The Viscount's Seduction: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 2)

by Alina K. Field

He accepted the glass from Bakeley and looked hard at him. “You’ve done well, son.”

  Bakeley’s mouth dropped open, but he quickly recovered and handed Sirena her drink.

  “Let us drink to the next Lady Shaldon.” His lordship lifted his glass, took a drink, and promptly had a fit of coughing.

  Perhaps the stories of his illness were not entirely unfounded. “Are you unwell, sir?” Sirena asked.

  Shaldon shook his head and cleared his throat. “We shall send someone to take a room at that inn.”

  “Kincaid?” James asked.

  “Even in disguise, he’s too well known, I fear. Besides, he’s not back yet from Little Norwick. I’ve another man, just returned from the Continent.”

  He got up, went into the hallway and spoke to someone, someone who hadn’t been there when they’d entered.

  “Good heavens,” she whispered.

  “Yes. Will you have another?”

  “No.” She handed him her glass and glanced back. Shaldon was still in the hall. “Shall we have a look at that file?”

  “He means to show it to us, else it wouldn’t be there.”

  But there wouldn’t have been time since Shaldon soon returned and took his seat. “Sterling was in the army, did you know that?”

  His abruptness took her by surprise.

  “Yes, I’d heard that,” she said.

  “He was in the cavalry for many years and never made it past captain.” Shaldon frowned. “A squirrelly, unreliable fellow during the Irish troubles, and one who had a dodgy period of service in the Peninsular campaign, managing to get himself shifted back to England. He was about to be sent to America when Napoleon escaped. Much to his chagrin, Hollister wound up at Waterloo.” He took a drink and his frown deepened. “As did his brother.”

  She thought back to the short twenty-four hours she’d spent with the man. “He never mentioned a brother.”

  “Gareth Hollister was the elder, first in line for the Glenmorrow title. Gareth had studied law and had a small income, but otherwise lived the useless life of a landless gentleman. Got caught up in the patriotic fervor and followed his brother to Brussels. He wasn’t regular army, but he took his horse out with the cavalry anyway.”

  “And was killed.” Sirena felt sick. “Was he also a villain?”

  “He was mainly a fool.”

  “Gareth died at Waterloo, and Sterling walked away unscathed?” Bakeley asked.

  “Quite. Fought side by side, they did.”

  A hard look passed between father and son, and Sirena’s skin quivered. “They both knew my brother was dead. And with Gareth gone, Sterling stood to inherit.”

  Shaldon’s lips thinned. “Sterling sold his commission, took up Gareth’s income, and moved himself to London.”

  “And waited for my father to die. I should count my blessings he didn’t come to visit us.”

  “He wouldn’t have dared to enter the county. Your father had no love for Sterling.”

  Her breath almost stopped. She wanted to shout questions, but she held herself still, like her husband was doing.

  Bakeley glanced her way. “So Lord Glenmorrow knew his cousins?” He was asking on her behalf, bless him.

  “He knew Sterling. It was Sterling who chased your brother all the way to the coast.”

  A film seemed to fall from her vision. Sterling had three people between him and Glenmorrow—her father, who he could reasonably expect to outlive, her brother, who was on the wrong side of the law, or so Sterling thought, and his own brother, who’d gone so obligingly to his grave.

  “He came back to your father to report on your brother’s ship sinking. Your father took a horsewhip to him.”

  She closed her eyes and a memory rocked through her, her mother in tears, her father with his whip, and a soldier in a red coat receiving the lashes. One of the servants had picked her up and hauled her inside to the housekeeper’s room, where she’d done her own crying.

  Her head swam with the memory. “That’s why he singled me out for his despicable offer.” It was revenge against her father, beyond the grave. Anger, hot and powerful, threatened to bubble over.

  She took a deep breath. “Did my father know that my brother was spying for you?”

  Shaldon grimaced and glanced at his son. “Very well. Yes, he did. And he could not share that word with the world because it would compromise others still working. And later...” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Sirena. War takes its toll on the innocent as well as the guilty. Your mother’s death—”

  “Did she know?”

