Courting Danger with Mr. Dyer

by Georgie Lee

  ‘It’s about Freddy,’ she clarified.

  Bart nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised until this morning how much he’d changed.’

  ‘Few have. We stayed in the country because Aunt Agatha was afraid people might talk of madness if they saw how dark Freddy’s grief was for Helena and she was determined to keep it a secret. It was the same way with my father after my mother died. She feared people would think madness ran in our family and it would prevent Freddy or me from making suitable matches.’

  He ignored the uncharitable thought of how unsuitable her match to Lord Rexford had been and nodded his understanding of the danger of allowing people to believe madness ran in a family. He’d once defended a widow from losing her inherited lands to Lord Hartmore, her late husband’s brother, when he’d tried to brand her a lunatic just because her father had been afflicted with madness.

  ‘Like Father, Freddy was so deeply entrenched in his grief,’ she continued, ‘he lost interest in everything after she died, his estate, his son, but he’s finally coming around.’

  ‘With a great deal of your help, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. He deserves your care and concern.’ Bart flicked a speck of dirt off his thigh, conscious of how much he’d failed his friend who’d done a great deal to help stop the assassination plot. On the battlefield, he’d excelled at keeping his soldiers safe and in court he was victorious when defending the weak against those attempting to twist the law to their advantage. When it came to those closer to him, despite his best efforts, he sometimes fell short. ‘He deserves happiness instead of misery.’

  ‘What did Freddy mean when he said he’d lost Helena to plotting scoundrels?’ she asked with startling candidness. He was usually the one asking direct questions.

  ‘Your brother didn’t tell you after I left?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. Almost any mention of Helena sends him spiralling into a black mood. I’d like you to tell me.’

  ‘I’m not sure you’d believe me if I did.’

  She eyed the other riders with a suspicion similar to his. ‘Before this morning I wouldn’t have, but a great deal has changed since then.’

  ‘It hasn’t changed. You’ve simply become aware of it.’

  She turned to him. ‘And I’d like to know the rest.’

  Bart pulled his reins through his gloved hands before at last answering. ‘Your sister-in-law was not shot in her carriage by a random thief in St Giles. She was murdered by a member of the Scottish Corresponding Society.’ Lady Rexford’s full lips parted as if she intended to deny what he’d told her, but she didn’t. ‘Freddy was their intended target. He was supposed to be with her in the carriage that night.’

  ‘But he was sick, so she went to the theatre without him,’ Lady Rexford whispered.

  ‘The man who attacked the carriage had orders to kill whoever was inside. He didn’t know who she was and it made no difference to him. He did what he was paid to do, but he was paid through informants. When we pressed him—’

  ‘You caught the scoundrel?’

  ‘I have a number of connections in the underworld. It’s how I’m able to win so many cases against fraud. Unlike other barristers, I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. The murderer was hanged soon afterward. Freddy was there when he dropped.’

  Except his death hadn’t brought Lady Fallworth back. Nothing could.

  Lady Rexford traced the stitching on her glove with her finger. ‘Thank you for telling me. It explains a great deal about Freddy’s grief.’

  ‘He blames himself.’ When he should blame me. I could have done more and I should have done more to protect her. He was glad Moira had turned down his request for help. He couldn’t fail her the way he’d failed Lady Fallworth. He’d been a fool to even ask, but with precious few leads he’d grasped at any chance to learn more about the Rouge Noir and their plans before it was too late.

  ‘He does.’

  * * *

  Moira continued to trace the lacing on her glove with her finger, so many things about the last two years finally making sense. While Aunt Agatha had always written to Moira wringing her hands over Mr Dyer and Freddy’s friendship, Helena’s letters had never mentioned any concern about Freddy’s late nights out. Then, when she’d been murdered, Freddy’s grief had been so intense it used to make her ashamed of the shallowness of hers for her deceased husband. Walter had been amiable and pleasant enough, but she’d never possessed the depth of feeling for him that Freddy had held for Helena.

