My Fair Lord

by Wilma Counts

  One day as her aunt and Madame Laurent were entertaining callers in the drawing room, Retta commandeered the morning room for a tutorial session with Jake. Mr. Bolton. She really must stop thinking of him as Jake. Both were dressed casually. She had donned a soft blue print muslin with a dark blue woolen shawl to fend off the winter chill in even the finest of houses. He wore his buckskins with a gray wool jerkin over an open-collared blue shirt that emphasized the blue of his eyes. Her attention kept straying to a hint of dark hair she glimpsed at that open collar. What would it be like to touch it? To kiss that hollow at the base of his throat? She gave herself a mental shake and turned to the business at hand.

  She made up improbable scenarios for him. What if he were introduced to a dowager duchess and her daughter-in-law at the same time? To a younger son of a duke—no, not the heir? To a high-ranking member of the clergy? To this or that member of the royal family?

  “Do you really think I will need to know all this—these fine distinctions in ranks—for a single evening at a ball?” he asked, sitting back in his chair and waving a hand at the copy of Debrett’s guide that lay on the table.

  “Perhaps not. Heaven knows people with titles often make mistakes themselves—but they would get away with it, while you might be shown as an imposter.”

  “And you would lose your bet.”

  “And I would lose my bet,” she said glumly. She could hardly add that the thought of losing him was far more troubling, now, could she?

  “Does winning mean so much to you?”

  “Winning for itself alone? No. But the very thought of losing Moonstar—” Her voice caught as she looked at him, not even trying to hide the worry and pain that seized her.

  He sat up straighter and leaned across the expanse of the table between them to grasp her hand. “I shall do my best to ensure that you do not lose, my lady.”

  “Thank you.” Without conscious thought, she turned her hand so as to grip his. She looked at their clasped hands and allowed the warmth and security of his touch to enfold her.

  He cleared his throat and, still holding her hand, said, “Lady Henrietta, I fear we are drifting into dangerous waters.”

  She did not pretend to misunderstand, but she did seek to lighten the mood. “Is that a metaphor from your days at sea?”

  He smiled. “Not exactly, but it fits, does it not?”

  “It fits.” She reluctantly withdrew her hand. “But this is a ship that should never have set sail.”

  “Floundering, perhaps, but not yet sunk, I think.”

  She laughed softly. “I like a man who is able to express optimism in the face of great odds.”

  “Well, then, I’m your man,” he said lightly and sat back in his chair. Silence ensued for a moment or two as she idly riffled the pages of the book that lay between them, and then he added, “What next, oh Socrates of the fair sex?”

  She had been thinking that she wished he really were her man, but his question brought a dose of reality. “Socrates? Where did that come from?”

  He shrugged and would not meet her gaze. “I—I don’t know. Just popped in from somewhere.”

  “Just as your other learned allusions have done, I suppose.”

  “I am not sure what you mean.” He sounded guarded.

  She sensed an immediate shift in the tone of their conversation—a chilly shift—but she doggedly pursued. “‘If music be the food of love . . .’ Or, ‘the child is father of the man.’”

  Again he shrugged, but this time he held her gaze. “One picks up phrases here and there. In three decades of living, things is likely to rub off, dinna ye ken?”

  “Standard English will do very well,” she snapped. “There is no need to revert to that countrified dialect.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I think there must be more to it than that.”

  “I am not wholly sure of what you mean by ‘it,’” he said, and she wondered if he were stalling, trying to put her off.

  “Those allusions. Your expertise with language. Your riding skills. Not to mention that you handled yourself very well at our Christmas party even when Lady Davenport made such a ridiculous scene. And the dinner on Christmas day. I am thinking there is far more to Jake Bolton than meets the eye.”

  “There is probably more to anyone than meets the eye,” he countered. “I thought I was behaving as you wished me to. I simply cannot offer you any more than that.”

  “Cannot? Or will not?”

  “Have it as you wish.”

  He was dissembling. She was sure he was, and it infuriated her. She wanted to demand flatly that he explain himself, but she dared not do so. Five more weeks. Six at the most.

  She gathered up the book and some papers she had brought with her and said, “I think we shall continue this session at another time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He stood as she did and even his acquiescence annoyed her. She left the room abruptly and almost immediately began chastising herself. Lady Henrietta Parker, normally forthright and direct, had turned into the sort of equivocator that she hated. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. Who did he think he was—to be playing such games with other people? Why didn’t she just have it out with him?

  But she knew why.

  That damned bet.

  She dared not upset the status quo at this stage, but, by heavens, before he just strolled out of her life, Mr. Jake Bolton would damned well explain himself!

  * * * *

  Jake knew and regretted that she was angry. Truth to tell, she had a right to be angry. His mind dwelt on the picture she presented: the blue of her garments, enhancing the gray of her eyes and her square neckline, allowing a better than usual glimpse of tantalizing bosom. He had taken her hand impulsively, but her welcoming the touch had aroused him as more erotic touches from others never had. He would try to smooth things over with her later in the day. However, he did not see her the rest of that day and at supper, Lady Georgiana announced that her niece was having a tray in her room as she had a theatre engagement that evening. With Willitson. Willitson again. Jake kept asking himself how a woman could kiss a man as she had kissed him—twice—and continue to encourage another man. His body tightened at the mere memory of those kisses, and he was convinced they had meant as much to her as to him. Well, he did not have time to dwell upon it now.