  “He should not have told her. I don’t know if he did.”

  She shook her head. “She had many friends who dropped her, and the grief of it was unbearable. I think he must not have. I think she would have borne it better if she’d known.”

  He touched one finger to the file on his desk and slid it across to her. “You’ve been looking for this, I think.”

  Bakeley pressed her hand, and she glanced at him. His nod jarred her out of her own reverie.

  She wasn’t looking to him for permission, nor did she need it. She lifted her hand to reach for the file and noticed the shaking. She clenched and unclenched her fists, and took the brown folder.

  Roland James Hollister, Baron Glenmorrow.

  She’d forgotten her brother had held the courtesy title.

  He’d been very young when recruited. There weren’t many original reports in his hand, but she recognized his careless scrawl from her memories of the few letters her mother had saved from his time in school, letters she’d had to leave behind at Glenmorrow. Most of his uncoded, transcribed messages had a guardedness about them, like he was not entirely forthcoming with the names of rebels, though he did report on plots and schemes the rebels had afoot.

  Halfway measures from a man who was twice a traitor. Her head ached with it.

  His last dispatch said he would provide them with a list of names, and that he was pursuing one particular traitor within the army.

  A tight knot formed in her stomach. Did he regret his betrayals, this brother she no longer knew? Was that why he provided no names?

  She slid the file to Bakeley and waited as he read through it, her gaze focused on her own clenched fists curled in her lap.

  Paper swished and Bakeley cleared his throat. “I take it Sterling Hollister was the traitor providing information to the rebels?”

  Shaldon chewed his lower lip. “We watched him closely. Fed him information unproductively. We were never able to prove it. But, yes, I would bet my first-born son he is.”

  Her breath whooshed out. “Did you send Mr. Gibson north to draw out Hollister?” She shook her head. “I’m so confused.”

  Shaldon almost smiled. “It is only a figure of speech. I should have known Hollister was here. I didn’t.” He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “My intelligence was lacking, but it’s all the fault of these many plots and schemes against the government, and the preparations for the coronation. We’re spread too thinly.”

  Bakeley’s skin rippled with awareness, the two people who should be the closest in the world to him, his father and his wife, were tied together by this intrigue and he wasn’t sure he could trust either one of them to share everything. “Sirena, why did you believe your brother might be alive?”

  Her momentary press of lips was matched by a widening of her eyes, and his own excitement built, wondering if she would lie to him.

  “The first mate on the packet we took from Dublin was, well, he was very friendly with me, and I did tell him about my brother, as I tell everyone so that they…will be warned off, as it were, and he said he’d met a sailor who’d told him there were survivors of the sinking, and that he’d sailed with one of them on an Atlantic crossing. Well, I asked the O’Brians to check at the docks for me, to see if anyone had names of survivors, and they came up with Donegal. I suppose that was your ploy, Lord Shaldon.”

  He shook his head. “They did make contact with him. Brief, and he was v
ery careful, very cagey. They let him know that you were looking for your brother. And we believe he may have known your brother some twenty years ago. We have no reason to believe he knew your brother was working for us.”

  “So why would he have any interest in Sirena?”

  “Ah, well, about that. What the O’Brians also told him is that you might have clues to your brother’s whereabouts.”

  Her head shot up and color spiked her cheeks. “Which I do not. Which means that Jamie is d-dead.”

  Bakeley reached for her, but she pushed him away and glared at his father. “You’re using me, Lord Shaldon and I know not if this man Donegal is quite so bad as you suspect.”

  “Perhaps he does have information about your brother, my love,” Bakeley said, “or knows something that will set us on the path to investigate more.”

  Her gaze met his, and he felt the fire melting out of her. This one was not used to gentling. The my love had disarmed her.

  “You are still willing?” she asked, her voice shaky, as if she expected him to turn on her.

  “Of course. I’ll do everything to help you find your brother, if he’s still alive. Father, tell us about Donegal. What leads you to believe he’s plotting?”

