to be opening other ladies’ correspondence. I don’t know why people cannot learn to address them correctly. See, here is a letter from my old friend Emily Grantwich—we were at Miss Mallory’s together, you know. It is clearly and correctly addressed to Chloe, Lady Stanforth. Here is one simply addressed to Lady Stanforth. You know Belinda is hurt whenever I open her letters, but it does look as if it’s from Herr van Maes. He is doubtless hoping to wheedle a few more invitations to dine at the Hall.”
“Let him wheedle,” said the Duchess. “He springs for handsome gifts, I’ll give him that.”
Both ladies looked at the fine set of oil paintings which the Dutch antiquarian had presented to Chloe last Christmas. The four small landscapes represented the seasons with pictures of villagers around an apple tree.
“Yes,” said Chloe. “Almost too handsome. I admire the pictures but they seem excessive payment for a few quiet dinners.”
“Perhaps he was attempting an investment,” said the Duchess with a smile. “It wouldn’t be strange if he had an eye to more than your dinners, gel.”
Chloe shook her head, accustomed to her grandmother’s naughty tongue. “I never saw any sign of it. Anything younger than a half a millennium holds no interest for him at all. In fact, he probably just wanted to dispose of such modern pictures. Now, what should I do with these letters?”
“You could let Belinda handle all the business,” said the Duchess unsympathetically. “As the widow of the most recent viscount, it’s her responsibility.”
“Do you really think so?” said Chloe with a slight frown. “I am not sure . . .”
“God’s sake, gel. Don’t take me seriously! It’s bad enough having that farmer’s daughter around the place, ingratiating herself. She wouldn’t know how to run a hedge-tavern, never mind a place like Delamere.”
Chloe had to fight back a giggle. Daughter, wife, and mother of dukes, the Duchess had a low opinion of the local girl married by Stephen’s successor, his Uncle George.
“Really, Grandmama, how can you say such things? Be fair. Belinda was educated at a respectable seminary. She does not disgrace herself, and I believe she genuinely likes to help. She’s not without sense, you know, and if necessary she could learn to manage the Hall. With George dead, however, we all know there’s no point. If her child had been a boy and inherited the title, I would have trained her, but with a daughter she will not reign here. As soon as Justin arrives he will doubtless marry, and then we will all be free of the burden.”
“Ha,” said the Duchess. “The sooner the better. Can’t wait to see you upon the Town again. There won’t be a man in London with his wits left.”
“Grandmama!” said Chloe, blushing very prettily. “Among all the latest blossoms?”
“I haven’t seen one to match you in a decade, my dear. You know I never condemned you for eloping from the schoolroom, but you deprived me of an anticipated delight—seeing you take Society by storm. I can’t say it won’t be better this way, though. You were a pretty little thing at seventeen, but your beauty has grown stronger over the past six years. Your character has matured too.”
“Goodness, you’ll give me an altogether too exalted opinion of myself. Besides,” added Chloe thoughtfully, “I am not entirely sure I want to marry again.”
“You trying to tell me you’re still grief-stricken?” asked the Duchess skeptically.
Chloe’s hands fluttered as if she would protest. “Oh, Grandmama, I did grieve for Stephen. Truly I did. But it was for him. He was so young and he loved life. I confess, though, I have not missed him so very much. We had grown apart. He continued to love a rackety sort of life which ceased to appeal to me once the novelty had worn off. And when we were together he was so infuriating. I could never depend on him for anything. We would make plans, then some idea would pop into his head and he would forget all about it. He was . . .”
“A charming, feckless half-wit,” supplied the old lady bluntly. “So why don’t you want to marry again?”
Chloe sighed. The Duchess might be nearly eighty but her wits were needle-sharp and there was no chance of deflecting her. “Stephen at least had sense enough to arrange matters so I am comfortably situated and have no need to marry. Having been rash the first time, I am determined to be cautious the second. If I meet a man who is sensible and dependable, I will consider remarriage.”
The Duchess pulled a face at this, but beyond a “humph” she made no comment and returned to her letter. A few moments later an exclamation distracted her again.
“At last,” said Chloe, looking up from a letter. “Grandmama. It’s from Justin. He must be in England.”
The new Lord Stanforth had been, until his succession, a major with the dragoons in Spain. Upon the untimely death of Stephen, the first viscount’s son, the title had passed to George Delamere, his uncle. As George was childless, Justin, son of the first viscount’s third brother, had been the heir presumptive. George, however, had promptly scandalized the County by marrying the young daughter of a local farmer, Belinda Massinger. Everyone had expected him to produce an heir of his own.
Perhaps this intent had been unwise in a man of his years and girth, for George only lived as Lord Stanforth for six months before succumbing to a seizure. That had been long enough, however, to get Belinda in the family way. The title of Lord Stanforth had been in abeyance from February until August, while everyone waited to see whether Belinda would give birth to the next viscount or to a daughter. The twenty-third of August 1810 had seen the arrival of little Dorinda—an outcome which caused considerable relief throughout the area. Since then the Hall had awaited the arrival of its new master.