  Early in the evening, he met Fenton at yet another out-of-the-way pub. This one was a shade more pleasant than the last one, with fresh rushes on the floor and the tables wiped clean. A short, stubby candle cast light on their table, though there were gas lanterns at either end of the bar. Seven or eight other patrons chatted among themselves, occasionally calling out a drink order or a joke to the barman.

  “You look as though you’d like to plant a facer on the first bloke that crossed your path,” Fenton said when they were seated and nursing tankards of ale.

  “Can’t plant a facer on a lady,” Jake said, sliding his stein on the table from one hand to the other.

  “Oh-ho. The Lady Henrietta proving difficult, is she? I thought the two of you looked to be in some accord under that kissing ball.”

  “She grows increasingly suspicious of me. So does her uncle. I need you to get me out of there. I need to contact my family. The last letters you gave me indicated that my father might be seriously ill.” He took a drink from the stein and set it down forcefully. “I need to be me.”

  Fenton nodded sympathetically. “Can you hang on for a bit longer? We are seeing some progress. With his permission, we planted some deliberately misleading information in the packet Trentham carries around from time to time. We are waiting now to see where it ends up.”

  “You suspect Trentham?”

  “Not Trentham. Someone close to him. His butler, Talbot. He is French and he once had a close tie to the family of the Comte
de Laurent and, by extension of course, with Moreau. Talbot and Morrow are sometimes seen together in one of those gambling hells in Seven Dials.”

  Jake shook his head. “Seven Dials? That’s rough territory. Worse than Spitalfields.”

  Fenton nodded his agreement and took a long swallow from his tankard. “And the play is deep there.”

  “So these two are selling information to foreign agents to pay off gambling debts?”

  “Possibly. The Moreau-Laurent ties to the Bourbons in former times may offer another incentive if Talleyrand is offering a return of properties confiscated during the revolution.”

  “And then there is the good doctor, Sir Cecil,” Jake said.

  “He seemed very attentive to Madame Laurent at that Christmas party—but where the hell does he fit into this tangled web?”

  Both drained their drinks and neither said anything for a moment. Then Fenton said, “Would you like another?” When Jake merely shook his head negatively, Fenton added in an almost pleading tone, “Can you stick it out for a few more weeks?”

  “Yes. I promised Lady Henrietta I would try to help her win that ludicrous bet.”

  Fenton grinned. “At the party I thought you presented yourself quite well as a gentleman. Her lessons are doing some good.”

  “About this business of planting someone a facer . . .”

  Jake took a hackney cab to within about a mile of Blakemoor House, then walked the rest of way in a soft but persistent rain, mulling over the information Peter Fenton had given him. The Marquis of Trentham, when he was not laid up with an attack of gout, was an active member of Parliament with a strong interest in the doings of the Foreign Office. Furthermore, he was a close friend of Lord Castlereagh. It was not inconceivable that the two men carried on an active correspondence in which they openly shared their views on just what England’s interests would be in the new design of continental Europe now that Bonaparte’s empire was a thing of the past.

  So, Jake thought, at least two parts of the English government might be sources of information for spies who work for a foreign entity—or, perhaps the information is being peddled to different recipients. Obviously, Morrow and Lindstrom are coding and passing on information from the office of the army’s Commander-in-Chief. But to whom? To the same person or persons receiving information for which Trentham seems the ultimate, if unknowing, source? Trentham’s Foreign Office information would logically be of most interest to negotiators in Vienna squabbling over who gets what in the way of territory. Is Talbot working with Morrow and Lindstrom? Are those ancient familial ties important to the investigation? Or are they merely coincidental? One thing is certain: one or more of these treasonous fellows had a hand in killing Richter. And—by God!—Richter’s death will not go unpunished!

  As he entered Blakemoor House, the footman at the door this evening said, “Ah, there you are. Lord Alfred asked for you. He is in the library.”

  Jake hurried up to his room, quickly divested himself of his outer cloak, ran a towel over his wet hair, and dashed back down to the library. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Lord Alfred was in his favorite winged chair near the fireplace. “Just wondered if you’d be interested in a game or two. Didn’t realize you’d gone out.”

  “I met a friend for a drink, but his wife keeps him on a short leash, so we ended early. You sure you are ready for more abuse from lady luck?” Jake moved the small table and the chess board and set in front of the old man and pulled a chair opposite for himself.

  Lord Alfred snorted as he began to set up the board. “Luck has nothing to do with it, my boy. Chess is a game of skill and strategy. But it does require fortification—so grab yourself a glass from the sideboard there—I have the bottle right here.”

  “You are well prepared, I see.”