  Shaldon sighed deeply. “What I tell you must be held in confidence.”

  “Agreed. Sirena?”

  She bit her lip. “Agreed.”

  He lifted her hands. “See, Father. No fingers crossed for either of us.”

  Chapter 19

  “You have heard of the Cato Street Conspiracy?”

  “The plot against the Prime Minister,” Sirena said.

  “Indeed. Those were not the only plotters against the Prime Minister and the King. It’s been reported that a man believed to be Donegal has met with some of the men we’re watching.”

  “Perhaps that’s another man.”

  “That is always the unfortunate possibility. Operatives can be...” Shaldon picked over his words. “Imprecise. When they are led by money, they will always go to the higher bidder. When they are led by passion, well, one impassioned speech can turn them on their head and find them working for the other side.”

  Sirena stared into the dwindling fire. “Like Jamie. Could he still be alive?”

  Bakeley sensed it had been a question for herself, not for him or his father. She couldn’t focus on Donegal. She couldn’t connect the dots between Donegal, Sterling Hollister, and her brother. Hell, he couldn’t yet either, but while she stewed about her worry, it was his job to work out how all three men tied together.

  She sighed deeply. “I’m not willing to give up, Lord Shaldon. If catching this Donegal for you will tell me something, I’ll do it, but in exchange, there is something I want from you.”

  Bakeley watched her stand and pace, his unease growing. She was intense, passionate, determined. She’d take information given and act on it, with or without him.

  “Or rather I want to help you with something else that will bring me great satisfaction. If ’tis at all possible, I want Sterling Hollister. I want his head on a platter. I want a stake through his heart.” She braced her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “And if he is truly a traitor, I want to help you prove it.”

  Alarm bells went off in Bakeley’s head. He’d thought to handle the vengeance himself, in his own way, stripping the man of his title. But Shaldon’s eyes had lit up in that way they’d done when his brother Bink had finally been lured to his bait. Shaldon would be ruthless, careless.

  Sirena might be equally as ruthless and as careless, but she would also be defenseless.

  Still, telling either of them absolutely not was the sure way to find himself locked out of the plotting, as he had been with Bink.

  Sirena sat again on the edge of the chair. “Bakeley said my cousin has given up the privileges of his title, and that perhaps he’s not yet officially recognized as Glenmorrow. Could we catch him in a crime and perhaps, um, put him in your dungeon?”

  Shaldon’s eyes had not ceased to glitter and now his lips quirked. The old man would live another fifty years with Sirena as a daughter.

  Of that, he was glad, but keeping her from danger would keep Bakeley on his toes. He must think.

  “We do not have a dungeon, my dear,” Shaldon said.

  “Not here anyway.” Bakeley snatched the file and opened it, flipping through pages. “The list. He was going to bring a list and the name of the man he was pursuing. Perhaps we can let it be known that we have found that list, and that his name is upon it.”

  Her eyes flitted back and forth. “Would it matter, so many years later?”

  “Father? Would Liverpool’s government be interested in a list of old traitors?”

  “Indeed.” Shaldon steepled his fingers. “We might also find reports from Waterloo survivors, men who have come forward wanting to tell the story of an officer shooting his own brother.”

  Sirena’s mouth dropped open. “Are there such reports?”

  He shook his head. “God knows, I have tried to find them. Battle is such that brother shooting brother is not so unfathomable. Soldiers would rather forget.”

  “It is chaos, Sirena, so Bink says. Brothers in arms can accidentally shoot each other.” And that was all Bink would say about battle.

  “I see.” She nodded. “But he won’t know that, and perhaps it will rattle him. If he’s the one who attacked Mr. Gibson and the O’Brians, perhaps we should take a journey to the country and lure him that way.”

  “No.” Bink’s journey with Paulette had involved an invasion of her inn room and two killings—and he’d seen one of those bodies. No, Sirena would not be put through that.

