Courting Danger with Mr. Dyer

by Georgie Lee

  He waited for his father to concede to having spent too many years misreading Bart, but he didn’t. Bart supposed he couldn’t expect so large an about-face in one meeting.

  His father rose and pressed his fingers into the blotter. ‘I expect you to catch these men and bring them to justice, whatever that may be in your part of the Government.’

  Bart faced him as he would a judge or one of his old superior officers, determined to give him the same courtesy. ‘I will. Thank you very much for your assistance. I’ll make sure Mr Flint is aware of it. Please send me any more information if you come across it.’

  ‘I will. Good luck to you, Bart.’ His father held out his hand. Bart shook it once, noting the new sense of respect in his father’s eyes. He didn’t expect they would always be this cordial with one another, but it was a start. Perhaps, some day, there could be peace and a better relationship between them than they’d enjoyed before.

  Bart let go of his hand and his father came around the desk to Moira.

  ‘I have to say, I’m a little surprised to see a lady involved in such matters, but I appreciate you and what you’re doing for the nation as well.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Denning.’ She smiled at him again and he visibly blossomed under her affection. Bart wondered if after all these years his father was finally mellowing. He hoped to see more of it in the future, it would make his desire to regain a larger role in his family’s life easier.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘What do you make of the list?’ Moira motioned to the paper.

  Across the carriage, Bart studied the names, leaning forward, his arm perched on his knee, his fingers rubbing his chin as he did whenever he was contemplating evidence or their next course of action.

  ‘Two people concern me the most right now. Lord Mandeville and Lord Carville.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe Lord Mandeville is a traitor. His reputation has been sterling and Lord Carville is one of the most vocal opponents of Napoleon.’

  ‘It’s not them specifically I’m concerned with, but their connections. They’re both good friends with the Comte de Troyen.’

  ‘What about the Camberlines and Lord Lefevre and Lord Moreau?’

  ‘The Comte is friends with them as well and they may be deep in this, but they still need a solid connection to France. Given the past evidence of the Comte, he could be the traitor. Like Lord Lefevre and Lord Moreau, he enjoys easy access to Lord Carville and Lord Mandeville and their houses. He could have either overheard things while drinking with them or slipped into their offices and perused their papers.’

  ‘Or Mr Dubois overhead a sailor speaking about the gunpowder and where it was being stored and passed it on. Your father believes the Navy kept the transport secret, but I think we all know how easy it is for things to slip out.’ Bart might believe Moira could conceal her time at his place from everyone, but she knew better. Even in the country, in almost near isolation with her husband, she’d heard London gossip at dinner parties or from her lady’s maid. How long would it be until her tale of indiscretion made the rounds? ‘Mr Dubois could be their French connection.’

  ‘I’ve considered the possibility.’ Bart folded the paper and ran his thumb and forefinger along the crease. ‘Until we determine otherwise, we continue to investigate everyone, including Lady Camberline, Lord Lefevre and Lord Moreau.’

  She liked how he included her in his plans, even if she shouldn’t, but she didn’t share Bart’s faith in all being well when this was over. Not once in her twenty-five years had she placed herself so at odds with her family, and the very real possibility they wouldn’t allow her back into their good graces continued to trouble her. The idea they might shun her, leaving her without their comfort, humour and love, chilled her. If her involvement with Bart also tainted her in society’s eyes, it would make things even worse. She would lose not only her family, but any chance of gaining a husband and children of her own. Bart had made it clear there could be no future with him. He was against the things she’d set her heart on and, like trying to persuade her father against the marriage to Lord Rexford, she doubted her ability to change his mind. If she were as reckless as the many widows his sisters-in-law and mother had gossiped about, the ones who pursued their lovers without care and with only a fleeting nod to discretion, she might enjoy a relationship with him, but it would be temporary. She didn’t want to be a mistress but a wife.

  ‘You worked a miracle with my father tonight.’ He tucked the paper in his coat pocket, then rested his hands on his thighs. ‘He wouldn’t have been half so generous with me if you hadn’t wooed him with your title and your feminine charm.’

  ‘He reminded me a little of my own father and the way he could be, especially towards the end when the pain made him as snappy as a wild dog.’ She’d seen Lord Denning’s reaction to Bart the moment they’d entered the sitting room and again when he’d approached them. He hadn’t hesitated to lash out at his son until decorum had overtaken his irascibility. Then the change in him in the office, after Bart had told him about his work, had been remarkable. ‘He was quite proud of you when you explained your duties to the Crown.’

  ‘I thought for years my service in the Army, and my victories in court against fraudsters, would one day gain his grudging respect. It didn’t. Instead it was the very thing I wasn’t able to tell him.’

  ‘Then perhaps the two of you can find more common ground now. Your mother would very much like to see you become closer to them. She told me so.’

  He tapped his fingers against his knee. ‘She believes you have influence with me.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You do.’ He peered up at her from beneath his brows, the look startling and tempting. ‘When this is over, I’ll do my best to try and be more involved with my family.’

  This wasn’t exactly the influence she’d hoped to exert over him. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I hope mine is as welcoming of me when this is done.’