  ‘It’s why the Rouge Noir must be stopped before they can ruin any more lives.’ Mr Dyer watched the endless parade of people riding by, the hardness in his eyes startling. ‘These noble traitors hate the country giving them their very lives, incomes, titles and influence and are plotting to bring it down with a ruthlessness and glee to make you sick. They haven’t seen the starving people in France, the wounded and dead in Germany and Austria, the suffering, disease, and misery Napoleon’s army leaves in its wake. All they have are their ideas from afar, their so-called noble ideals and the disgusting willingness to see them carried out. I intend to make sure they don’t succeed.’

  Moira studied everyone around them, wondering who among them were as evil as Mr Dyer claimed. They all seemed so innocent, going about their day, caring for almost nothing except dresses and society, scandals and balls. Even the shallowest among them didn’t deserve to have their security and livelihoods ripped from them. She remembered the tales her grandmother used to tell her of France during the early days of the revolution and how everything solid they’d built their lives on had been pulled down, leaving them with nothing. Moira would listen, wide-eyed, at the dinner table while she spoke, trying to imagine what it would be like to have everything torn from her and replaced with fear. If Mr Dyer was right and the Rouge Noir wasn’t stopped, Moira might find out.

  She adjusted the collar of her riding habit against a brisk breeze, but it wasn’t the fear of the Rouge Noir making her shiver, but an awareness of Mr Dyer beside her. His strong presence overshadowed everything, including her reason, as she’d discovered when she’d allowed him to lead her behind the topiary on Lady Greenwood’s portico. He’d taken her in his arms and kissed her before pulling back and smiling like the devil, as if he’d known before she did she would agree to his kiss and his proposal. The thrill of it had been as intense as this morning when she’d faced him with the pistol. If things had been different and she hadn’t given in to the pressure from Aunt Agatha and her father, she wondered where she and Mr Dyer might be now.

  She lowered her hand and adjusted her skirt over the saddle. It didn’t matter. Things were as they were and she could not make the past any different. It was the present she needed to concern herself with, the one which had become very uncertain in the space of only a few hours.

  Then something across the park jerked Mr Dyer’s attention away from her. She followed the line of his gaze to see Aunt Agatha being driven in the open-topped landau towards them. Mr Dyer’s horse danced with his rider’s agitation before he brought him firmly under control.

  ‘Moira, I’m pleased to see you here,’ Aunt Agatha observed, eyeing Mr Dyer as if he were a pickpocket. ‘Although I’m not as enamoured of your chosen company.’

  Mr Dyer’s horse snorted.

  ‘Mr Dyer, you remember my aunt, Lady Treadway.’ Moira made the introduction, trying to keep the ice between them from hardening further.

  ‘I do.’ His response was glacial.

  ‘I’d like to say it’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr Dyer, but after our last conversation, I’d expected you to think twice about approaching Lady Rexford.’

  ‘Remind me of our conversation, Lady Treadway,’ Mr Dyer urged with a smile as sharp as broken glass. ‘After all, it has been some time since we last spoke.’ Bart remembered e
xactly what she’d said to him, but he wanted to make her repeat it. He wasn’t about to leave without a fight or be shooed off like some kicked dog because the Dowager scowled at him.

  Lady Treadway shifted her shawl on her shoulders, more reluctant this time to speak so boldly to him. ‘As you know, my niece is a countess, the daughter of an earl, the sister of an earl. Her prospects are quite high.’

  ‘Aunt Agatha!’ Lady Rexford exclaimed, trying to stop her aunt, but she was as determined to put Bart in his place today as she’d been five years ago.

  ‘It’s true, my dear. I’m only looking out for you.’

  ‘And once again you’ve deemed me unsuitable.’ It was all Bart could do to sit in the saddle with dignity as he stared down at the small woman dressed in purple and lace, her bearing as stiff as a female workhouse warden. There was no longer a promise between him and Lady Rexford, but it didn’t mean he’d allow anyone to dictate anything to him. What Lady Rexford allowed others to dictate to her was her own affair.