  Her face settled into a stubborn frown, while Shaldon watched, no doubt enjoying the potential for an argument.

  She would not go on a journey. Whatever trap they set, it would have to be in town, where he could keep her close, and even then...to keep her at home was better, but that was tricky, unless...

  “We’ll hold a ball.” He sat up in his chair, the genius of it flooding him. She and Perry would spend hours planning menus, writing invitations. “A wedding ball, to celebrate our nuptials. In one week, or perhaps ten days. We’ll invite Hollister, of course, as your nearest relative. Don’t frown so, Sirena, Father will have men ready to snatch him up and take his head off.”

  “But a week—“

  “It may be too much for you and Perry alone.” He snapped his fingers. “Lady Jane Monthorpe. We shall ask her to move in here and help with preparations.”

  “But—“

  “Yes, I know, you’ll need a dress. You may spend as much as you want, my dear. Take Perry and Lady Jane and buy yourself a wardrobe, everything you need. Feathers, flounces, some of those bloody pleats.”

  “And she’ll need your mother’s jewels, Bakeley.”

  He stared at his father. His mother’s exquisite diamonds had been stored away so long they’d slipped from his memory.

  He nodded. “Our marriage has been a whirlwind, and I had forgotten. They’re yours now. I shall show you them tomorrow, Sirena.”

  She waved a hand as if the jewels didn’t matter. “How shall we lure him? What if he doesn’t come?”

  “He’s here, taking a seat in the Commons, so he’s ambitious. Father, can you muster up some influential guests?”

  Shaldon nodded. “Most certainly. We’ll make sure he won’t want to miss it.”

  Sirena’s breath quickened. “Shall I write him a note? I can tell him I’ve found something among...” she tapped her chin “among my father’s personal papers? Something my brother gave father that concerns him?”

  “That may be too obvious,” Shaldon said. “Perhaps we’ll have a dinner before the ball, with select guests. He’ll be one of them. Let me think on this and we’ll talk again. We know your cousin is dangerous. We must be crafty.”

  “And what of Donegal?” she asked.

  “He’ll be back. We have a man who can drop a story around the East End, whe
re he turned up before.”

  “You’ll need to be careful on any excursions, Sirena,” Bakeley said.

  “I’ll bring my dagger.”

  “And several body guards.”

  “They’ll discourage him from making contact.”

  “If he’s clever, he’ll find a way. We’ll need to be on our toes to look out for him.”

  “How nice if we could invite him to the ball also, and kill two birds with one stone.”

  “I believe Father does not want Donegal dead. I believe he wants to talk to him.”

  She smiled, and he felt a rush of...blast it, he was about to say love. Such a trite emotion. What he was feeling was lust. They’d been here quite long enough.

  His father scowled. “You’re quite right. We want Donegal alive and talking.”

  He made no mention of keeping Sterling Hollister alive.

  “And the new Earl of Glenmorrow?” Bakeley asked. “Does he have much to say of interest, or...”

  Sirena paled. Perhaps she was not so bloodthirsty after all. Which meant that after the inevitable marital disagreements, he would be able to sleep with both eyes closed.

  “If there are charges we choose to file, he shall be tried,” Shaldon said. “Perhaps.”

  And perhaps he’d be too dead for a public trial. He caught Sirena’s eye and she nodded grimly, no doubt picking the platter for Sterling’s head.

  “So, a ball,” she said. “Seven days hence.”

  “Or perhaps ten. Make it a fortnight if you must.”

  She shook her head. “The housekeeper will have an apoplexy.”

  “Then we’ll hire a new one, love.”

  Love. Sirena’s heart squeezed around the word that Bakeley blathered so easily. An endearment that tripped from his lips, so he’d probably used it before on a horse, or a hound, or a harlot.

  She would have mere days to arrange a fashionable ball, a thing of which she had no experience. ’Twould all be done for people who held his Paddy bride in abject contempt.

  And sure, they’d hire someone for the planning. Several someones if she truly had any say in the matter. They’d need more footmen and maids as well.