by Wilma Counts
“Go ahead. Laugh if you will,” Jake said in mock umbrage. “As I recall, it was your idea to put that goat in the headmaster’s office.”
Fenton grinned, then his expression sobered. “I know Lady Henrietta. Danced with her at Almack’s once and at the Messington ball two weeks ago. Pretty, but a bit aloof. Inherits a bundle one day. Said to be something of a bluestocking.”
“Yet she entered into this ludicrous bet,” Jake said.
“That does not quite fit the picture, does it? But she may be offering us an opportunity we cannot pass up.”
“How?”
“If you were to be lodged in Blakemoor House, it would give us more access to persons that we find rather interesting. You know, along with Richter’s being a footman in Trentham’s London residence, which is in the same neighborhood, by the way.”
“Richter was a footman before he joined the Guards,” Jake protested. “You are suggesting I pretend to be a dockworker pretending to learn the manners and speech of a gentleman! I have already slipped a time or two on the dock, though no one noticed.”
“I have confidence in your ability to charm your way past any mistakes.”
“And if this plan fails?”
Fenton sat at an angle to the table and idly twirled his empty wine glass. “We cannot think in those terms. The allies have been meeting in Paris since the abdication. Dispatches from Castlereagh and the duke are filled with their frustration at having Talleyrand and Metternich outmaneuver them.” Jake knew “the duke” referred to Wellington and that Fenton was one of fewer than ten people in England who read those dispatches. “The Congress opens the first of November, and it is likely to last for several weeks, if not months. We must get hold of this situation now!” Frustration marked Fenton’s tone.
Jake drained his glass and signaled the barmaid to bring them another round. When she had completed that task and returned to her business, he said, “I cannot believe the French and the Austrians have combined forces on English soil.”
Fenton shrugged. “We don’t know that they have, but strange things happen when politicians get together. The messages we have intercepted thus far—we now have agents in every port from Dover to Bristol—do not indicate collusion. Yet.”
Jake ran a hand through his hair. “So. We truly are dealing with two networks.”
“Seems so.”
They were both quiet for a moment, then Fenton shifted in his chair and crossed his arms on the table. “Blakemoor’s heir, Viscount Heaton, is only twenty-four, but he is, like his father, active in the Foreign Office. Not the highest echelons, but he does have access to sensitive information. But so do Trentham, Hitchens, and de Richfield.”
“Is Heaton trustworthy?” Jake asked.
“We have no cause to distrust any of these men, but, like so many upper class English people, they all have French ties of one degree or another. Blakemoor’s family, especially. The previous earl’s mother was the daughter of the Duc de Jean-Marc of Lyon. In the matter of access to sensitive information, Blakemoor’s younger brother, Colonel Lord Alfred Parker, is another consideration. He is a member of the House of Commons and is not only an assistant to the Duke of York, the army’s Commander-in-Chief, but the two are very close friends.”
Jake shook his head in wonder. “The Foreign Office and the army? The same family? An unusual degree of nepotism, is it not?”
“Perhaps . . . Lord Alfred is an interesting man, though. Two years younger than the earl. I’m told that in their youth, the brothers were inseparable. As a younger son, Alfred opted for the army. Sound familiar?” Fenton raised an eyebrow then went on. “He served in India and then Canada where he was severely wounded. Still walks with difficulty.”
“At least he survived.” Jake leaned back in his chair, only mildly interested in this turn of the conversation.
“Lord Alfred was a renowned scholar as a university student. Surprised everyone when he chose an army career over a professor’s chair. Even now, Lord Alfred Parker maintains on-going friendships with some of the greatest minds in England—and on the continent. He is one of the sharpest tools in York’s domain.”
“Interesting, but why is all this important to me?”
“For three reasons. One, he is very close to the Duke of York—stood by his friend through all that scandal York was involved in a few years ago. Lord Alfred knows where all our troops are at any given time. Two, he continues to live at Blakemoor House where he has his own suite and he mostly works at home, with his secretary acting as a courier to the office of the Commander-in-Chief.”
