The Miss Mirren Mission (Regency Reformers Book 1)

by Jenny Holiday

“A one-legged boy spy.” Bailey smiled and shrugged. “It could work.”

  Blackstone plucked the original miniature of Captain Mirren’s daughter off the pile of his late commander’s things.

  “Should we give her the other one, too?” Bailey asked.

  “I think not. She’s likely to consider it an insult.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Good morning, Miss Mirren.” Mr. Bailey entered the breakfast room with a smile. “You’re up before everyone this morning.”

  The estate was different when there wasn’t a party on. There was an informality about the place that allowed Emily to sit alone in the breakfast room with Mr. Bailey, one of London’s leading businessmen, and not feel like it was a transgression.

  “I wonder what adventure Blackstone will have cooked up for us this morning,” he said, piling his plate high with eggs. “Though, ‘adventure’ might be putting too fine a point on it. After helping repair that fence yesterday, I’m beginning to think he regards me not so much as a guest but as a source of free labor.”

  As she laughed, Emily could almost forget why they’d come, so much did it feel like a holiday. The only thing casting a pall over the experience was Mr. Manning’s planned arrival the next day. She would have to hide herself away in the upper reaches of the house. Mr. Bailey had smilingly told her that spying was often about waiting while others played their roles. “Not very satisfying, I grant you,” he’d said, “but there you have it.”

  Still, she had one more day of freedom.

  Blackstone as he strode into the room. “What are you two laughing about?”

  Her stomach lurched every time she saw him. It was silly, really. He’d been the perfect gentleman since they arrived, giving her no sense that the intimacies they’d shared in London were going to be repeated.

  And there had been plenty of opportunities. She’d been alone with him in his bedchamber their first night here, for heaven’s sake! He’d wiped her tears—and then walked her back to her room. Clearly, he’d decided that their carnal experimentations were at an end. She tried to tell herself she wasn’t disappointed. Much.

  Peering into the side of a chafing dish, Lord Blackstone frowned at his reflection and adjusted his cravat.

  “Good Lord, man, haven’t you a valet?” teased Mr. Bailey.

  “As a matter of fact, no. Stanway is engaged trying to find out which neighbors will be in residence when the boat arrives. Since I wasn’t expecting to be invited to any balls today, I thought I might take the radical step of dressing myself.” He winked at her. “I’m among commoners, after all.”

  The somberness she’d seen in Lord Blackstone last time they were on the estate was gone. He joked easily with Mr. Bailey. There was an ease between the men, which must be attributable to their shared past.

  “Egad! You are welcome to insult me, my friend, but I shan’t stand for you so crassly casting aspersions on Miss Mirren, who is every inch a gentleman’s daughter!” Mr. Bailey spoke with mock outrage. “Don’t they teach you aristocrats how to behave when you’re at Eaton or White’s or God knows where else?”

  “Miss Mirren is impossible to shock.” Lord pulled up a chair next to her. “Aren’t you?”

  She merely smiled, enjoying the easy manner the three of them shared this morning. Bantering with friends was an unremarkable activity, but to her it felt as exotic as a trip to the Indies. “I thought perhaps I might try sea bathing this morning,” she informed the men.

  “It’s a perfect day for it,” Mr. Bailey said. “I would suggest we join you, but I suppose that would hardly be proper, even here, where the rules are relaxed.”

  “Still, one shouldn’t go in the ocean alone.” Lord Blackstone’s smile had disappeared.

  “I will awaken Mrs. Burnham and ask her to accompany me,” she assured them, though she planned to do no such thing.

  “And I suppose his lordship has some manual labor lined up for his male guests this morning, anyway.” Mr. Bailey made a show of rolling his eyes.

  Lord Blackstone rose as Emily pushed back from the table. She could feel his eyes on her back as she retreated.

