Nothing But Deception

by Allegra Gray

  Lady Pullington,

  I am anxious to hear from you. My sources indicate you may have had the opportunity to make new observations. Remember that even the smallest seed can grow into a garden. The messenger who delivered the translation key for this note will await your response. Evans is trustworthy. He bears identifying papers, but as those are not always reliable, you will recognize him by the wart on his chin, from which sprout two dark hairs. Should this message arrive to you from any other source, do not respond.

  The note was not signed, but the messenger, Evans—who did indeed bear a hairy wart on his chin—showed her papers that identified both him and his employer, the Foreign Secretary.

  Oh, dear. Bea pressed her fingers to her temples. This explained the lack of news in the papers—Viscount Castlereagh had never received her letter. The head of the Foreign Office was clever, though. In spite of her lack of communication, he knew where she’d been, and with whom—and the reference to the seed was clearly meant to remind her of the first French note that had started this mess.

  She looked up to meet the gaze of the messenger, who had retreated some distance while she translated and read the note, but remained present and alert.

  “I gather Viscount Castlereagh has received no messages from me?” she asked, needing to confirm her suspicion.

  “I cannot speak to that, my lady,” Evans answered. “All I can tell you is that when I left London this morning, he instructed me not to return without your response. And, begging your pardon, my lady, but I am to wait while you compose it, so that I may verify it was produced by none other than yourself.”

  “An understandable precaution.” Bea answered politely, but her mind was whirling. What had happened to the letter she’d sent this past Sunday?

  The Montgrave butler had recommended Mr. Reilly, the man she’d asked to make the delivery, as a trustworthy servant. When he hadn’t returned, she’d assumed he’d stayed on at the Bainbridges’ London house—especially knowing the couple was in residence there. Now, she wondered what fate might have befallen him.

  “I sent a message some days ago,” she worried aloud.

  “And the man you sent it with? He promised it was delivered per your instruction?”

  “I haven’t seen him since,” she admitted. Was she being too open? If Viscount Castlereagh trusted this man to carry his codes, surely she could speak with him. From his speech, the messenger was clearly more educated than a simple errand runner.

  Evans paused. “That is distressing,” he finally said. “I do not know what you can do now, besides relay that information to my employer. I can advise you, however, that when I am to deliver a message, my employer splits my payments into three parts—one before I set out, as a matter of goodwill, and the other two when I return with confirmation the job is done. This method ensures I’ve reason not to dally in my return.”

  “A well thought-out plan, indeed. I shall remember that.” Bea once again appreciated the Foreign Secretary’s cleverness—if only she’d had similar foresight, she might have known earlier there was a problem. She lapsed into silence for a moment.

  Then, aware Evans was watching, she pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped her pen in ink. “Am I to respond in the same code?” she asked.

  “It is safer, my lady.”

  She nodded and bent her head to the paper, referring to the key for the proper mix of letters and numbers to convey what she’d tried to say before—along with the information that her lack of communication was not intentional. The code was not difficult, but without the key, she could well imagine a person spending quite a few frustrating hours trying to decipher a message. A far more clever system than what the French had used. She understood now how careless they’d been.

  She, too, had been careless, Bea realized as the knot in the pit of her stomach grew larger. It was too much to hope her last message had been innocently misplaced. And the Italian language in which it was written would cause but a slight delay for someone truly determined.

  She should have seen the Foreign Secretary personally, before coming to Montgrave. Her throat felt thick. She’d let her feelings for Philippe blind her good judgment—though, really, Viscount Castlereagh ought to have provided better instructions for how they were to communicate. He’d played this game long enough to know its dangers. Bea had not—though she was quickly learning.

  Someone knocked on the door. Hastily she shoved her work under a large book at the side of the desk. She saw Evans’s eyes widen as Philippe entered the room.

  “Ah. Pardon,” the artist said as his gaze took in Bea at the desk and the unfamiliar man standing across the room. “I did not realize you were occupied—I had thought we might begin early today, as it looks as though we may be in for rain later. But I have interrupted, for which I apologize. A matter of business?”

