My Fair Lord

by Wilma Counts

  Rebecca, seated near the other window, leaned to point across Melinda and Retta. “There. How about that man in the black felt hat?”

  “Good lord, Rebecca, that fellow is sixty, if he’s a day!” Richard said.

  “Well, there is a more likely one,” Melinda said, also pointing. “See? That one with a red neckerchief of some sort. He looks young.”

  Retta saw that the man was young, all right. He was also small and wiry looking and, when he gazed directly at the carriage, there was a vacant look to his stare. She thought he might be somewhat dimwitted. They continued in this manner as the coachman drove very slowly along the road paralleling the docks. She could see that they were attracting some annoyed attention and a few catcalls.

  “Yes! That fellow there.” Rebecca gestured beyond another man Melinda had pointed out. “That one with dirty leather breeches and a sweaty shirt. See? He is wearing a black cap. He looks a likely candidate. I choose him. We need not look further.”

  The man was tall with broad shoulders and slim hips. Retta could not discern the color of his hair, but she conjectured that it was dark. He looked toward the carriage full of people he must have viewed as idle sightseers, and Retta felt as though he was looking right at her and possibly through her. But of course, at this distance, that was a ridiculous notion. Suddenly, his attention was diverted by a shout. Still, in that instant, she felt something had somehow passed between them, though she was not ready to acknowledge such an utterly preposterous idea.

  “You need not decide so immediately, my dear,” Lenninger was saying to his bride.

  “Are you sure about this one, Rebecca? There are plenty of others to consider,” Gerald said. “We have not traversed but half the dock area.”

  “You are given to changing your mind,” Retta reminded her. “Perhaps you would do well to look some more.”

  “No. I am sure. I choose that one. He looks repulsively rustic and dirty. ’Twill be a daunting task, indeed, to make a gentleman of him! Besides, I am ready to faint from the foul odors here.”

  “Oh, my dear girl,” Lenninger said sympathetically, and Retta tried not to roll her eyes.

  She looked at the man again. Rebecca was right about his appearance. His breeches had a long dark smear along one leg and his shirt showed large sweat stains. She had been sure Rebecca would deliberately choose what she thought to be a least likely candidate. Her own misgivings and apprehension gnawing at her, Retta watched as Gerald and Richard clambered out of the carriage and approached the man. He was too far away for her to see clearly the expression on his face or hear the discussion, but she saw him lift his cap, wipe his sweaty face on his shirt sleeve, and pause as her brothers approached him; then she saw his disbelief and perhaps a touch of contempt, though she could hear none of what was said. He turned away in what seemed a dismissive manner, but when Gerald and Richard persisted, he nodded abruptly, waved a hand, and went back to his work.

  Her brothers returned to the carriage. “His name’s Bolton. He agreed to meet with us during his midday break at a pub called The White Horse,” Gerald announced. “He says it has a private room in the back.”

  “I want to be there,” Rebecca whined.

  “We cannot all go traipsing into a local workingmen’s hostelry,” Gerald said flatly. “Retta needs to interview him. You do not. It is enough that you know if Retta accepts the choice you made. You will simply have to trust us.”

  “He’s right, my love,” her husband cajoled. “We shall drive around for half an hour or so—get some fresh air—and come back for Lord Heaton and Lady Henrietta. We shall hear all about it then.”

  Retta thought Rebecca was not best pleased, but she appeared to be mollified.

  If only Retta could control her own apprehension.

  * * * *

  Jake Bolton, as he was known on the docks, knew immediately who the two men in fancy dress were as they approached him. After all, the Blakemoor town house, along with certain other homes and establishments frequented by persons found to be of interest, had been under discreet surveillance for several weeks. Even before so many government leaders had departed London for the journey to Vienna, the Foreign Office had learned of efforts to undermine England’s position, first at the ongoing discussions in Paris, then at the Congress of Vienna, by leaking information to other participants. The whole thing was a rather delicate matter, for it possibly involved some very prominent people. Besides the Earl of Blakemoor, there were the Marquis of Trentham, the Earl of Hitchens, and Baron de Richfield, all of whom—like Blakemoor, his son and his brother—had varying degrees of access to sensitive information. Moreover, as was the case with many a member of England’s aristocracy, these all had strong ties of family or property in France.