Jake sat straighter. “And? Unless my instincts are steering me completely off course, there is more.”
Fenton nodded. “Lord Alfred’s secretary is a distant cousin, one Henry Morrow who was born Henri Moreau. Moreau was a mere child at the time, but he narrowly escaped Madame Guillotine. During the Terror, Moreau, with his sister and her child, fled to England. He anglicized his name, but they still have ties to the newly reinstalled Bourbons.” Fenton paused. “I think you can see that it might prove very useful to have one of our people on the scene so to speak.”
Jake sighed. “And you want me to be the sacrificial lamb.”
“Well, yes. A bit melodramatic, but you might put it that way.” Fenton reached into his coat to retrieve a packet of letters. “Here’s your mail.” Because Jake’s family and friends thought him to be in France with the army of occupation, his mail was sent to France then diverted back to England—prolonging its final delivery. Fenton grinned. “One of these still has a faint odor of perfume.”
“Do not let your imagination stray. Probably my younger sister, Charlotte. She fancies herself a charmer—and the rest of the family confirms that she probably is. She is to make her debut this next season. She was only eight when I last saw her.” Jake tried to hide the sudden surge of emotion he often felt in thinking of his family. He slipped the missives into his own coat.
* * * *
Following that initial meeting with Mr. Bolton, Retta had spent the next day and a half engaged in a great deal of troubled musing: Will he or will he not? If he did not show up, would she have to go through that distasteful search again? She shuddered at the idea of considering human beings as one would animals at a cattle sale. And if he did show himself, how on earth were they to incorporate him into the household? It would not be like hiding that kitten in the nursery when she was nine!
She shared this concern with Gerald, who, when Cousin Amabelle had gone off to her usual afternoon nap, called the others together to bring it up with them. Retta suspected that Gerald was really looking for a way out of this whole situation and she admitted to herself that she would welcome a way out. With Uncle Alfred conveniently absent that day, they had the library to themselves as Gerald and Retta sought to discuss this new issue and to reemphasize the need for secrecy and discretion.
“Is this just an excuse to renege on the wager?” Rebecca demanded from the brown leather couch she shared with her husband.
The others were spread about in a mishmash of comfortable chairs. Retta was glad her father and Uncle Alfred had objected to the countess’s desire to change this room in her zeal to modernize. Despite almost daily airings, the room smelled faintly of tobacco smoke, an odor Retta found comforting, for she remembered it from when Uncle Alfred hugged a distraught young girl being sent off to boarding school.
“No, it is not,” Retta said. “None of us considered this originally. It all sounded so easy then, did it not?”
“True,” Richard said. “And if word gets out, someone is sure to tell Uncle Alfred or write Father—or, worse, it will end up in one of the scandal sheets.”
“We must not allow that to happen,” Gerald said from his favorite position, which was leaning against a fireplace mantel.
“Right,” Richard said. “So the problem is: How do we incorporate this man
into the household without stirring up undue interest in his presence?”
“Could he be added to the staff in the stables?” Melinda asked. “What was his name? I have forgot.”
“Bolton. Jake Bolton,” Retta said.
“Probably Jacob,” Rebecca commented.
“Probably,” Retta said, visualizing again Mr. Bolton’s commanding demeanor, his sky-blue eyes, and the way his shoulders stretched the fabric of a cotton shirt. Really. Did he have to be quite so attractive an example of the male half of the species?
Gerald’s voice brought her back to the issue at hand. “No, Melinda. Retta will have to spend a good deal of time with him. She cannot do that in the stables.”
“A footman, then,” Rebecca suggested.
“Possibly . . .” Gerald drew the word out, obviously considering this proposal.
“Any addition to the staff would have to be explained to Jeffries, who hires and supervises staff members,” Retta pointed out.
“Perhaps he could be a cousin come to visit,” Melinda said.