  “Yes,” Bea confirmed, amazed she could speak at all when her heart felt as though it had lodged in her throat. “We should conclude shortly, and I will come find you.”

  At this obvious dismissal, Philippe glanced curiously between Bea and Evans once more before exiting the study.

  Bea took a few deep breaths, willing her heart to slow to its normal place. What in heaven’s name had possessed Philippe to seek her out at this very moment? Unless he knew what she was about? No. How could he? She’d given him almost no reason to suspect…save for that one moment at the theater, but they’d put that behind them.

  She pulled the papers back from under the book, working quickly now. She coded her remaining words, sealed the missive, and handed it to the Foreign Secretary’s waiting messenger.

  “Thank you, my lady,” he said, tucking it into his jacket. “I will make utmost haste in delivering this.”

  “Do take care, Mr. Evans. Given the disappearance of my first letter and its carrier, I am given to worry.”

  “Do not worry overmuch, Lady Pullington.” He opened one side of his coat, revealing a small pistol at his side. A glance at his boot revealed another bulge. “I have been in this business for many years.”

  He tipped his head toward the desk where the key lay. “If you don’t mind a word of advice, burn that.”

  “Of course. Godspeed, Mr. Evans.”

  With a quick bow, the man was out the door. Bea walked to the desk, retrieved the incriminating code with the tips of her fingers, and tossed it into the fire.

  Charity tucked her second favorite fan into her reticule late Wednesday morning, then went to find the coachman to take her to the Wilbournes’ home. Her maid trailed dutifully behind, an unknowing accomplice in Charity’s plot to confirm that the French spy—or one of them, anyway—worked for the Wilbournes.

  She’d tossed around any number of far-fetched excuses for inviting herself over before settling on the simplest—that she believed she’d left her fan at their home the night of the salon and wished to search for it. That was easier than inventing a social occasion. Alicia Wilbourne was ten years older than she, and her husband a good deal older than that, so although they moved in the same circles, Charity couldn’t quite count the couple among her close friends.

  Today was the first opportunity she’d had to execute her plan. When she’d determined not to go to Montgrave with Bea and Elizabeth, her mother had taken that as an indication Charity was enjoying the success of her first Season. Thus, she’d spent the past three days being dragged to a seemingly endless series of events designed to thrust her in front of the ton’s eligible bachelors, or ingratiate her with their mamas.

  Finally she’d broken free, as her mother had played cards all night and awoken this morning with a headache.

  When Charity arrived and was ushered in, Lady Wilbourne was unfailingly gracious to her unexpected guest. “You say you’ve misplaced your fan?”

  “My very most favorite,” Charity averred. “I was searching for it the other evening and could not locate it anywhere. I tried to think when I last had it—I know I carried it the night of the salon honoring Mo
nsieur Durand, but could not recall having seen it since.”

  “How troublesome,” Lady Wilbourne sympathized.

  “Has anything turned up?”

  “I don’t believe so. What did it look like?”

  “It had a lovely Oriental pattern in blue.” Charity gave her the description of the fan currently residing in her reticule. If necessary, she could slip it behind a piece of furniture, then “find” it. “Would it be terribly imposing to ask if I might look around?”

  “Not at all. I’ll even help you. I am forever losing things and know how frustrating it can be. Have you come alone, dear?”

  “My maid is in the carriage. I told her I’d only be a moment.”

  “Very well.” Lady Wilbourne glanced at the clock. “My mother-in-law is due to call soon—but perhaps we shall be lucky and find your fan quickly. Come. We’ll search the ballroom first, as most of the guests mingled there during the salon.”

  Charity followed her. Sure enough, Alicia Wilbourne was friendly to a fault. Together they looked behind every piece of furniture and potted plant—even in one of the back rooms where items were stored when not in use. Aside from the butler who’d seen her in, and two maids busily dusting, none of whom matched her memory of the spy at Vauxhall Gardens, Charity saw no other servants.

  She was desperate to shake her helpful hostess so she could accomplish the real mission she’d come here for. But if she “found” her fan, there’d be no reason to linger. So they continued the pointless search. Finally, Charity asked, “Do you suppose any of your staff who worked that evening might recall seeing my fan?”