  “I leave it up to you and Fenton, then, Bodwyn.” Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary, had said in his last meeting with his chief agents before setting off for Paris from which he would continue to Vienna. “I cannot have my hands tied by that wily Austrian knowing what we are planning at every turn. Not to mention that infernal Frenchman!”

  Jake knew Castlereagh referred to Austria’s representative, Prince Metternich, and France’s Prince de Talleyrand. In recent diplomatic communiques and in negotiations in occupied Paris, these two had often seemed able to counter England’s proposals even before they were offered. The explanation was clear: a dangerous leak.

  Lord Jacob Theodore Bodwyn, third son of the Duke of Holbrook, had not been pleased when the Duke of Wellington, his commanding officer in the Peninsula, then the military leader of occupation forces in Paris, had informed him that he was to be seconded to the Foreign Office in London.

  “But, sir,” Jake had protested. “I’ve not been in England for ten years.”

  “That is the point, Major. We need someone who can slip into position incognito.”

  “Incognito? In England? Let’s not forget that I attended school at Winchester with some rather well-known sorts, and during my years at Oxford, I was hardly what one would call a faceless wallflower.”

  “I know all about your proclivities for fast horses and fast women, but in India and on the Peninsula too, you proved able to slip into any number of disguises and God knows how many native speakers you managed to fool with your talent for languages and dialects.”

  “But, sir, that was not in England.”

  “Castlereagh and I feel sure you will manage it at home too. Look, Bodwyn, you are no longer that fresh-faced ensign—a mere boy—who showed up in my command in India in 1802. That scar alone has effected a change in your appearance and you’ve probably added a couple of inches as well as a stone or two of flesh on those bones. People see what they want to see—or what you tell them they are seeing.”

  In a characteristic gesture, Jake ran a finger along the scar that ran from the hairline at his right temple to his chin, a souvenir of the first battle of Badajoz. It occurred to him that a broken nose, another souvenir—this one from an altercation with some partisans—had also altered his appearance a bit, along with the added height and weight. He nodded his reluctant acceptance of the assignment. “Yes, sir.”

  That conversation had taken place in Paris in late May when Major Lord Jacob Bodwyn had been summoned to the palatial dwelling the Duke of Wellington had occupied on his triumphant entrance into the city. Now, three months later, Jake “Bolton” was indeed back in England after more than a decade abroad, but unable to make himself known to any of his family or friends. So far, he and the team had followed dozens of tips and leads, with little success in ferreting out even one spy, let alone what might be an elaborate network of them. What little progress they had made suggested that the purloined information was almost surely being transferred via shipping activities that had resumed between England and France almost before the ink was dry on Napoleon’s abdication document.

  Hence, Major Lord Jacob Bodwyn’s presence on
an English dock in the guise of an ordinary dockworker.

  Now he watched with a blend of curiosity and annoyance as the two younger males of the Blakemoor household approached.

  “Might we have a moment of your time?” one of them said.

  Jake paused and lowered a heavy bundle to rest at his feet; he lifted his cap briefly and wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve, then and stood with hands on his hips. “Sir?”

  “I am Viscount Heaton, Blakemoor’s son,” the same man said. “This is my brother, Lord Richard Parker.”

  Jake removed his cap and bowed his head briefly. “Your lordships.” He put the cap back on and looked the speaker directly in the eye. “Somethin’ you need?”

  “We should like to discuss a rather delicate proposition with you,” Gerald said.

  “What kind o’ ‘proposition’?”

  “Perhaps a matter of different employment for you,” Gerald said.

  “Something better than hauling goods on a dock,” the other one said.

