My Fair Lord

by Wilma Counts

  Jake continued in the dogged “reporting” tone he had started with. “Actually, sir, it boiled down to either this household or that of Lord Trentham. Turns out it was both, but with very different people and different purposes involved.”

  “Now, see here—” his lordship protested.

  “Just hear me out, please, sir.”

  “This had better be damned good,” Lord Alfred said, setting his glass down with a thunk on a nearby table.

  “Actually, we think information from the Foreign Office is finding its way through Lord Trentham, though he was unaware of that until just recently. That information, as you can guess, is of great interest to persons trying to interfere with Lord Castlereagh’s proposals in Vienna. They must have been very happy indeed to know what England wanted before our negotiators even presented their proposals.”

  “You said ‘until recently.’ What does that mean?”

  “Trentham’s butler has been filching information from his lordship’s portfolio and feeding it to the French and to the Austrians.”

  “Talleyrand and Metternich,” his lordship muttered. “Early on, we worried that those two would have something of the like going on. But how does Trentham figure into it?” Some of the anger had gone out of Lord Alfred’s voice, but he was still suspicious.

  “We did not know immediately. We put a man in his household as a footman–Richter. He turned up murdered.”

  “Good God.”

  “When we had cleared Trentham himself of any of this business, we enlisted his aid in making sure that his butler had access now to only false information. We think that particular route has been stymied, at least for now.”

  “Good. So your mission is completed then.”

  “Not quite, sir.”

  “What?” Lord Alfred rose and stood glaring down at Jake. “Are you suggesting that I or either of my nephews are under suspicion?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “But we were? You’ve got some kind of nerve coming into this household under false pretenses and now telling me that my family and I have been suspected of treason! I want you out of this house within the hour.”

  Again Jake struggled to keep his tone even. “Please, Lord Alfred, hear me out. We need your help.” He pulled out two sheets of paper that had been tucked into his book and handed one to Lord Alfred. “I think you will recognize this list.”

  His lordship glanced at the paper, then sat down and read it more thoroughly. “Where did you get this? You have no authority—”

  “Now look at this one.” Jake leaned forward in his chair to hand over the second list.

  Lord Alfred frowned. “This is gibberish!”

  “Actually, it is the same list, only in code. I obtained both of them from that desk.” Jake pointed at the one usually used by Morrow. He explained the code to the older man so he could see more clearly the parallels between the two.

  Finally, Lord Alfred sat back in his chair and, in almost a whisper, said, “Morrow? He did this? Morrow? I cannot believe it.”

  “Yes, sir. He did.” Jake was silent as he allowed Lord Alfred to digest this information.

  I just cannot believe it,” the old man repeated, shaking his head. “Why we—my brother and I—have exerted great effort and not a little funding to help him and his sister and her son.”

  “We do not yet have the whole story, but we are sure he is not working alone.” Jake explained fully how he had discovered the code, starting with the fragment that Richter had provided and then seeing a note pass between Morrow and Lindstrom.

  “Lindstrom too?” This came as a cry of pain. Lord Alfred reached for his glass and took a healthy swallow. “This is just incredible! Why, I’ve known Lindstrom for nearly twenty years—he’s been my doctor since I came home from the colonies very near death.”

  “I am sorry, Lord Alfred. I do understand what a shock this must be.”

  Neither of them spoke again for several moments. Jake sipped at his drink and Lord Alfred sat staring at nothing. Then the old man said, “I cannot believe it, but there it is—right before my eyes.” He gestured at the papers. “And to think it was going on right here, in this very room. I trusted them—both of them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake said sympathetically. He could see that the old man was still reeling from a sense of betrayal, so he spoke more forcefully as he added, “But we need your help now.”

  “Of course. I shall discharge Morrow immediately and cut ties with Lindstrom. I gather we haven’t evidence solid enough to have them arrested.”

  “No, sir, we do not. However, we think we can put our knowledge to some use and manage to put a spoke in their wheel.”

