My Fair Lord

by Wilma Counts

  “Lady Henrietta, mostly,” the housekeeper answered. “Lord Alfred plays too, but not so often as she does. Lady Melinda had lessons, but I don’t think she fancies it any more. Lord Heaton plays the violin.”

  Jake strolled over to the piano and struck a few keys. The instrument was definitely in tune.

  “Do you play?” Mrs. Browning again seemed mildly surprised.

  Jake quickly caught himself. “Nay. But I likes ta listen, ye ken?” He wanted to bite his tongue at the lie. The Duchess of Holbrook had required that each of her children master at least one instrument. Jake’s had been the piano. His fingers fairly itched to try out this instrument.

  “The other rooms in the back on this floor, besides the morning room, which ye’ve seen, are upper servant’s quarters and some service rooms. Kitchen, the servant’s dining hall, and footmen’s quarters are in the basement. Maids have rooms in the attic.”

  Her tone suggested that she had shown him as much as she could, so he thanked her and returned to his own room where he changed into his most nondescript street wear. The terms of his “agreement” with Lady Henrietta allowed him one afternoon and evening a week free. Jake knew it was standard among the ton to allow servants such time off and he had insisted on it for himself—largely to facilitate his meetings with Fenton.

  Early on, he and Fenton had decided it would not be wise to meet always at the same location. After walking some distance from Blakemoor House, Jake flagged a hackney cab. He was not surprised when the driver made a common worker prove he had the fare before taking him up. This time the meeting was at a coaching inn that served a varied clientele of local laborers and coach travelers. Typical of his and Fenton’s meeting places, this one was dimly lit, making it difficult to discern the faces of patrons at neighboring tables. Candles on each table helped, but only just.

  “Well, has the lovely Lady H made you a gentleman yet?” Fenton asked when they had finished ordering a meal and a mug of ale each from a comely barmaid.

  Jake grinned. “She is trying. Taught me table manners so far and she is working at ridding me of the farmer’s accent.”

  “Mind you don’t learn too quickly. I still think you might be in a position to learn some valuable information there. Try to get closer to the servants—Blakemoor’s and others. Hitchens and Trentham both live in that neighborhood, too, you know. Servants always know more than anyone wants them to, and they share gossip from house to house.”

  “Right,” Jake said. “So far all I’ve learned is that Blakemoor’s offspring are mostly quite ordinary.”

  “A peer’s family is hardly ‘ordinary’—as you well know.”

  “‘Ordinary’ for who they are. Lady Henrietta does not fit the mold, but her sisters seem to be the usual self-centered, spoiled misses you so often find on the marriage mart. Hard to see them as serious agents.”

  “You never know. Remember that sweet Spanish girl in Toledo? A general’s daughter too!” Fenton finished his meal, pushed his plate aside, and leaned forward. “Anyway, we’ve had a bit of luck in Devon this week.”

  Jake merely lifted an eyebrow as he reached for his mug.

  “The militia arrested a smuggler near Plymouth who carried documents naming assistants to our negotiators in Paris and Vienna.”

  “Hmm. Assistants, eh? Trying to find possibilities for bribery or blackmail?”

  “You always were a bright lad, Bodwyn,” Fenton said. “That was our immediate assumption too.”

  “This smuggler. Did he know what he was doing, or was he just a courier? Can he be turned?”

  “We are working on that angle.” Fenton drew a folded piece of paper from inside his coat. “Take this and see if you can figure out later what the devil it is all about.”

  “What is it?” Jake asked as he took it and slid it into an inside pocket in his own coat.

  “A copy of something Richter found on the blotter on a desk in Lord Trentham’s place. You do remember that Richter is passing as a Trentham footman?”

  Jake nodded and Fenton went on. “It is from the blotter, so was rather smudged and fragmented, but Richter copied it exactly as it appeared. If you look at with a mirror, you can make out what appear to be words and numbers, but none of it makes any sense.”

  “Code?”