  ‘Once this is over and you’re safe, Freddy will come around.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said quietly.

  The carriage rolled to stop in front of Bart’s Temple Bar town house. He handed her down and escorted her up to the front door. A solidly built butler greeted them, the square-chested man more like the ones who’d assisted Bart outside the British Museum than the many preened and pompous servants who’d shown her into fine residences over the years. She had no doubt this man would produce a knife or a pistol if the moment called for it. It helped ease her concerns about her physical safety, but not her moral safety. Even with these servants, she was a widow in a well-known barrister’s bachelor household. She hoped Bart was right about his people being extremely discreet. Very few women could overcome a scandal like this.

  ‘Welcome to my humble home.’ Bart threw out his arms to the building before giving the butler instructions to see to Moira’s valise.

  Moira crossed the small entryway to one of the rooms flanking it. It was his office, with dark wood furniture of straight lines and sharp corners. Papers were spread across his desk, held down by a couple of open books. Thick tomes inscribed with gold-leaf titles concerning the law filled the short bookcase which was devoid of novels or other pleasurable reading. The messiness of it contrasted with the Bart she knew, but because of it, this room seemed more personal to him.

  He came up beside her, hands clasped behind his back with what she thought might be a touch of embarrassment. It didn’t seem possible for she was sure he was beyond ever being embarrassed. ‘I apologise for the state of my residence. My office is usually more organised than this.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I enjoy seeing some of your flaws. I find them charming.’

  ‘You’re the only one who does.’ The slight tang of the brandy he’d indulged in at his parents’ house flavoured each word. It mixed with the subtle scent of wood oil, leath
er and parchment permeating the air. It, more than all the brocade in any well-lit room of gilded furniture, appealed to something deep inside her. Despite the lack of decoration or softness, with him beside her, she was more at ease here than she’d been almost anywhere else in the last five years.

  She wondered how long she could stay and what other secrets about him she might uncover during their time together. Except he was not her man to know, nor was his heart for her to capture. She was here because guarding her was part of his duty and nothing more. At least this was the lie he’d told himself and her.

  ‘Allow me to show you the sitting room.’

  He led her across the hall, past the narrow flight of stairs, to the other room at the front of the building. It was modest by aristocratic standards, but Bart’s prosperity was evident in the fine finishing and furniture. Little ornamentation other than lamps and a few paintings adorned the room and the sedate furniture was arranged more for practicality than for entertaining guests. She wasn’t sure if he brought clients here, but if he did, then these meetings were, judging by the decor, decidedly masculine affairs.

  Above the fireplace, a painting of the ruins of Rome in the moonlight hung in a gilded frame. She approached it, reading the name of the painter scrawled in the corner and recognising it. ‘My husband had a painting like this by the same artist.’

  ‘I sent this home while serving with the Army, during a brief stint in northern Italy.’

  ‘My husband purchased his on his grand tour, which was more years ago than I wish to contemplate.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’ Bart asked with a directness she imagined he used with witnesses in the docks, one daring her to answer with a lie.

  ‘I miss what he represented and the opportunity he offered, especially for children.’

  ‘And yet there weren’t any.’

  ‘There might have been in time, or there could be if I wed again.’

  ‘I’m sure there will be, both children and another husband.’ But it won’t be with me, he might have well said for it was stated in his silence.

  She touched her lips with her fingertips, not as quick to believe it tonight as she’d been at the gallery. He might insist the warmth of a home and wife had no place in his life, but his kiss this afternoon had said something different. Except, she couldn’t be guided by what she thought she’d heard but by what he said. ‘My marrying again is the single point on which you and Aunt Agatha both agree.’

  He winked at her. ‘Then it must be a cold night in hell.’

  She studied the lines of his cheeks, and his broad forehead and straight nose beneath his dark hair, seeing again the man who’d first approached her at Lady Greenwood’s. If she could hold on to this jovial Bart, they might recapture what they’d lost at the end of their engagement. It was as tantalising a challenge as when he’d first asked her to help him uncover the Rouge Noir and more risky. He’d fight harder than the traitors to maintain the protective walls he’d built around his heart to buffer himself from tragedy, the way she’d done during the awful year when both her husband and her sister-in-law had died. There was only so much grief a person could bear, and while some men like her brother allowed it to almost destroy them, Bart used it to grow stronger, but it isolated him, too. If she could overcome his barriers, then they might have a chance together or she’d suffer a more stinging defeat than when she’d broken from him to marry another.

  The slap of shoes against the floor and a woman’s voice interrupted them. ‘Mr Dyer, it’s a pleasure to see you home so early tonight.’

  They turned to face a rotund woman with thick arms barely contained by the short sleeves of her dress.

  ‘Lady Rexford, allow me to introduce my housekeeper, Mrs Roberts. Mrs Roberts, Lady Rexford will be staying here under my protection for the foreseeable future. Please assist her in whatever she requires. I’m sure, like me, she can expect your discretion.’