Chloe broke the seal and unfolded the crisp sheet. She quickly scanned the strong, clear script. “He writes from London. He means to stay there, at Brookes, for a few days to take care of business and then come up. We can expect him any day, I suppose. What a relief it will be to turn this whole ménage over to him and escape.”
Chloe put down the letter and gazed into the flames of the fire. “I love Delamere, Grandmama, but it just hasn’t been the same this last year. It has been a house of mourning, of course,” she mused, “but it is more than that. Things just haven’t seemed right. . . . I will be glad to be away.” She looked up, smiling, her fine eyes twinkling mischievously. “Perhaps I will go adventuring—Italy, Turkey, Africa. Would you come with me, Grandmama?”
“I wish my old bones were up to it, my dear,” said the Duchess with a grin. Then she added, “You’ll not find your sobersides-suitor by jaunting around the world.”
“Oh,” said Chloe, arrested. “I suppose I won’t. I don’t suppose I should enjoy such an existence anyway. It would be just the sort of thing Stephen would have done.”
“Not if organized properly. I don’t know what maggot you’ve got in your head to
keep trying to tell the world you’re a starchy one, Chloe. You’re too much like me.”
Chloe did not meet the shrewd gaze of the Duchess. “I’m delighted to be like you, Grandmama, and I do not wish to seem starchy, exactly. Surely, though, it does me no discredit to be seen as mature and responsible.”
“None at all,” said the old lady with a grin, “as long as you do not give up climbing trees.”
Chloe turned red and looked at her grandmother in astonishment. “I . . . I . . .”
“That eyeglass you gave me has a sight more uses than looking at the hills and watching shrimp boats. I saw you up that apple tree not many weeks past.”
Chloe struggled for words. Eventually, she said, “It was a great piece of foolishness. I caused a bad tear in my fawn muslin.”
“It’s foolishness to be trying to make yourself into what you’re not. Still worried about what the world says of you?”
Chloe looked down at the letter in her hands. “I have grown accustomed. I will always be the scandalous Chloe Ashby, won’t I? It does seem unfair, though, to have to live my life with a youthful indiscretion around my neck.”
“But you have the notion,” suggested the Duchess shrewdly, “that a respectable husband will wipe out the memory of your elopement?”
Chloe refused to admit it, at least openly. “Oh, no. That is not my intent. I have learned to live with my mistakes. But, despite any natural tendencies you perceive in me, Grandmama, I have a positive thirst for dependability in a spouse. I will settle for nothing less.”
“Just as long as you don’t confuse tedium with reliability, gel. Tell you one thing about dependable husbands, they tend to be around a lot. You wouldn’t know what that was like—I doubt Stephen was by the fireside one night in a hundred—but if you have some earnest Ernest prosing on at you night after night, year after year, you’ll soon find fecklessness an appealing quality.” The old lady noted her words had gone home. “Perhaps you’d better wait until you meet the new Lord Stanforth again before you make any plans,” she added slyly.
“Justin?” queried Chloe blankly. “Why? Grandmama!” she said in amazement. “Marry another Dashing Delamere? Justin and Stephen were like two peas in a pod. I’ll have you know Justin was the mastermind behind my elopement. The things he and Stephen used to get up to . . . Oh no. Another Delamere is not my idea of a comfortable husband at all.”
2
THE DRIZZLING DAMP OF LONDON in October suited his mood exactly, thought Justin Delamere as he hurried to his appointment. It wasn’t only the damp, which crept into his bones after years on the Peninsula, but there’d been a chill in his heart for the last year. He’d thought it was the war, and that selling out would ease the depression. He’d looked forward to picking up old friendships and rediscovering the joie de vivre of the old days. But laughing and joking, and bearing his end of a witty conversation, was more of a strain than he would ever have believed possible.
Of course it might have been different if Stephen had been here to greet him, instead of cold in his grave for over a year. How strange that after years of blood and death in one battle after another, it was Stephen’s death back here in England, a simple carriage accident, which had struck the hardest.
He realized he had passed the Grosvenor Square mansion which was his destination and retraced his steps. As he did so, he assumed the lighthearted manner that was his cloak, his disguise. Everyone loved a soldier, but no one wanted a sad one. After all, he was a Dashing Delamere, wasn’t he? He and his cousin Stephen had earned the nickname back in ’04. Well-heeled and unrestrained, they had set Society on its ear, culminating in that elopement.
The young viscount shook his head as he mounted the broad steps up to the gleaming mahogany double doors. He shuddered now at the things they had done six years ago.
A sharp rap on the knocker and the door was swung open by the footman. Justin gave up his drizzle-damp greatcoat, glanced in a huge wall mirror, and decided he’d pass muster. Six years of army discipline are not wiped away in a fortnight, no matter how many documents one signs. It felt strange to be out of uniform, but at least he’d been able to chivvy Weston into producing some clothes in a hurry. He was pleased by his fashionable dark blue jacket with large brass buttons, and the new-style pantaloons in a soft fawn which disappeared into gleaming Hessians. He hadn’t been able to do anything, however, about his sun-darkened skin, which marked him out among the pale-faces of Society. He had refused to do more with his brown curls than have them trimmed.