  Sea bathing, it turned out, was quite different from swimming in a lake. To begin with, it hurt one’s feet. The cove was rocky and had to be gingerly navigated until water of a depth suitable for swimming was reached. It was difficult to swim in a straight line, since one had to fight against the waves, which although not strong, were ever present. And Emily’s progress was hampered by the fact that she wore a muslin day dress, rather than just her shift. Though the cove was sheltered and she didn’t expect any company, she thought it best to keep herself covered, just to be safe.

  Still, the ocean had its charms. The waves were soothing, and the seawater made her extra buoyant—though not enough to make up for the dratted dress. And the sea air and the squawking gulls lent an air of exoticism to the scene.

  Most importantly, the water did its job, quieting her jangled nerves. In the water, she wasn’t her father’s daughter. As she swam, pumping her arms to propel herself parallel to the shoreline, she wasn’t consumed with her crusade against Manning or with her search for Billy. Every time she came up for air, she relished the rushing of the waves in her ears, as if the noise could extinguish her inner voice, silencing any whispers of self-doubt.

  Finally, succumbing to exhaustion in her limbs and the pounding of her heart, she slowed, switching to a leisurely breaststroke and, finally, flipping over and floating on her back, squinting against the late-morning sun.

  Her breathing had only begun to come back to normal when something grabbed her.

  Today was the day. The timing was right, and he’d soon be out of opportunities. He’d let any number of them slip through his fingers these past few days, for reasons he couldn’t articulate.

  If his suspicions were correct, Miss Mirren had lied about waking Catharine. After she left the breakfast room, Blackstone set himself up on the terrace, and sure enough, a while later she crossed the back garden—alone. He made for the kitchen.

  You don’t have to do this.

  In truth, this inner voice was the reason he’d passed up chance after chance to further Plan B since they’d arrived. If what she’d said about her courses was correct, this was the ideal window to act. Leave it alone. She’s agreed to step aside in favor of your mission.

  And then what? the rational part of his brain demanded, forever at war with the voice of doubt.

  As Cook filled a hamper, he uttered the answer, the answer that would keep him from wavering.

  “She will never stop.”

  “I beg your pardon, your lordship?” Probably the cook was wondering if he was going to start taking after all the crazy people in his family.

  “Nothing. I beg your pardon! Thank you for producing such a fine repast with no notice.”

  It wasn’t all strategy, though, he reflected as he walked the garden path, tracing the route Miss Mirren had taken before him. She truly shouldn’t swim unaccompanied. It wasn’t that he didn’t think her a perfectly capable person. In fact, she was probably more adept than most men at navigating the world’s impediments. But a novice sea bather shouldn’t tackle the waves alone.

  As he tromped over the grassy expanse that led to the path to the shore, a sense of unease settled on him. What had he been thinking, going to the kitchen first? He should have called down from the terrace, insisted on accompanying her right then. Hurrying down the path, he scanned the water. The sun glinted off something fifty or so yards out.

  Oh my God. This can’t happen again. This would be worse than Alec.

  Breaking into a sprint, he paused only to tear off his boots and coat before bolting into the ocean. The pain that sliced through his feet as they came down on the sharp rocks only spurred him onward. “Please,” he whispered. Then he followed it with a shout as he looked at the sky, pleading, “Please!” He swam like the devil—faster than he had as a boy racing his brother through the water. Forcing his incre
asingly heavy arms onward, he kept his eye on the golden mop of hair that bobbed in the waves.

  Almost there! He tapped a final reserve of strength, heaved the last few strokes with leaden arms, and grabbed her.

  The scream that resulted was sweeter to his ears than the most harmonious melody.

  “It’s me. It’s me.” He let her go so she could regain her bearings. “It’s me,” he kept saying, like a mantra, though the true silent chant of his heart went, “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

  Her eyes were wild—he’d frightened her. “Whatever is the matter?” she panted. “Has something happened?”

  Unable to speak, he tugged her arm, a silent exhortation for her to follow, and then, dropping it, began swimming back to shore. As they approached the point where they’d have to stand and walk, he stopped, rose, and waited for her to catch up. The moment she stood, he swept her into his arms. “The rocks are sharp.”