“Oh, yes. By all means,” Richard said sarcastically. “Jeffries has been with the family only since Noah’s flood and knows so few of our relatives. Not to mention what Uncle Alfred knows of the family tree.”
“Well, it was just an idea.”
“Not a good one,” he jibed.
A glum silence ensued.
Surprisingly to Retta, it was Lenninger who came up with the most acceptable solution. “What if we were to put it about that the earl, traveling in France, had received word that Lady Henrietta’s life had been threatened because of her charity work and he insisted that someone be hired to protect her?”
“Yes!” Richard chimed in. “Someone from Bow Street.”
“That way we can have the man be a house guest.” Rebecca sounded triumphant. “Oh, Conrad, my love! Such a brilliant idea.”
“Perhaps not ‘brilliant,’” Retta said, “but it might work. What do you think, Gerald?”
“It seems a little shaky, but if no one probes too deeply, it should do. “Of course,” he added with a direct look at Rebecca, “if it is revealed too soon—regardless of how—the bet is off, you know.”
“Yes, I do know. You need not think I will make a slip.” She gave Retta spiteful look. “I want that mare.”
Annoyed, Retta rose to leave the room, but turned at the door to say, “Nevertheless, she currently belongs to me.”
She paused at the door when she heard Rebecca add, “You forget that Melinda and Conrad and I will not even be here! We, along with Cousin Amabelle, have been invited to Lady Bertrand’s house party all next month. After that, we are to go to Grandmother Howe for the rest of the winter. We shall not even return to town until the end of January. So you may disabuse yourselves of the idea that any of us will endanger the scheme.”
Retta had herself declined to share those invitations and had temporarily overlooked her own need for a chaperon if Cousin Amabelle were not present. Drat. Well, she would deal with that issue later.
* * * *
The next day, Retta and Gerald met in that same room with Jake Bolton, who had arrived to give them his response. Retta was slightly miffed when the man nodded his approval of the plan for him to appear to be a Bow Street Runner just as though his opinion were truly pertinent to the matter. Well, maybe it is, she conceded in an afterthought and reminded herself that she was grateful that he had shown up and was willing “to get on with this here project.”
Gerald had taken his customary position near the fireplace and Retta occupied a wing chair nearby. Bolton sat gingerly on the edge of the seat of a barrel chair facing her and twisting his cap, which he had refused to surrender to a footman, but hastily removed in the presence of a lady. He was dressed just as he had been two days earlier, though he had added an open sleeveless jerkin over the shirt. The streak of mud on his breeches had dried and been brushed off, but its stain was still visible.
“Our first consideration will be to see that you are properly attired,” she said when the preliminaries of his agreement had been established. “Perhaps as a clerk or a man of business. I have no idea how a Bow Street Runner dresses. My brother will see to that this afternoon. By the way, do you ride?”
“Yes, milady. Me folks is farmers. I learnt early on how ta sit a horse.”
“Farmers? I am guessing Yorkshire, but your accent is not so very pronounced,” she said.
“Yes, milady. Yorkshire. I ain’t bin back there in some yars now.”
“Riding in a London park is not quite the same as riding a draft animal on a farm, but I assume you are familiar with the basics, at least.”
“Yes, milady.”
He bent his head and Retta wondered if he might be hiding a grin.
* * * *
That night, Jake lay on a bed staring at the ceiling in what he assumed was a second-best guest chamber in the very large and richly appointed Blakemoor town house. Second best or not, it was the most luxurious accommodation Jake had enjoyed in many months. The room was done in shades of blue with a large, comfortable bed and a thick, figured carpet. An alcove contained an armoire and a marble-topped chest on which was a large porcelain basin and ewer. A deep-cushioned armchair and table were placed near the window. Two gas lamps provided light. He conjectured that at least a mile of convoluted hallway and stairs separated him from any of the family rooms on a different floor. Well, never mind. He would learn his way around soon enough.
Viscount Heaton had introduced Jake to the butler, Jeffries, and informed the man of a threat directed at Lady Henrietta and that Mr. Bolton had been hired to see to her protection.