  Jake hesitated, trying to think what they might have in mind. Were they recruiting more spies? If so, this was rather a crude approach. “I kinda like this job,” he said. “Ain’t bin here verra long. Jus’ makin’ me way.”

  “May we at least discuss our offer?” the viscount said.

  “We gits uh half hour fer the midday meal. The White Horse has a backroom.” Jake gestured away from the docks.

  “Bolton!” An imperious voice called.

  Jake picked up the heavy bundle, perched it on his shoulder, and muttered, “Ye’re gonna cost me my job.”

  “The White Horse at midday,” the viscount said.

  Jake returned to his work puzzled about this meeting and the one that would follow. What did these two have in mind? What might their appearance have to do with his own search for spies? Certainly it was highly unusual that a member of an earl’s family should appear on the docks at all. The sudden appearance of two members of a family that was possibly connected to his investigation could hardly be dismissed as mere coincidence. And why had they come to the docks accompanied by women? He dumped his burden on a barge near the pier and turned for the next load. He shrugged, refusing to waste any more energy on the matter now.

  At noon, he entered the backroom of The White Horse, bending his head at the low doorway. A long wooden plank table in the room would have easily seated twelve, but there were only two people on the bench at one side, the viscount, and, to Jake’s surprise, one of the women. They had half-empty glasses of ale in front of them.

  “I took the liberty of ordering your meal and a tankard,” the viscount said. “May I introduce my sister, Lady Henrietta.”

  Jake removed his cap and bowed his head briefly in acknowledgement of the introduction. He slid onto the opposite bench and laid the cap on the table next to a wooden bowl of stew and a hunk of crusty bread. “Ma’am. I’m Jake Bolton.”

  “Please. Have your lunch as we talk, Mr. Bolton,” she said. “We know your time is limited.” Her voice was soft, but firm; he thought he detected a note of nervousness, but no hint of haughtiness. An earl’s daughter nervous around a working man? Perhaps it was the strangeness of the situation. Her gray-green eyes seemed both compassionate and alert, and wisps of brown hair had escaped a plain straw bonnet. “Nice,” he thought, wishing her cloak were not so effective at covering what might be very interesting other aspects of her person.

  Careful to keep to the character of the man of lower rank he was pretending to be, he broke off a chunk of the bread, dipped it in the stew, and shoved it into his mouth. He took a long swallow of the ale, wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve, then asked, “Well, now, Guv, what’s this all about?”

  To his surprise, it was the woman who answered.

  * * * *

  Unable to quell her nervousness, Retta had fidgeted at the table as she and Gerald waited for the man. Once he sat across from her, though, she began to think, Well, yes, this just might work. Despite a day or two’s growth of dark beard, he seemed to be clean. True, there was that streak of mud on his breeches and sweat stains on his shirt, but the man was a dockworker! He was tall and he carried himself with confidence, but with no sign of arrogance. The dark hair and unkempt beard contrasted to a pair of clear blue eyes that gave the impression of seeing more than others might like them to see. She was glad that she and Gerald had decided to explain frankly what they were about, so she said, “We are here to offer you a chance at a better kind of life than you probably have as a dockworker.”

  He grunted. “I likes me life well enough.”

  “But might you be interested in something else if you could be trained for it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps an indoor servant in a great house? A clerk of some sort? It would depend on your talents, your ability to learn. If you qualify, I am quite sure I can help you to such a position.”

  “Qualify? What’s that mean?”

  “That you meet certain conditions.”

  “Such as?”

  “That you are currently free of family obligations and you are willing to work hard at matters that may be totally foreign to you.”

  “Got no wife or young’uns,” he said.

  “Good. It is not necessary, but it would help immensely if you are literate,” she said.

  “Literate?” he repeated.

  “Can you read and write?” Gerald asked.

  “Some.” He picked up his spoon, gripping it much as she had seen farm lads do in the country. He now had the spoon in one hand, a chunk of bread in the other, and he talked around a mouthful of food. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you here? Suggestin’ such?”

