My Fair Lord

by Wilma Counts

  Unless Lady Henrietta made particular demands for his presence, Jake now spent a good deal of time in the library, often ensconced in a big overstuffed chair off in a corner of that massive room, where he would not distract the men who worked there, or interfere with their business. In fact, neither Lord Alfred nor his secretary paid Jake much attention. He thought they mostly forgot he was there, buried in a book—at the moment Gibbon’s treatise on the decline and fall of the Roman Empire. Jake hoped to make it through all six volumes.

  But it had not escaped Lord Alfred’s notice. “I say, Bolton. First Homer and now Gibbon. Careful, lad, you are likely to turn into whatever the male equivalent of a bluestocking is.”

  “I notice this copy has some interesting notes in the margin that look distinctly like your handwriting, sir.”

  “Oops. Guilty as charged. Have you got to his discussions of Christianity yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Interesting stuff, that.” Lord Alfred had been standing next to a table on which there was a chess game set up, toying with chess pieces as he talked. He gave Jake a direct look and asked abruptly, “Do you play chess?”

  “I used to,” Jake admitted.

  “My brother is my usual opponent, but of course he is not here now. Care to join me?”

  Thus had begun what were regular chess matches between the two. Jake was sure the games, like his freedom of the library, were part of Lord Alfred’s plan to keep an eye on him, but the truth was they both enjoyed the games and they were fairly evenly matched.

  Often enough, Jake was alone in the library, with no one taking undue interest in his being there. This suited Jake very well, for he was able—surreptitiously—to keep track of some of the documents that passed from one of those desks to the other. However, of late there had been very little to excite any interest. Then one morning from his corner, Jake observed as a courier from Whitehall delivered a packet to Lord Alfred.

  “Sir, the duke would like your opinion of certain of these proposals by tomorrow morning if you can manage it,” the courier said.

  Lord Alfred examined them briefly, then nodded. “I shall deal with them right away.”

  Jake was annoyed when Lady Henrietta demanded that he accompany her and Annie on yet another shopping trip, and he was thus unable to hear any of the discourse that passed between Lord Alfred and his secretary regarding whatever it was the courier had delivered. When he returned late in the afternoon, both his lordship and his secretary had left the house and a hurried inspection of both desks revealed nothing of interest. Jake cursed his luck as he closed the secretary’s desk and started toward his favorite chair across the room. But something caught his eye. The corner of a piece of paper stuck out from under the edge of the desk blotter. He pulled it out to see that it was a small card, about five inches square, and filled with notations such as he had deciphered before. He made a hasty copy and returned the card precisely to where it had been.

  That evening as he and Lord Alfred were well into their second game, Lady Henrietta had bounced in to bid her uncle good night. And ruined any chance Jake had of winning that game. He rarely took notice of a woman’s apparel, but her gown this evening was perfect for her. Her hair was arranged so as to leave a long strand along one side of her neck. A topaz necklace drew attention to that most delectable bosom, and he had caught a whiff of her usual scent. He ground his teeth silently cursing every man who was likely to dance with her this night.

  When Jake lost that game, Lord Alfred said, “Somehow I don’t think your mind was focused. Sure you are up to another game?”

  “Of course. You just got incredibly lucky that time.”

  Lord Alfred gave him a knowing look. “Uh-huh. Have it your way. I will replenish our drinks as you set the board up again.”

  But again they were deep into a game when they were interrupted. This time, it was Sir Cecil Lindstrom dressed in formal evening attire.

  “I am on my way to a small gathering at Carlton House,” he announced, casually dropping the name of the Prince Regent’s residence. “But I thought I would pop in to see how my favorite patient is doing.”

  Lord Alfred snorted. “Your favorite patient, indeed. What happened to the Duchess of Devonshire?”

  “Off to the country, it seems. So—how are you? Breathing all right, are you?” He grabbed Lord Alfred’s wrist to feel for the pulse. “Hmm. Seems fine.”