  “Very likely. But nothing we’ve seen before. And no clue as to who left it. Trentham has had a number of guests in recent weeks; some were holdovers from all those victory celebrations this summer. Trentham himself has been laid up with a serious attack of gout—hence an unusual number of callers as well as his physician who comes every day. Anyway, you were always good at decoding messages, so I thought to give you a go at it.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  Fenton rose, paid his tab, and left. Jake ordered another mug of ale and sat nursing it for the next half hour, and then he too left. Back at Blakemoor house—after going through the same ritual with a hackney driver regarding his ability to pay—Jake briefly studied the paper Fenton had given him, but gave it up after a while, and settled into the leather-bound volume he had borrowed from the earl’s library.

  * * * *

  For Retta, the next two weeks were fairly ordinary—on the surface at least. She went out three times with David, Viscount Willitson, in his new curricle, and was grateful that he did not renew his suit in earnest, though he did say on one occasion that he “hoped to win her regard on a deeper level than he had achieved heretofore.” Retta put him off with a laugh and suggested that they concentrate on establishing a firm friendship before taking on anything more serious. His agreement seemed reluctant, but he had agreed, and the outing proceeded quite pleasantly. Retta was aware of the fact that these excursions took place in Hyde Park during the hours in which London’s elites sought to see and be seen, and that her appearance with Willitson was likely to renew gossip in that quarter. She was not surprised when two hostesses saw fit to make the viscount her dinner partner.

  Despite the gossip that had followed his sister’s disclosure to Rebecca—and thus to the world at large: that the Viscount Willitson had proposed marriage to her—the two of them managed to reestablish a comfortable, though far from intimate relationship, and both managed to deflect presumptuous hints of “an interesting announcement” to come. Such hints, usually from pretentious dowagers, became private sources of amusement between them. Willitson was not much of a reader and his knowledge of current affairs was largely a knowledge of who was having an affair with whom among the ton, but he was discreet in relating such on dits to her, and the information made seeing these notables in the park or at evening soirees rather interesting at times. As Rebecca had reminded everyone at the time of that infamous bet, Willitson was a member of the Prince Regent’s crowd and his insights into the machinations of this or that member of the government added spice to what was reported in the newspapers.

  She could not help comparing her discussions with Willitson to those she had with Mr. Bolton. Sensing that he did not really want to discuss his family and youth in any detail, Retta had sought other means of dealing with his diction and vocabulary. When weather permitted, they would sit in the garden; on other occasions—more frequent now that winter was clearly in the offing—they would utilize the morning room. When it was just the two of them on morning rides—as it often was—they would discuss “safer” topics of reports in the newspapers: progress in the Paris discussions, labor unrest in the Midlands, calls for parliamentary reform, and so on. Retta found these discussions far more stimulating than those with Willitson, but she meticulously refused to examine too closely just why she did so.

  Their sessions began to assume a pattern. She would either read a passage from a newspaper or bring up a topic she had read about earlier, and then they would share their views on it. At first, he surprised her in that he had frequently read the same item, but later she simply accepted that he might well have s
ome familiarity with a given topic, for, after all, the man had never made a secret of the fact that he was literate. However, his being able to read something was distinctly different from his being able to discuss it in the sophisticated manner expected of a true gentleman.

  On one occasion, she had read a report from the Times of the Irish Secretary’s plan to set up a Royal Irish Constabulary in the city of Dublin.

  “What do you think of Sir Robert Peel’s plan?” she asked.

  “I dunno. Mebbe them Irishers needs policin’.”

  “‘I do not know. Perhaps the Irish need a police force,’” she corrected.

  “Aye.” He repeated it as she had phrased it, then added, “But I misdoubt Dublin needs one any more’n London does.”

  “Just say ‘doubt,’ not ‘misdoubt.’ And try not to slur your words together: ‘more than’ not ‘more’n.’”