  Retta held his gaze as she spoke. “To be perfectly honest, to win a bet. But also as a sort of social experiment, if you will.”

  Having finished his meal, he sat back slightly, reached for the ale with one hand and gestured with his other hand for her to continue. Suddenly, it seemed that he was in charge of this interview.

  She explained the terms of the bet.

  He looked at her skeptically. “Don’t know as I’d like ta be party ta this here bet. Sounds kinda silly ta me. An’ what’cha mean by ‘experiment’ anyways?”

  Retta shoved her own glass aside and leaned forward to speak more persuasively. “I believe, and I should like to prove, that often it is merely education and circumstances—happenstance—that account for differences between people of one class or another.”

  The man looked at Gerald. “Is she serious?”

  Gerald nodded. “She is.”

  “You win a bet. But what’s in it fer me?”

  “You will be amply compensated for your time. And presumably you will, in five months, be qualified for something more lucrative than dock work.”

  He rose. “Ye won’t mind if I think this over some? Right now, I gotta get back ta work.”

  Retta took a card from her reticule and handed it to him. “I hope you will take advantage of this opportunity. Come around by midday the day after tomorrow if you are inclined to accept our offer.”

  Chapter 3

  For the rest of that day and into the evening, Jake thought of little else but Lady Henrietta and her strange proposal. Even as he willed himself to sleep in a shabby room he shared with two other already snoring workers, the matter continued to dominate his musings. To start with, he was intrigued by the idea of a woman’s actually negotiating the issue herself. A good-looking woman at that. Not that Jake underestimated what women were capable of doing. On the Iberian Peninsula, some of the smartest and fiercest partisan fighters he had known were women. But to find a lady of the ton presuming to present her argument so forcefully in a male environment was unique in his experience, though he did note that her brother’s accompanying her had lent a modicum of propriet
y.

  So she wanted to train a duke’s son in the ways of society, eh? He grinned at that thought. This could prove to be very entertaining . . . He quickly sobered. The whole scheme was ridiculous.

  However, the next evening when he informed his immediate superior in the Foreign Office of his meeting with the Blakemoor siblings, Colonel Lord Peter Fenton did not think it so ridiculous at all. The two met once a week at some facility—usually a pub—situated far away from both the docks and establishments likely to be patronized by members of the ton. To preserve Jake’s anonymity and blend in, both were dressed in the manner of common workers, though in considerably cleaner attire than most of that rank.

  Located in “the city,” that oldest section of London, this particular pub catered to a motley clientele: day workers, some clerks or scriveners in law offices, a few dustmen, and a chimney sweep or two—as well as two prostitutes plying their trade. These last had seen Jake and his companion as likely targets, but the two men had laughed them off with a vague “Maybe later.” A group in a far corner sat around a man with a concertina loudly singing ballads—off key and off-color—the lyrics eliciting loud hoots of laughter. The sawdust on the floor emitted the faint odor of spilled ale and wine. Light from several candles failed to permeate the dark entirely. Jake and Peter Fenton sat at a small table in a dark corner in the rear; a short candle in pewter dish splashed feeble light between them.

  Like Jake, Fenton was a younger son—of a marquis rather than a duke. The two men had gone to school and then university together, and they had both served first in India and then in the Peninsula, Fenton as one of Wellington’s staff officers, Jake as a “corresponding” officer gathering information among the locals or spying behind enemy lines. In any but the most formal military situations, the two conversed as the long-standing friends that they were. Fenton, as commander of the current investigation, was the only person in England who knew of Jake’s undercover work now that Wellington had returned to Paris and the secretary himself was on his way to Vienna.

  Fenton laughed heartily as Jake finished his report. “She wants to make you a gentleman? You? Impossible. Your tutors could not do it. The masters at Winchester tried. So did the dons at Oxford. Even your housemates there failed, though we did our collective best.”