  “May I get you a drink, Lindstrom?” Lord Alfred asked. “We are having cognac, but I can offer you port.”

  “Ah, yes. Cognac is fine.”

  “Such exalted company you keep tonight,” Lord Alfred said as he went to the sideboard for the drink. “I suppose I should feel flattered.”

  Lindstrom had not sat down and as Lord Alfred got up to pour the man’s drink, the doctor wandered about the room. Had Jake not been watching keenly he would have missed his pause at the desk normally used by Henry Morrow. Pretending to study the chessboard, Jake saw the doctor slip that card from under the blotter and hastily consign it to an inner pocket of his coat.

  Lord Alfred returned with the drink and motioned his friend a chair nearby. Lindstrom sat and chatted amiably, often dropping a name of this or that notable of society. He was not exactly rude, but his conversation barely included Jake. Which was all right with Jake. He wanted a moment to absorb the implications of what he had seen. He wished he could follow the man, but that was probably foolish. It could very well be that the man was off to precisely where he said he was going.

  Lindstrom swallowed the last of his drink. “Well, I must be off. Prinny hates for his guests to be late. Glad to see you doing so well, my friend.”

  Lord Alfred saw him to the door and returned to the game.

  “Now, where were we? Hmm. Better watch that queen of yours.”

  Jake lost this game too.

  Chapter 13

  The Christmas party at Blakemoor House was small. During the season—only a few weeks away—it would scarcely be noted by the gossip mongers, who had to be satisfied now with whatever crumbs they could pick up. As one tabloid writer put it,

  With so many of London’s renowned hostesses out of town during this holiday season, it comes as welcome news that one of our great houses is keeping up with tradition. The question on everyone’s mind is: Might we expect there to be an “important announcement” at this soiree? Lady HP and a certain viscount are keeping mum.

  Retta ignored such speculation as best she could, but she surmised this was the primary reason not one person had sent regrets to her invitations. The guest list had grown beyond what they had originally intended to that point that Retta and her aunt had briefly considered opening the ball room. “No, our guest list is not that large yet,” they had agreed and neither of them wanted the overwhelming numbers that seemed to please so many ton hostesses.

  For Retta, one of the happiest aspects of this event was that her brother Richard would be there to enjoy it with her and her other favorite relatives. Unbeknownst to her, he had arrived one night when she was out late attending a play. She had squealed with delight as he walked into the breakfast room the next morning.

  She jumped up from her place at the table to hug him. “You might have warned us!”

  “What? And spoil the surprise?” He hugged her tightly. “I heard you were having a party. Couldn’t let you do that without me.”

  Gerald continued in his place to slather butter on a piece of toast. “The truth is the army discovered what a useless tool he is and sent him home. Is that not right, Uncle Alfred?”

  “Not exactly,” Uncle Alfred said, lowering his coffee cup to its saucer. “We have repositioned several regiments. Richard’s is one of them.”

  “I like my story better,” Gerald said.

  “You would,” Richard responded lightly.

  “I do not care at all,” Retta said, giving Richard
another squeeze before returning to her seat. “I am just glad to have you here. And doubly glad you will be here for the party.”

  “So where do you go next?” Gerald asked, shoving a forkful of scrambled egg into his mouth.

  “I am not sure,” Richard answered as a footman placed a full plate of sausage and eggs in front of him. “The rumor is Belgium. Uncle?”

  Uncle shook his head. “You know very well I cannot answer that.”

  “You mean will not,” Richard said in an amiable tone. Then he asked in a false display of addressing the room at large, “Does it occur to anyone else how wholly useless it is at times to have relatives in high places?” Uncle Alfred merely snorted, and Richard turned to his sister. “So—oh wise and lovely eldest of the Blakemoor brood—is that tattlemonger right? Are you planning to make an interesting announcement at this party?”