He shrugged. Whatever had caused this summons to the house of the Secretary of State for War, his sartorial magnificence or lack of it was unlikely to be of importance.
He was expected and found himself swiftly in the presence of Lord Liverpool. With shock, he recognized the other man in the room as His Royal Highness, the Duke of York, Commander in Chief of the British Army until the recent scandal—the Duke’s mistress, Mary Anne Clarke, had been caught dealing in commissions and promotions. After a parliamentary inquiry, the Duke had been forced to give up his post, much to the disgust of the serving soldiers who still regarded him as a true army man. He was a good soldier.
Justin addressed a profound bow to the Duke.
“No need for formality,” said the portly man gruffly. “Here incognito, don’t you know. Sit down, Stanforth. Sit down.”
Justin took the seat indicated, wondering what on earth was happening to bring him to the notice of royalty. He had been sufficiently surprised to be summoned to speak with Lord Liverpool.
That gentleman addressed him. “You are doubtless wondering what is the purpose of this meeting, Stanforth. As you can see, it is of considerable importance. Though we are always sorry to lose a good officer, particularly at a time such as now when events in Portugal are coming to a head, I have to say that if you hadn’t sold out on inheriting your uncle’s title, you would have been ordered to do so. In fact, if the dunderheads who have been handling this matter had realized you were the heir presumptive, you’d have been ordered home before now.”
“This matter, Sir?” queried Justin blankly.
Instead of answering, the Earl rose to serve wine. It was obviously not a business to be discussed before servants.
Justin searched his mind for an explanation. He had received a few letters from Chloe, his cousin Stephen’s widow, and correspondence from the family man-of-business, and yesterday he had spent the morning with the Delameres’ London agent. None had indicated anything out of the ordinary.
Seated again, Lord Liverpool crossed his legs and spoke. “It is a somewhat complex matter, Stanforth. Over a year ago—in August of last year to be precise—patient work by an agent in Paris gained him access to a list of French spies residing in England, information which could surely save thousands of lives. The documents, the codes, and a letter were all ingeniously disguised and sent on their various ways. The codes, the letter, and one set of documents arrived in England by tortuous routes. They were each concealed in wax fruits—not hollow ones but solid with the papers a part of the whole. The letter, torn in pieces, had been made into cherries for a lady’s hat. The others were an apple and a pear, much like this one.”
He passed over a seemingly real pear, yellowing with ripeness. Justin handled it, marvelling at the skill with which it was made. Unlike many such pieces made solely for ornament, the weight and the texture of the skin were right. When he raised it to his nose, however, there was no aroma.
He wondered where the connection to himself was to be found, but his years in the army had taught him to wait for his commanders to come to the point.
He returned the artificial fruit to Lord Liverpool, who then continued. “One piece of the message never arrived, the vital second part of the list of names. From the letter we know the list had been sent by a highly trusted courier who goes by the name of d’Estrelles, a man entitled, in fact, to a more eminent name which was lost, along with large estates, during the Revolution. The letter itself is inc
omplete, one of the cherries having become dislodged, but it was clear d’Estrelles was to make his way via Bordeaux and Ireland. . . .”
Now Justin found himself in possession of the letter, carefully pasted onto a piece of board. It was composed of seven ragged-edged rectangles with one rectangle missing three-quarters down the right-hand side. The letter was in French and outlined the nature of the three packages, their disguises and proposed routes. It stressed that all the couriers had complete discretion in altering their itineraries. Fortunately, the missing rectangle did not greatly hinder the understanding of the message. The package sent via Bordeaux was au forme de la pomme—disguised as an apple. At that point the line ended in a jagged tear.
Amazing luck. One word sooner and they would never have known the disguise used.
“Was d’Estrelles caught?” Justin asked.
“We do not know,” said the Earl. “The dispatch of the documents was discovered sooner than expected, and the ports were under surveillance. All the couriers had a great deal of trouble. We do know d’Estrelles made it from Bordeaux to Cork, but with a French warship at his heels. We can only conjecture the rest. He must have decided his chances of making it to England with his package were slight, so he decided on a bold stroke. He set himself up as a decoy, hired a small fishing boat to take him to Wales, and slipped anchor one night. He sent the package another way. He gave it to a sailor, presumably feeling he could trust the man, with instructions to go north to Dublin and take ship there. The man was told to deliver the package to Lord Stanforth at Heysham.”
“Stephen?” queried Justin in amazement.
“No. Unfortunately d’Estrelles had been heavily involved in undercover work on the continent for years. He was sadly out of touch. He was sending the package to the first viscount, Stephen’s father, who, as you know, had been involved in a number of matters of foreign affairs. He was a negotiator of the Peace of Amiens in ’02 and d’Estrelles had been there, in a less official capacity. They doubtless became acquainted. In extremis, d’Estrelles would have remembered that Delamere Hall is situated on the coast, a short hop across the Irish Sea.”