  ‘My niece is a very generous young woman. I don’t want her friendliness to be mistaken for an invitation.’

  ‘Aunt Agatha, you have entirely misread the situation and Mr Dyer,’ Lady Rexford protested, to her credit. It was more than she’d dared to say to her aunt the last time they’d been in a similar situation.

  ‘No, she’s read me exactly as she wishes to.’ Bart leaned over in his saddle, the horse’s height combined with his allowing him to tower over the diminutive woman. The aunt didn’t back down, but straightened, meeting his hard look with an even more determined one. For a brief moment he admired the little force in silk. Despite her snobbery, she truly had her niece’s best interest at heart and he begrudgingly admired her for it. ‘Did you wake up this morning, madam, with the express intent of insulting me?’

  This made her back down and she looked away, fiddling with the handle of her unopened umbrella. ‘I don’t mean to insult you, merely to remind you of the facts of the matter which, as a barrister, I’m sure you can appreciate.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ He turned hard eyes on Lady Rexford, wishing she possessed as much strength of spirit as her aunt. It might have changed a number of things about the past five years. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Rexford.’

  * * *

  ‘Mr Dyer, wait,’ Moira called after him, but he dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and bolted off down Rotten Row.

  ‘Let him go, my dear, it is for the best,’ Aunt Agatha declared as if the topic was finished and it was most certainly not.

  ‘Why did you insult him?’ Moira demanded. ‘There was nothing taking place between us except conversation.’

  ‘It always begins with conversation.’ Aunt Agatha sniffed in the superior way which annoyed Moira.

  ‘And it ends with me being pressured to marry a man twice my age, one I didn’t love and who was incapable of giving me any of the things I wanted.’

  Aunt Agatha’s pale skin went pink near her greying hair. What Moira said wasn’t a secret, but it’d never been openly acknowledged either, not by her or any of the people who’d insisted she marry Lord Rexford. Her horse tossed its head and Moira tugged the reins, wishing she could control her emotions as easily as she did her mount, but ever since this morning, the many thoughts and feelings she’d done her best to bury and forget had been rising up, refusing to be ignored.

  ‘We did what we thought best for you, Moira,’ Aunt Agatha answered at last without apology.

  ‘I know, but perhaps it’s time for me to make such decisions for myself.’

  ‘Not if it means entangling yourself with Mr Dyer again. He might be a very successful barrister, but he is still a barrister and can offer you and the family name nothing.’

  ‘Lord Rexford was an earl and what did he offer us?’ Moira pointed out.

  ‘I’m not going to discuss this with you if you’re going to be deliberately obtuse about the difference between Lord Rexford and Mr Dyer,’ Aunt Agatha huffed before waving one gloved hand at her driver. ‘Drive me to Lady Windfall’s carriage. I’d like to speak with her.’

  Before Aunt Agatha could set off, Moira turned her horse around and cantered down Rotten Row, gripping the reins so tight she thought they would split the seams of her gloves. How dare Aunt Agatha question her judgement or talk to her like some senseless schoolgirl. She, more than Aunt Agatha, recognised the difference between the two men for she’d been forced into intimate relations with one while forsaking the more virile of the two. Everything Lord Rexford had promised her she might have enjoyed with Mr Dyer: a home, family and security. Instead, she’d wed a title and prestige and it’d proven as hollow as her late husband’s chest.

  Moira adjusted herself in the saddle, pushing back the encroaching sadness and regret, refusing to allow it to dominate her. Despite what Aunt Agatha believed about her judgement, she would choose her own husband this time, assuming any man worth having stepped forward to offer her his hand and heart.