  “Aye, milady. I mean, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

  “Good. You really are improving, Mr. Bolton. And I must admit that you are doing so far more rapidly than I had thought you would.”

  “I am tryin’.”

  She made no attempt to suppress her smile. “‘I am trying.’ Try not to drop the g.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  His answering grin sent one of those familiar tinges of warmth, which she told herself to ignore, but not before enjoying it and offering him a smile. “Back to the point: Do you see a need for a police force in the rest of Britain?”

  “Aye. I mean, yes, I think I does—do. In cities, anyways. London, Glasgow, Manchester, ‘n’ so on. Local magistrates can’t handle all the different crimes, ye ken. The militia should be called on only fer matters pertainin’ to the whole nation—smugglers, an’ major unrest—that sort o’ thing.”

  “Hmm. I had not considered it quite that way,” she said, not bothering to correct his diction. “Certainly, the present system, with wealthy folk hiring their own protection—often in the form of additional service staff—is neither very consistent nor very efficient.”

  “Right.”

  Occasionally, she would bring up such topics during the morning rides when Uncle Alfred accompanied them. After all, this was a mode of discourse she and her uncle had shared ever since she had reached an age approaching adulthood. She noted that Mr. Bolton and the older man often shared political views and vigorously discussed the nuances of this or that issue. She intentionally did not correct Mr. Bolton’s use of language on these occasions, but she was glad to see him sometimes correct himself—and she noted that he made far fewer errors with her uncle than with just herself. She thought perhaps he was trying to show her that her efforts were not being wasted.

  She brought this up to him at one of their sessions in the morning room. “Is it my imagination, or is your speech distinctly better in some instances than in others?”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment, then he grinned and said, “I’m a learnin’, milady.”

  “Yes, you are.” She handed him one of two books she had brought to this session. “But you will need to know how to address people properly in social situations and perhaps follow their discussions of others too. This should help. Please read this and absorb as much of it as you can.”

  “What is it?”

  “Debrett’s. The Correct Peerage of England, Scotland and Ireland.”

  “Thick as it is, this Debrett fellow must not of left anyone out.” He hefted the book which fell open; Jake glanced at an entry. “Hmm. Don’t leave out much about anyone, either. Names their children, even.”

  “I believe he did try to be thorough, but this was published more than ten years ago, so it may be somewhat out of date. Uncle Alfred has made occasional corrections in the margins. However, it truly may help you to place people and names you may encounter.”

  He grinned. “Homework, eh?”

  “You might put it that way.” She stacked the second book on the first. “Here is another you will find useful: A Gentleman’s Handbook: The Complete Guide to Proper Behavior in Social Situations. This author chose to remain anonymous, but some suspect he may be one of Beau Brummel’s crowd.”

  “More homework? You sure the author is a man? Seems to me them are topics more innerestin’ to women than men.”

  “‘Those topics are more interesting,’” she corrected. “You may be right. The countess bought the book for my brothers.”

  “Well, ’tis only a guess, but I’d say them two learned more from observing Lord Alfred and probly their father than from any book.”

  “‘Those two’ and probably you are right again, but if one has not had the advantage of such models, one might find the book of some use.”

  Jake wanted to laugh out loud. His mother had once pressed exactly such reading material on her sons—particularly when one or more of them had committed a social faux pas—like shoving past a sister to be first at something or other. “Sit there and read for an hour,” she would say. He wanted to share the joke with his Lady Henrietta, but he would have to be satisfied with sharing it with Fenton.

  * * * *

  Blakemoor House was at sixes and sevens these days as the two younger women of the house, plus the husband of one of them, prepared to leave the city for the winter. Retta tried to avoid the chaos as much as possible, ignoring the trunks spilling over from the bedchambers Rebecca and Melinda had used for years to the sitting room they shared with her. There were also flurries of activity between this area of the house and the master’s chambers that Rebecca and Lenninger occupied temporarily. Retta chose to just stay out of the way by accepting invitations she might otherwise have ignored or by subjecting her pupil to additional lessons.