  Mrs Roberts didn’t blink at the pronouncement and Moira wondered how many other ladies of both reputable and perhaps not-so-reputable character he’d brought here to spend the night. She didn’t wish to consider it.

  ‘I haven’t spilled one of your secrets yet, Mr Dyer. I’m not about to begin now,’ Mrs Roberts assured them with a wave of her full hand. She flicked a glance at Moira, her happy smile drooping a bit about the corners. The housekeeper might not gossip, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t judge, and this was something Moira wasn’t accustomed to. She’d always followed the rules and never transgressed society or her family’s expectations. She’d all but flaunted each and every one of them in the last few hours. ‘The only room ready is the one next to yours. Will this do, Mr Dyer?’

  ‘It will have to.’

  ‘Come along then, Lady Rexford, and I’ll take you up.’

  With one last look at Bart, Moira followed the housekeeper upstairs to the hallway and the first door on the left.

  ‘I changed the sheets yesterday so they’re fresh. If you like, I can help you undress or have a plate of food sent up,’ Mrs Roberts offered.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you. I wish to rest for a while.’

  ‘Of course. Call me if there’s anything you need.’ With a curtsy the housekeeper left, closing the door behind her.

  It was the first time Moira had been alone since leaving Lady Camberline’s tea. So much had happened since then, far more than she could contemplate. She wandered to the narrow bed in the centre of the room and settled down on the blue coverlet, the crisp cotton cool beneath her skin. This room, like those downstairs, was simple and without adornment, the furniture here for purpose instead of beauty. It was only welcoming because it was so close to Bart.

  Bart’s footsteps in the hallway, and the opening and closing of the door in his adjoining room, caught her attention. The clink of a porcelain pitcher meeting the side of a washstand, and the trickle of pouring water, drifted in through the door separating them. She closed her eyes, imagining him going about his toilette, his coat off, his arms firm as he raised the water to his face to allow it to run down his square chin. It was strangely intimate and yet disconnecting at the same time. They were together, but apart.

  She longed to go to the door and join him, to help him off with his waistcoat and rub the weariness of the day from his shoulders. While she soothed his muscles, they could speak about the tangled evidence they’d gathered and enjoy the familiar pattern of a man and woman together at the end of the day preparing for rest.

  Except it wasn’t rest they were likely to indulge in if she entered his room, but something more ruinous, an act she’d never enjoyed before but felt certain she would with Bart.

  She rolled on her side and watched the light under the door dim and then brighten when he passed between it and her. His body would be solid beneath her palms, his muscles taut against her fingertips, and every touch of his firm hands on her would be as light and tender as they’d been when he’d seen to her wound. If she went to him, she might at last discover the sensations and desires that could exist between a man and a woman beyond wishing for a child. They were the ones she’d heard in whispered conversations and seen alluded to in books but had never experienced.

  The ones that could lead to a baby.

  She turned on to her back and stared at the ceiling, frustrated and irritated. She was in an awkward enough situation without the scandal of an illegitimate child to make it worse.

  Don’t be silly, you’re a grown woman who’s perfectly capable of being with a man and not forgetting herself. And Bart is a respectful gentleman. Surely there can be no harm in the two of us just talking.

  The allure of spending time alone with Bart proved more powerful than her reservations and she slid off the bed and went to the door. She raised her hand, hesitating a moment before she rapped her knuckles on the wood. She held her breath while she waited for him to open the do
or. When he did, she strode through it, refusing to be governed by worries and fears of what might happen. These things had led her into a marriage with Lord Rexford, kept her in the country when she should have been out living her life. She wouldn’t allow them to hamper her any longer. She was tired of regrets, of giving up everything she wanted because of someone else’s rules or needs or ideas. She would have her way, even if she wasn’t sure exactly what her way might entail tonight.

  ‘I thought you’d like to talk more about the case.’ She stood in the middle of his room, waiting for him to respond. He left the door open, offering her the chance to leave. She was grateful for this small courtesy because for all her trying to appear at ease, she was shaking in her shoes.

  ‘Let’s not think about it for a while.’ He removed the cravat from around his neck. His coat was already off and draped over the back of a wooden chair, leaving him in his fitted waistcoat and shirt. ‘Sometimes, talking about other things gives the mind a chance to mull over a problem and reach a solution.’

  ‘Then what shall we discuss to take your mind off the case?’

  He caressed her with his gaze and she realised at once what kind of distraction he would prefer. She would, too, but she wasn’t so bold, at least not yet. Discomfort settled on her shoulders like a wrap and she cast about for something to do to keep herself busy, and to place some distance between them even if she was the one who’d brought them together. ‘Should we send down to your housekeeper for some dinner before venturing on to more weighty topics?’

  ‘We should probably go down,’ he said huskily.

  He was right. To stay up here alone together meant inviting more censorious looks from Mrs Roberts and who knew what other servants, but Moira didn’t want to leave. She had no idea how long this arrangement would last before Bart decided to move her out of his house and into safer quarters, or insisted she leave for the country. She wouldn’t go back. She couldn’t return to the life of solitude, but in all her days she’d never imagined being in a room alone with a half-dressed gentleman who was not her husband.