  When they reached the sand, he dropped one arm long enough to allow her legs to come to the ground. Then he snaked both arms around her and pulled her close. Water from both of them slid down his body. She did not speak, just allowed him to hold her, and after a few moments, wrapped her arms around his waist. They stood there silently until the world began to intrude. As his pulse slowed and he tuned into the sounds of the waves and the gulls, embarrassment crept in.

  He dropped his arms, stepped back, and offered her a sheepish smile. “I thought you were dead.”

  “You mean you thought I’d drowned?” The concern in her face was replaced by a smile. “Wouldn’t I have sunk?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, though of course she was right.

  “In novels, drowning victims don’t float.” She scrunched up her nose, and said, “But I will freely admit that novels may not be the most reliable source of information regarding the buoyancy of corpses.”

  He’d been planning to shout at her for coming out here alone, but, looking into eyes as blue as the sky, he found he could not. Instead, he said, “I brought lunch.”

  “Sea bathing does whet the appetite.” Flashing a sheepish smile, she looked down at her sopping dress. “Though I’m not sure I’m properly attired for dining al fresco.” The lavender muslin clung to her curves, and he had to swallow a groan. He was reminded of the first time he saw her, emerging from the lake. He’d thought then she was a demon disguised as an angel. Now he wasn’t sure what she was, just that he did not want to go back to the house yet.

  “Cook packed a picnic.” He looked around, unable to recall where he’d dropped the supplies in his panic to get to the water. Spying the hamper, he beckoned her. “Come. The sun will dry us.”

  Emily waited while he spread their feast out on the carpet. She seemed suspended in indecision—she hadn’t sat along with him. He kept unpacking food. The present-day cook must have inherited recipes from the red-cheeked woman who’d presided over the kitchens in his childhood, for he recognized several favorite dishes. “If this is the same ginger cake Alec and I waged wars over as boys, we are in for a treat.”

  “Lord Blackstone,” Emily began and then trailed off.

  He glanced up from laying out their repast, realizing with a start that he’d stopped thinking of her as Miss Mirren. “You should call me Eric.”

  “Excuse me?” She sat.

  Ha! He had shocked her. He had shocked himself. The only person who called him by his Christian name had been Alec. But the impulsive directive felt right. He remembered when she’d shouted for him that night in the lake, when the tables were turned and she thought he’d drowned. He wanted to hear his name on her lips again. “Yes. Now that we’ve sea bathed together, you should not use my title. At least not when we’re alone.”

  “Sea bathing and informal address—what does one have to do with the other?”

  “Oh, don’t you know? It’s an arcane bit of etiquette, but I’m sure it’s in Debrett’s somewhere. Unchaperoned sea bathing obviates the need for titles.” He worked to keep from smiling as he poured her a glass of lemonade.

  “Very well, then, Eric. May I speak frankly to you about something?”

  Don’t you always? “By all means.”

  “Did you propose to me because you thought I was a threat to your mission against Mr. Manning, or because I am my father’s daughter? Or both?”

  She might as well have punched him in the gut. To know that she was right—and, worse, to know that he still planned to force her hand, despite it all, flooded him with shame. If the captain’s daughter were a more conventional lady, perhaps he could let it go. But he could not risk the idea that once Manning was gone, she would turn her reformer’s heart to some other, equally dangerous, cause. And, of course, she would keep running off into oceans—and God knew where else—by herself.

  “I gather you feel a certain degree of responsibility for me,” she said, “given your devotion to my father. I wish you would not.”

  He took a large bite of cold roast beef, postponing having to answer.

  “You can’t have sworn any promises to him to look after me. He never would have asked that. It wouldn’t have occurred to him.”

  It was true. The captain’s final thoughts had been about Jasper, and about the war he’d spent so much of his life waging.