  It happened that one afternoon, the five Blakemoor siblings, along with Rebecca’s husband, were gathered after lunch in the drawing room. Gerald had thought it prudent for the six of them to meet before the younger women and Lenninger departed for the country.

  Rebecca was the last to arrive. She made a show of looking around. “So. Where is your pupil?” she said to Retta. “Should he not be here too?”

  “We did not think it necessary,” Gerald answered from his usual standing position of authority near the fireplace. The others were scattered about the nearest grouping of seats.

  “And the lessons? Are they going well?” Rebecca’s tone was a blend of derision and curiosity.

  Retta lifted her chin. “Well enough. He is an apt student.”

  “Hmm. Judging by his manners and discourse at lunch today, I would venture to say you have much to do yet. I think my emeralds are safe.”

  Retta felt her jaw tighten, but she merely schooled her voice to a false sweetness. “You have not won the bet yet, my dear. We shall see what transpires when you return.” The truth was that the idea of winning Rebecca’s emeralds, though they were worth a fortune, did not appeal much to Retta, but the idea of losing her beloved Moonstar was nothing short of heart wrenching.

  “I think Bolton’s a great gun,” Richard observed. “He seems to be trying his best.”

  “Yes, he is,” Retta agreed.

  “He certainly looks better than he did on that dock,” Melinda said. “He will cut a fine figure in evening wear. You may be sorry for your choice after all, Rebecca.”

  “Just remember: handsome is as handsome does, and he must be accepted in the best circles of the ton.” Rebecca’s voice had an edge to it.

  Gerald shifted his stance and looked at his younger sisters in turn. “And you just remember that while you are gone, there must be no whisper of this affair. After all, even in the country, you will be socializing with some of London’s finest. Any whisper of scandal will extend far beyond the six of us. Mama would be furious. No doubt the Dowager Lady Lenninger would react the same way. You must be very careful.”

  Her husband shifted uneasily in his seat and Rebecca said, “I do wish you would stop assuming
that Melinda, Lenninger, and I are incapable of keeping a secret.”

  “I merely wanted to reinforce the gravity of the situation,” Gerald said.

  “Well, now you have.” Rebecca rose abruptly and gestured to her husband. “We must get on with our preparations for leaving early in the morning.”

  * * * *

  The Lenningers, Melinda, and Cousin Amabelle—amidst a flurry of last-minute reminders to other family members and servants—were finally on their way the next morning. Baron Lenninger and his baroness rode in style in his crested traveling carriage. Melinda and Cousin Amabelle occupied a hired carriage with servants and luggage in yet another rented carriage. All three vehicles were accompanied by armed outriders and Lenninger footmen riding with the coachmen.

  Retta heaved a sigh as the entourage pulled out. Then she and Mrs. Browning spent the next few hours supervising footmen and maids in moving furniture around and preparing rooms for the arrival of Lady Georgiana and Madame Laurent.

  Chapter 7

  Jake welcomed the departure of those four members of the household. He found Lenninger and his wife to be fashionable fribbles and Lady Melinda seemed determined to emulate the baroness. Cousin Amabelle was simply pathetic, operating as she did within her own confused understanding of reality. He felt sure he could safely eliminate these four as being of any real interest in terms of his primary mission.

  As he came to know the residents of Blakemoor House better, he was inclined to dismiss the idea that any of them could be directly involved in purloining information for foreign elements. Lord Alfred, the member of the family with regular access to truly sensitive information, seemed very much old-school English, absolutely devoted to king and country. The younger ones were more Whig than Tory, but Gerald, Viscount Heaton, whose position in the Foreign Office might have afforded him some remote opportunity for espionage, just did not seem the type. But remember the girl in Toledo, he reminded himself. Richard, the low-ranking Guards officer, did not have the sort of access necessary for a concerted spy. And besides that, Richard’s army unit was being deployed to Cornwall to supplement the local militia in its attempt to control coastal smugglers.