  She slowed her mount, remaining at the outer edges of the crush as the traffic in the Row increased. Young ladies in fashionable habits sat upright in their saddles in the middle of the path, their grooms following at a discreet pace. The bold ones flashed the available gentleman tempting looks to entice them to turn their horses and join them. The more timid ones relied on their mothers to summon the young men to them. Moira possessed neither the boldness nor the necessary guardian to assist her and she failed to catch anyone but old Lord Mortley’s notice, much to the displeasure of his wife who rode in the carriage beside him.

  The steady clop of her horse’s hooves punctuated her heavy mood. She’d come to London to marry again. It’d seemed like a Herculean task before they’d journeyed to town. Being here as a widow without a fortune or lands trying to compete with all the glittering young ladies with large dowries made it even more so. Despite what Aunt Agatha believed, Moira wasn’t sure experience would gain her a match worth making.

  Lord Camberline passed her on his fine stallion, oblivious to the inviting smiles of the young ladies and their mamas. Moira turned in her saddle, watching him continue down the row before stopping to speak with the Comte de Troyen and his daughter, Marie. His presence reminded her of the other trouble vexing her today.

  Even if she did find a man who could make her happy, the stability of her home and happiness might be at risk. Mr Dyer believed something would happen soon and if it did, where would she and her family go? France wasn’t open to them and travelling to Germany was too perilous. There was always America, but it was so far from everything she cherished and loved, the same things she might lose if the Rouge Noir succeeded.

  She clutched her reins tight. They can’t be allowed to succeed.

  Napoleon’s domination of the European ports and his interrupting of trade were already making things in England worse. The restrictions added to the food shortages from the bad crops, inciting the workers in the north to revolt even more against the factory owners who were fighting a shrinking market to sell their goods and pay the very people turning against them and their new machines. The turmoil in the countryside would be nothing to the havoc Napoleon and his soldiers would wreak if the Rouge Noir destroyed the Government and brought the Emperor here. The thought of her safe world being torn apart scared her more than spending a lifetime without a husband and children of her own.

  I won’t see the Fallworth lands torn from Freddy or little Nicholas left with nothing while French soldiers swarm over the country.

  She’d do what she could to help bring down the wicked people who wanted to destroy them and rob everyone of their freedom the way Napoleon had pillaged and robbed so many people in Europe of theirs, the way her family had stolen hers when they’d insisted she marry Walter. She would have a life of her own and with it a future. She would help Mr Dyer.

  Chapter Three

  Moira s
tood near the back of the line of mamas watching their daughters whirl about the Dowager Marchioness of Camberline’s impressive ballroom. A grand, arched ceiling presided over the rectangular space, at one end of which, in a balcony, the musicians played. At the other end, guests traversed the curving staircase to join the festivities or paused on the single landing to look over the crush. Tall windows punctuated the long run of the opposite wall and all of them were open to let in the cool night air. Camberline House in Mayfair was one of the last houses still surrounded by an extensive garden and land. There was some distance between it and its nearest neighbour and the stately trees and rolling lawn beyond the windows, illuminated by torches, gave Moira and the other guests the impression of being in the country.

  A few days ago, Moira had eagerly looked forward to tonight. Once here, the thrill of it lost its allure. Freddy was in the gaming room while Aunt Agatha was off enjoying refreshments with her friends. Moira, being a widow, didn’t need a chaperon and so she’d been abandoned to face the crush alone. Growing up, she’d never spent much time in London, and after marriage and widowhood, she’d continued to avoid town. It left her with no friends here her age and no social circles beyond those her aunt had dragged her into, including as a patroness of the Lying-in Hospital. Those people she did know were from her parents’ or grandparents’ era and she was hesitant to approach them. She’d spent her marriage surrounded by an old husband and his aged friends. She was a young woman and she longed to spend time with people her age. Moira played with the string of her fan, trying to catch the eyes of those around her, but with all their acquaintances already set, no one was interested in forming a new one with her.

  Moira sighed. It’d been like this during her very brief and awkward Season, making her isolation even more severe. It seemed as if things had changed, but they hadn’t. Aunt Agatha still railed against Mr Dyer while Moira continued to stand alone in ballrooms.