  Retta felt herself blushing. Involuntarily she looked at Jake Bolton two seats down on the opposite side of the table. He looked up and held her gaze. She thought she read amusement and curiosity—but something else too. Something more intense. Something that set her pulse to fluttering.

  She quickly lowered her gaze and said brightly to her brother, “No. Not yet. Believe me, you will know before the tabloids do!”

  In the last two days, Retta and Aunt Georgiana had worked diligently themselves or supervised servants in making and hanging decorations for their Christmas party. Garlands of greenery with bright ribbons woven into them draped fireplace mantles. Retta loved the tangy scent of evergreens that permeated the public rooms and hallways and the bright shiny green leaves and red berries of the seasonal holly. They had decided that the primary entertainment—caroling and dancing—would take place in the music room. Musicians hired to provide soft music during supper in the dining room would later move to the music room.

  The music room received special attention as they decorated. Swags of greenery draped the fireplace and were hung along one wall as well, but the center of attention was a giant kissing ball suspended from the ceiling. Made of evergreen sprigs interspersed with holly and an abundance of mistletoe, it, too, had colorful ribbons woven through it. A good deal of giggles and teasing had accompanied its construction.

  Retta also took special care in “decorating” herself for this occasion. Earlier she had commissioned a new gown of a blue so pale as to be almost white. An overskirt of silver lace gave the garment an ethereal look. Annie had twirled bits of the lace into Retta’s upswept hairdo. She wore her mother’s simple diamond necklace and earbobs.

  “Oh, my dear,” Aunt Georgiana said when Retta presented herself in their shared sitting room, “you look like the snow princess of Russian legend.”

  “Indeed yes,” Madame Laurent murmured.

  “You are in very fine looks yourselves, ladies,” Retta said gesturing at her aunt’s rich burgundy silk and the companion’s soft green gown. “Shall we go down?”

  In the drawing room they found that her uncle and her brothers, along with Mr. Bolton, were already sipping at before-dinner drinks. All four men were dressed in formal evening wear. While Mr. Bolton’s attire did not seem to be in the first stare of fashion, he certainly did not stand out as some sort of aberration. In fact, Retta thought him strikingly handsome. She recalled Melinda’s having said something to the effect that he would “clean up well.” Well, she thought with an inward sigh, Melinda certainly called that one right.

  The ladies were supplied with drinks—sherry or ratafia—and there was the usual anticipatory chitchat until guests began to arrive. With fewer than forty guests, they had decided against a formal receiving line. Despite the fact that so many people were out of town, Retta and her aunt felt they had put together a group that would have pleased any hostess at any time of the year—and that they had achieved not only a nice balance of males and females, but also had seen to adequate representation of both their generations. Retta’s one regret was that her friends, Hero and Harriet, would not be here to enjoy it with her. But she had promised to write them afterwards with anything of note.

  * * * *

  Drink in hand, Jake wandered around the room, refusing to be drawn too deeply into any conversation. The family and he had agreed earlier that he would be introduced simply as “Mr. Bolton” with the implication that he had once been associated with Aunt Georgiana’s late husband, though many guests would probably conclude that he was the Bow Street Runner they had heard about. There were a couple of raised eyebrows, and Sir Cecil Lindstrom more or less ignored him, but no one gave him the cut direct, and most people greeted him cordially.

  Jake had been unable to contact Fenton since learning that Lindstrom was involved with Henry Morrow and the leak of information, so he welcomed being introduced to Colonel Lord Peter Fenton who, Jake was told, worked with the Foreign Office. Jake acted suitably impressed and offered his hand in greeting, thereby passing to Peter a copy of the information he had retrieved from the card Lindstom had later filched from Morrow’s desk. As both he and Fenton wandered from one group to another, Jake was able, in small snatches of discreet conversation, to alert Fenton to the doctor’s interest in the matter.

  * * * *

  Later Jake saw Fenton join a group that included Lindstrom and Madame Laurent. Jake had worried about this before-supper mingling of guests. If Lady Davenport or Lord Ralston were to recognize him, it would probably be then.