  “I will help in any way I can.” The older man sounded weary and deflated.

  “We should like you to do as Lord Trentham has agreed to do—that is, pretend nothing is amiss and feed these scoundrels false information. If we are right, our plans in Vienna will no longer be compromised.”

  “But this information,” Lord Alfred motioned at the papers he had returned to Jake, “is not going to Vienna. It has nothing to do with victors dividing the spoils of war.”

  “You are right, sir. We think this information is going to Napoleon.”

  “Napoleon? Oh, my God.”

  Jake explained about the connection with the deputy ambassador from Rome and from there the possible connection to Napoleon’s sister.

  “So the ‘little corporal’ still has ambitions to conquer the world, eh?”

  “You might say that. In any event, we think he may as well be playing with his toy soldiers on our terms rather than his.”

  “Good God, yes. Should he ever escape Elba, the whole of Europe will be ablaze again.”

  “So—will you help us, my lord?”

  “I will help you, though I do not approve of the tactics you have used in gaining access to my home and my family. My brother will be most displeased about all this. Do Heaton and Lady Henrietta have any idea what you are really about?”

  “No, sir. And I would ask that you keep that confidential—at least until after the Lenninger ball. I have promised Lady Henrietta that I will see her through to the end, no matter how that silly bet turns out.”

  Lord Alfred heaved another weary sigh. “So be it.” He drained his glass and added as he rose to his feet again, “We’d best see to dressing for supper.”

  Jake also heaved a sigh—of relief.

  Chapter 17

  As the month wore on, members of the ton began to trickle back to town, many complaining bitterly of road conditions and delays caused by inclement weather. Technically, Parliament had been in session continuously since autumn, but now their numbers increased as more members returned to town and began to open their townhouses and make and receive calls. Retta wondered how her own life might change when her sisters and their retinue returned to town.

  She needn’t have worried.

  In a letter addressed to Gerald, Viscount Heaton, who as the heir was the nominal head of the Blakemoor House in the absence of his father, Rebecca, Lady Lenninger, informed her brother that, until the earl returned from the continent, their sister Melinda and Cousin Amabelle would take up residence with her and her husband in the newly renovated Lenninger House, located in another—equally exclusive—section of town. The letter was followed a few days later by a visit as three of these persons descended on Blakemoor House for a morning call. They were received in the drawing room by the current residents, including Mr. Bolton. Lady Georgiana, at her nephew’s request, acted as hostess.

  Retta noted that Rebecca and Melinda had somehow found time to visit a modiste before calling on their family. Rebecca’s day dress was an exquisite little number of polished cotton with yellow and brown stripes; Melinda’s was a rose-colored muslin. Both gowns displayed the high waist and low neckline that seemed de rigueur for con
temporary fashions. Retta noted that Lenninger, too, was decked out in the latest fashion with a coat of blue superfine and an emerald green waistcoat embroidered with a peacock feather motif. Next to all this finery, Retta felt a positive frump in a medium blue printed cotton that was actually a holdover from the previous fashion year.

  Rebecca, having first greeted everyone rather effusively, explained Cousin Amabelle’s absence: “The trip was exhausting and we have just worn her out since arriving back in town. The poor dear is resting today.” She went on to declare, “It is such a joy to be back in town! I do love the country, but it offers little in the way of stimulating company and truly interesting activities.”

  “I thought you were to attend not one, but two lengthy house parties,” Retta said.

  “Oh, well, yes. We did so, but some of the more interesting members of society either stayed in town or went to their own country estates.”

  “Or to Paris,” Melinda said in a dreamy voice. “I do wish Mama had approved of my going to Paris with my friend Barbara and her parents.”

  “You know very well Mama disapproves of Lady Tourland,” Rebecca said.

  “Because of something that happened ages and ages ago,” Melinda said, pouting.

  “Your mother has her reasons.” Aunt Georgiana lifted the teapot as she reigned over the tea table. “Would anyone care for more tea?”