  * * * *

  Earlier in the day, Retta had welcomed the idea of going to the theater with Willitson. Anything to keep her from dwelling on her frustration with Jake Bolton. But she missed more of the performance than she actually saw because her mind kept swinging from that truncated session with Jake Bolton to what she was fast coming to view as her abuse of David Manning, Viscount Willitson. She might not be able to handle the problem of Jake for another month or more, but she could at least be honest with David right now. In the slow-moving traffic in the theatre district as several plays finished at the same time, she and David sat side-by-side in his carriage. The dim light of a lantern allowed them to see each other clearly.

  “David, I feel I must be more honest with you than I perhaps have been lately,” she began tentatively.

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of this,” he said.

  “Nevertheless, I beg you to hear me out.” When he said nothing in response, she swallowed and went on. “You gave me until Easter to make up my mind. I—I do not need until Easter. It—it just would not work for us, David. I want to release you from any sense of obligation you may feel toward me.”

  He moved on the seat so he could look at her directly; he did not say anything for some moments, but he wore a rather grim expression. “You are giving me my conge—as a man might break off a relationship with his mistress?”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “Please don’t say that. It—it feels so fleeting, so cheap when you put it that way.”

  “Well, it has been, has it not?”

  “No. I have valued—I do value—your friendship.”

  “Friendship,” he said bitterly.

  She plunged on. “But I cannot marry you. If I did, we would likely drift into one of those marriages when the principals eventually just become indifferent to each other.”

  “There is someone else, isn’t there? Is it Mathisson? No, more likely to be Hamilton. Eh? Is it Hamilton? Are you going to accept his suit?”

  “No. I value his friendship as I do yours.”

  “For God’s sake, Retta! I love you!”

  She removed her hand from his arm and sat with her hands tightly clasped in her lap. “I know you do. And that is why I cannot allow this to continue—cannot let you go on under a misapprehension.”

  “If it’s not Hamilton, it must be Mathisson, or—oh, my God—it cannot be that Bow Street Runner? I saw how you kissed him under the kissing ball. It’s him, isn’t it?”

  “Does it have to be anyone?” She hated hearing herself equivocating. “Can you not simply accept that you and I would not be happy as partners in a marriage?”

  They sat in silence, listening to the sound of traffic: carriage wheels and horses’ hooves on cobblestoned streets, splashes of water kicked up, and occasional greetings or curses of drivers. Finally, their vehicle stopped at Blakemoor House; Willitson handed her from the carriage and, shielding her from a light drizzle with an umbrella, walked her to the door.

  “I do not share your view at all,” he said rather stiffly, “but since you do not share mine, you may be sure that I will not press my suit again.”

  “May we continue to be friends, though?”

  “You want friendship?” He held her gaze, his expression one of suppressed pain. “Of a sort, I suppose. But not right away, Retta. I can promise you civility, though.”

  She stood on a step above him and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry, David, I truly am.” He turned back toward the carriage without saying anything further. She lifted the knocker and a footman opened the door.

  “Good evening, Spencer,” she said, handing him her cloak and bonnet. She heard men’s voices at the library door across the foyer. Her uncle and Jake seemed to be calling it a night and were about to climb the stairs to their chambers.

  “Retta, my dear,” Uncle Alfred greeted her. “Was the play as good as it is reported to be?”

  “Mr. Keane’s performance truly is exemplary,” she said, glancing at Jake who was standing politely aside.

  “Bolton and I just fini
shed a chess game. He turned the table on me tonight—but I must say it took him a while. He is as skilled a player as you are, my dear.”

  She gave a small embarrassed laugh. “I think there is high praise for one of us in that, Mr. Bolton, or perhaps a bit of a set-down.”

  “I shall take it as praise, my lady.”

  Lord Alfred stifled a yawn and said, “I am off to bed. ’Tis cold here in the foyer.”

  Bolton moved to follow him, but Retta said, “Mr. Bolton, might I have a word with you?”

  He nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

  He followed her into the library, which was several degrees warmer than the entrance hall. Servants had not yet come to douse the fire or the lamps. The comfort level notwithstanding, he gave her a questioning glance when she deliberately shut the door.

  “Come and sit down,” she said, pointing to the other half of a small couch on which she positioned herself. When he had done so, she turned to face him directly and held his gaze. “I am not sure that I do owe you an apology, but I did not want to let the strain under which we ended our session earlier to continue.”

  “I think I understand.” His blue eyes holding hers were warm and accepting.

  “Do you? If so, you are far ahead of me on that score. I have been thinking about it—and you—a great deal. I am ever so grateful that you have agreed to this charade I foisted on you, but you are entitled to your own person and your own life. I vow I shall henceforth control my curiosity—no matter how much it eats away at me.”

  “I think,” he said softly and slowly, “that as human beings we are each a mass of contradictions.”

  “See?” she cried. “That is precisely what I mean. That is not the observation of a common laborer! But I forget myself already.”

  He laughed outright and moved closer to put an arm around her shoulders. “I did not think you could keep that vow for very long, my lady.” And slowly so as to give her every chance to reject him, he put a hand on her chin to lift her face even more towards his and settled his mouth on hers.