“Very good, my lord,” the butler had said, but Jake was aware of the man’s subtle scrutiny. He was also aware that two footmen had been assigned to patrol this floor, albeit unobtrusively. Jake fully approved of Heaton’s or Jeffries’s taking precautions with a stranger in the household.
The excursion to procure “proper attire” had proved less of a problem than Lady Henrietta might have anticipated, for a Bow Street Runner might easily pass for a clerk or merchant on a London street. Back at the house, Jake was shown to his room and, since the rest of the residents were engaged for the evening, a footman had delivered Jake’s supper on a tray. He was pleased to see that someone—he suspected it was Jeffries—had thought to include a newspaper on that tray. The supper was excellent—a fine white fish in a lemony sauce, then lamb chops cooked perfectly. Blakemoor had obviously left his French chef at home. Yet another tie to France?
Jake congratulated himself on having passed the first hurdle—getting established in the household. As a soldier in winter quarters, he had once known a former actor who explained in answer to Jake’s question, “Getting into character is easier if you can forget you and just be this other person as you ‘strut and fret your hour upon the stage’ as the bard put it.” That advice had served Jake well more than once. The Yorkshire accent came smoothly enough; he was from Yorkshire. He had grown up hearing the speech of country folk—and his family were farmers—of a sort. The dukedom consisted of thousands of acres of farmland in Yorkshire and thousands more in Derbyshire, not to mention odd pieces of arable land in Hampshire and Kent. It was a family truism that Dukes of Holbrook never gave up any of the property achieved in several generations of marriage settlements. Moreover, from his maternal grandfather, Jake himself had inherited a vast estate comprised of several farms that had long been managed for the absent soldier by a capable steward.
A twinge of nostalgia prompted him to reread the letters Fenton had delivered to him. He usually tried not to think of being in England all these months, unable to visit his own land, to see to its proper working, to feel the soil, pat the backs of his animals. But most of all, being on English soil again brought home to him how much he missed his family despite a serious rift in the past. His three brothers and tw
o sisters—even his father—had been faithful about writing him while he was abroad, especially Elizabeth, the sister nearest him in age. Only seventeen when he’d last seen her, she was married now—happily so, according to her letters—with three children whom he longed to meet. Elizabeth had assured him that her older children, eight and six, were anxious to meet their war hero Uncle Jake and that neither they nor she understood why he was still in France with the war over and so many other soldiers coming home. His other sister, the oldest of the siblings, was also married—to a plantation owner in the Far East. Jake seldom heard from her.
Letters from his brothers were less frequent than those from Elizabeth and usually shorter, but they gave him glimpses into the life of wealthy young men about town. As a schoolboy and then university student, Jake, who had always felt quite close to his brothers, had been surprised by the jealousy and antipathy with which some of his classmates regarded their siblings. Yes, there had been an abundance of sibling rivalry among the children of the Duke of Holbrook, but the brothers always closed ranks against even the merest criticism from outside.
But that idyllic picture of familial accord had ended when Jake had been sent down from university during his third year for becoming involved in a public brawl defending the virtues of a female who had very few. It was the last straw for the Duke of Holbrook. Jake recalled vividly the dressing down he had received in the Holbrook library.
“You are too old for me to take a strap to you and a public flogging is out of the question, though I swear that is precisely what you deserve.” His father’s barely controlled fury and disgust had been indication enough to the youthful Jake that this time he had gone too far. The squealing pig let loose during the bishop’s boring sermon and a horse race that upset venders’ tables during a town festival had elicited stern rebukes, but nothing like this. “You will not bring another iota of shame to this family’s name. You are not welcome in this house—in any of my houses—until you have learned at least a shred of proper behavior. Henceforth, you will receive not one penny of allowance. I am purchasing a commission for you. See how you fair as a subaltern in the army. Perhaps the army will succeed where I have failed in teaching you any sense of proper decorum for one of your station.”