  “I think not,” Rebecca said. “We have made three other calls this afternoon and were offered the same lemon tarts at two of them!”

  “I’ll have more, please.” Richard passed his cup over to their aunt. “And another of those tarts too, please.”

  “Good job the army makes you fellows march in circles as much as it does,” Gerald commented. “The way you scarf up those tarts, you should weigh thirteen or fourteen stone at least.”

  “I can tolerate them. I lead a more active life than you do.”

  “Balderdash!”

  “Enough,” Uncle Alfred said. “Tarts or no tarts, you two look as much alike now as you did in your cradles.”

  “And they enjoy needling each other as much as they did as schoolboys,” Retta said with an indulgent smile at her brothers. “’Tis truly a wonder they made it through childhood without killing each other—or having someone else perform that feat on both of them.”

  “Ah, but you’d miss us, would you not?” Richard teased. “Who else would you have to boss around?”

  “She still has Mr. Bolton to boss around,” Rebecca said.

  “Not exactly.” Retta leaned forward to set her cup on the table in front of Aunt Georgiana. She shared a secret twitch of a smile with Jake, then glared a warning at her sister and nodded towards Madame Laurent.

  Rebecca got the message, for she waved a hand dismissively and said, “All I meant was you always have enjoyed being the one in charge, so to speak.”

  “Would that were true,” Retta said, thinking, Lately, I am not even in charge myself—especially where Mr. Bolton is concerned.

  Aunt Georgiana set the teapot back on the tray, and said, “You children have been together for only a few minutes, and here you are—squabbling just as you used to do in the nursery.”

  The siblings sat mildly chastened for a moment, then Rebecca offered a change in subject. “Lenninger and I have decided to give a ball.”

  “We have?” her husband asked, but in response to a speaking look from his wife, he added, “Oh. So we have.”

  “We want to show off the renovations to Lenninger House. It will have to be early—about three weeks from now—as there is no telling if I will be up to hosting such an entertainment later in the season.”

  She paused dramatically to allow the full import of this pronouncement to sink in.

  Aunt Georgiana was the first to respond. “I assume this means you are increasing?”

  Rebecca blushed prettily. “Yes.”

  A blend of congratulatory comments and good wishes directed at both the prospective parents followed this announcement.

  “When is the new arrival to make his or her appearance?” Aunt Georgiana asked.

  “Late June or early July.”

  “This is wonderful news indeed,” Retta said, feeling magnanimous.

  “Yes. A spinster at my wedding, you will now be a spinster aunt,” Rebecca said with a toothy smile that Retta assumed was intended to mitigate the cruelty of the snide remark.

  Retta’s magnanimity vanished. “Does your mother know?”

  “I wrote her as soon as I was sure.”

  Retta replied without thinking. “Somehow, I have difficulty seeing the countess as a doting grandmother.”

  Rebecca’s expression took on a cold look. “I am quite sure Mama will welcome her first grandchild.” Then she brightened. “Now, about my ball. I am planning it for February 17. That is three days prior to your birthday, is it not, Retta?”

  Retta merely nodded, knowing full well this was a two-pronged jibe from her sister: a reminder of her age and of the bet.

  “I shall be inviting just everyone,” Rebecca continued airily, “including the patronesses of Almack’s and anyone else of note who happens to be in town so early. It is sure to be a positive crush, and mine could very well turn out to be the most significant entertainment of the season, despite its being so early. Melinda is helping me with the invitations.”

  “We are planning three waltzes,” Melinda said, “and since I received permission from the patronesses last year to waltz, I shall dance every one of them with a different, exceedingly handsome partner.”

  “One would certainly not wish to have a homely dance partner, no matter how well that person executed the steps,” Richard said.

  “If you make fun of me, I shall not allow you to sign my dance card at all,” Melinda said with a pout.

  “Oh, no. The most dire of threats,” he said.