  “My point is merely that if you are feeling any responsibility, because of my father or because of…anything else that’s happened, I release you from it. I’d like your word that after this operation against Mr. Manning is done, you won’t allow me to distract you.”

  “Distract me from what?”

  “Lord Blackstone,” she pressed. “I don’t want to get in the way of your life.”

  What life? The endless series of days and weeks and months he passed through, avoiding all but a select few people, spending his time instead with ghosts and nightmares and spies? If anything, she had brought vivacity and laughter to his life. Look at him, he was having a picnic, for God’s sake.

  “It’s Eric, remember?” Perhaps if he didn’t address the real topic, she would drop it.

  “This war isn’t going to last forever. And even spies deserve to be happy,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about marriage.”

  Good God, was she was proposing to him? Could it be suddenly be this easy?

  “You could marry one of the Smythe twins.”

  Apparently not. He arched his eyebrows in what he hoped was a quelling manner.

  “Perhaps not them. You can certainly do better than the daughter of a country gentleman. It’s absurd how they dangle after you, really.”

  “I’m not talking about rank!” he protested. “I’m taking about—”

  “Suitability,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “I concede there, too, though Gillian is more intelligent than she initially appears. My point is merely that, after you apprehend Manning and this French spy, and your work is done, it would seem only natural that you would want to marry.”

  “Why? Natural how?” He spoke brusquely, but could not help himself.

  “Since we are speaking freely, allow me to point out the obvious. You are an earl. You are capable of being charming, when you choose to be. And, I gather from my time here that you are not, in fact, the impoverished aristocrat you claimed to be. The estate seems to run very smoothly, and from what I’ve seen of the farms, none of the tenants is suffering.”

  He winced, unable to meet her eyes. Another lie come to light.

  “And,” she added, “from certain angles, you are handsome.”

  From certain angles? He wondered how the conversation arrived at the point where they were discussing his qualities as if he were a chit on the marriage mart. “While I thank you for your concern, I assure you that you have quite misinterpreted my, ah, attributes.”

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes as she regarded him. “I don’t believe I have.”

  “I am an aristocrat, of course. I cannot argue the circumstances
of my birth. What I said about the condition of the estate had been true. It was in bad shape when I inherited. But Bailey, with his unparalleled head for business, has provided excellent counsel, and I’ve been able to invest my profits into shoring up the estate. So, yes, rich. But I would make a perfectly awful husband otherwise.” It wasn’t lost on him that, as he laid out the reasons he was unfit to marry someone like Gillian Smythe, he wasn’t helping his cause with Emily. Would she remember this conversation when she was his countess? “I am contrary. Independent—perhaps too much so. I’m also a cripple.”

  “Oh, I don’t think of you as crippled.” She waved her hand to dismiss the idea. “You’re just using that as an excuse.”

  He sucked in a breath, forcing himself to attend the rest of her rejoinder.

  “You are rather contrary. But perhaps some women don’t mind. The Smythe twins are certainly agreeable, if nothing else. It’s hard to be contrary with someone who will always agree with you.”

  “What do you mean you don’t think of me as crippled?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” Emily clapped one hand over her mouth. She was interpreting his gruff tone as anger, or hurt. In truth, he didn’t know himself what it signified. “I didn’t mean to speak of it so dismissively. I have offended you, which was not my intent.”

  “No, I would simply like to know how it is that you can deny what is right in front of you.” He tapped his injured forearm sharply with his good hand, stopping short of waving the stump in her face as he had that day at the lake.

  She looked down at her lap for a long moment. Then she raised her head and trained her sapphire eyes directly on his. “I merely mean that your injury seems like part of you.” As soon as the sentence was out, she shook her head in frustration. “That sounds ridiculous doesn’t it? What I’m trying to say is that sometimes one sees the war wounded and cannot help but be almost distracted by their injuries. With you it seems more like your injury is an innate trait, like your dark hair. It seems natural somehow, like it’s part of you.”