  Lady Davenport did seek him out to thank him again for saving her child. “I just cannot get over the feeling that I should know you, sir.”

  Jake looked at her blandly and said, “As I said before, it would seem that I just have one of those very common countenances.”

  “Perhaps . . .” she said doubtfully.

  Jake excused himself and retreated to a different part of the room.

  His meeting with Lord Ralston had gone much as Fenton had predicted. Ralston lifted his quizzing glass to peer at Jake briefly, murmured a proper “How do you do?” and moved on. A short while later, Jake saw Fenton chatting with Ralston and even later Fenton managed to tell Jake, “Had to remind him who I was. I think you are safe.”

  Everyone seemed to understand that Lady Henrietta and her aunt had instigated this gathering, but Jake noted that the “honors” of hosting went to Lord Alfred and Lady Georgiana who, at supper, respectively occupied the head and foot of the table. The two ladies had assigned places to their guests with some eye to social protocol, while also taking into consideration that this was an informal affair and paired people according to perceived interests. Thus Richard was partnered with a young lady with whom he seemed enchanted at moment and Jake went into supper with Lady Henrietta. Jake felt a moment of triumph that he had won out over Viscount Willitson, whose name was so often linked with Lady Henrietta’s, but she quashed that idea by explaining quietly, “This way I can deflect any awkwardness that might come up.”

  “Afraid I will use the wrong fork, are you?” he asked in an undertone.

  “Of course not,” she declared. “But in case you have questions about how to go on . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  He noted that across the table, Dr. Lindstrom was seated with Madame Laurent, and the two often had their heads together in private conversation that Jake knew his mother would have considered “not quite the thing.” Jake was glad that both Lady Davenport and Lord Ralston were seated some distance from him and on the same side of the table. Earlier Jake had been introduced to the Marquis of Trentham and his wife. They were among the age group that included Lord Alfred and Lady Georgiana. In the course of small talk before and during the meal, Jake was reminded that Trentham was one of Lindstrom’s patients; the doctor often treated the Marquis for gout.

  Following the meal, the ladies excused themselves to the drawing room and servants set out decanters of port and brandy for the gentlemen.

  “I must caution you, gentlemen,” Lord Alfred said, “I am unde
r strict orders to minimize this part of the evening.”

  “The tyranny of women,” someone said with a laugh.

  Then, as such conversations were wont to do, their discussion turned to politics and news from the continent. Jake was alert to what others were saying, but he was particularly attuned to any comment or reaction of Sir Cecil Lindstrom, though he knew how unlikely it would be that Lindstrom would let slip anything of interest in this setting. The topic of major interest was, of course, the impending change in leadership of England’s delegation to the Congress. The group was evenly divided in favoring Secretary Castlereagh or his replacement.

  “I’m sure Wellington is a fine soldier,” said Lord Jamison, a particular friend of Lord Alfred. Jake knew that Jamison, who wore a rather old-fashioned wig, was a retired veteran of the wars in the colonies some thirty years and more ago. “I never served with him, but it seems to me diplomacy should be left to diplomats. Castlereagh is a diplomat. Knows his way around those Russians and Prussians.”

  “Not to mention the Austrians and the French,” someone muttered.

  “My wife and I were in Paris this September,” Lord Davenport said. “Wellington seemed to get on well enough in diplomatic circles there. He should do as well in Vienna.”

  “We hope,” Gerald said, handing a decanter to the man next to him.

  “I just returned from two weeks in Paris,” Sir Michael Hamilton said as though to establish his credentials. “The duke may get on well there in high places, but all those ex-soldiers on the streets hate him mightily.”

  “To the point that one of them took a shot at him a few weeks ago,” Richard offered.

  “Well, now,” Sir Cecil Lindstrom said, “with Wellington, you never know. Could just as well have been a jealous husband exacting revenge.”