  “In any event,” Rebecca said, rising to signal to her party that she was ready to leave, “I will be sending invitations within the week, but do save the date for me. I want all my family to attend—those who can be there, that is. I shall miss Mama and Papa terribly.”

  As the Lenninger party left, Jefferies announced the arrival of new guests, including Baron Mathisson, Sir Michael Hamilton, and Sir Cecil Lindstrom. The conversation centered on new topics of more general interest, but, lively as it was, Retta noticed as Jake quietly excused himself to Aunt Georgiana and left the drawing room.

  * * * *

  Jake had felt twinges of nostalgia as he watched the Blakemoor twins and their sisters engaged in the kind of sibling repartee that he had once enjoyed with his brothers and sisters. But it was not nostalgia that gripped him when Mathisson and Hamilton were introduced and Retta set about being charming and flirtatious. No, it was not nostalgia. It was insipient jealousy. He recognized it for what it was and cursed himself for allowing it to materialize to the point of being recognizable even by just himself. However, he did notice with some glee the absence of Viscount Willitson.

  Since the principals of the house were all gathered in the drawing room, he escaped to the music room. He lifted the lid over the piano keys, idly hit a few notes, then sat and began to play in earnest. Mozart for a bit, then he switched to Vivaldi. Would he ever play or hear those works again without thinking of her?

  He had known the conditions of that bet from the very beginning, but not exactly how it would culminate. A public forum of some sort. Now, it seemed that the public forum would be the Lenninger ball to occur in three weeks. Once that bet was won—or lost—there would be no more reason for Jake Bolton to be a member of the Earl of Blakemoor’s household. He had three weeks to resolve the issues of this spy business. He shook his head. It truly was rather weird. Usually, he and his team were trying to identify spies. Now, they knew who the spies were—in fact, there was an overabundance of them—and of motives for their behavi
or too. Jake stopped playing as his mind explored ideas that might help end this infernal mission. Lindstom was above stairs right now. He may have dropped in on Morrow before climbing the stairs to the drawing room. What, exactly, was his interest in Morrow’s sister? Well, they were both single and of similar age and members of a like level of society. But was there more?

  Not at all sure of where it might lead him, he thought now might be the time to develop this thread of the investigation. Impulsively, he decided to follow Lindstrom when the man left the gathering upstairs. He dashed up to his chamber and hastily changed into his buckskin breeches and a wool shirt over which he donned a dark overcoat. Then he went out to the mews and helped a groom saddle Blaze.

  As darkness began to drape itself over the town, he stood with Blaze beneath a large fir tree some distance from the entrance to Blakemoor House and waited for Lindstrom to leave. Both he and the horse were impervious to the cold rain that was falling, but he hadn’t long to wait. Lindstrom stepped out, unfurled an umbrella, and walked in the direction of a more trafficked street where, Jake knew, he would be able to find a hackney cab. Jake waited until the doctor was some distance ahead before cautiously leading Blaze in pursuit. When Lindstom hired a cab, Jake mounted and followed the vehicle, keeping his distance to avoid detection.

  Though it was not easy, what with traffic and the rapidly diminishing light, Jake managed to keep the doctor’s cab in sight as it traveled into a section of the city that hosted less elegant houses than those of the highest echelons of the ton. Modest as they were, these were houses of people of means and the neighborhood was one that could afford street lights that were even now being lit. Jake hung back as the doctor’s cab stopped at a particular house. Lindstrom got out, paid off the driver, and dashed through the rain to a covered porch. He was given entrance the instant he knocked. Could he be visiting a mistress? Jake knew from discussions with Peter that this was not Lindstrom’s address. He duly noted the street and number and waited for a few minutes, but clearly Lindstrom would not be exiting the building any time soon. After all, he had dismissed his cab. So Jake gave it up and returned to the Blakemoor mews. Leaving Blaze to the care of a groom, he entered the house from the rear. He just had time to change and join the family for supper.