  Alicia Wilbourne shook her head. “If it was left behind and one of the servants found it, I’m certain they would have returned it to me. Reliable help is difficult to find, and Robert and I are fortunate to have an excellent staff.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” Charity apologized. Though, secretly she had her doubts as to the excellence—or loyalty—of that staff.

  “Oh, I know you didn’t.” Lady Wilbourne smiled. “No offense taken, dear.” A bell sounded toward the front of the house. “That must be Robert’s mother. Would you excuse me a moment? You’re welcome to keep looking, though I can’t fathom where else your fan could be.”

  “Of course,” Charity said. “I’ll search just a minute more—and don’t worry, I can see myself out. Terribly sorry to have troubled you so. ’Tis likely I misplaced it elsewhere and am too henwitted to remember.” She rolled her eyes as though exasperated with her own foibles. “Oh. Before you go, my lady, might you point me in the direction of the necessary room? ’Tis possible I set it there while seeing to my hair.”

  “Certainly.” Lady Wilbourne pointed it out. “I hope you find your fan, Charity. Tell me if you do!”

  She left the room, and Charity breathed a sigh of relief. Finally.

  Now, where would that footman be? If he’d pinned the note to Bea’s coat, accidentally or not, it stood to reason he was an upstairs servant—the Wilbournes wouldn’t have entrusted the care of their guests’ belongings to the lower staff. On a hunch, she headed in the direction of the time-honored gathering place of servants—the kitchens. Or at least what she hoped was in the direction of the kitchens.

  Don’t go looking for trouble, Bea had implored her. Well, she wasn’t. She was looking to be helpful. Bea was busy at Montgrave, being painted—and, Charity suspected, wooed by the handsome artist—leaving Charity with a second chance to prove her value.

  She moved carefully, avoiding being seen. She could always say she’d become lost, but better to avoid such an awkward situation.

  She entered a corridor that was narrow and plain. Good. She’d found the servants’ quarters. The rich aroma of stewing meat wafted toward her. She heard clinking sounds and the low murmur of voices.

  She crept forward, but there was a problem. If she wanted to see who was talking, she would have to expose herself. Reports of her odd behavior would surely reach Lady Wilbourne, ruining her chances for future reconnaissance. Was it worth the risk? What if she learned nothing?

  There had to be a better way. Charity turned to go.

  “Peters,” a woman’s voice called. “Do me a favor—carry that silver to the storeroom and put it up? The mistress wants her newest set out instead.”

  “Anything for you, luv,” a man’s voice responded.

  A moment later Charity heard footfalls coming closer. Eek! There was no place to hide—save a door to her right. Without thinking, Charity pulled it open and slipped inside.

  She felt around as her eyes adjusted to the dark. The room that hid her boasted no windows. It was small, lined with shelves and…oh, no. Her chosen hiding spot was a storeroom—exactly where the servant called Peters was headed.

  The footsteps stopped. Above the pounding of blood at her temples, Charity heard fumbling, and a moment later, the door cracked open.

  “Bloody hell!” The man at the door dropped a candlestick in surprise. He bent to retrieve it. Straightening, he looked her up and down. “An’ who might you be?”

  “I—uh, that is—I became lost…” Charity stammered, her heart pounding as though trying to escape the confines of her ribs. No question. This was the same man. Peters, the woman had called him. It sounded English. So did his speech. If she didn’t already know, she’d never have guessed him French. Even in his surprise he’d sworn like any British commoner, with no hint of an accent. But his face was unmistakable.

  Unfortunately, it was the nature of spies to be suspicious. Peters narrowed his eyes. “Long way from the main rooms, you are, miss. Surely you didn’t expect to find your way back while shut in this closet.” He folded his arms.

  Think like a spy. Be clever, like Bea. Except Bea hadn’t gotten caught. Ugh. How could she have been so stupid?

  She should just leave—that’s what she’d been about to do anyway. But he stood blocking the doorway. Frustration filtered through her fear…and with the anger, she found her strength. Who was he to challenge her? He didn’t know she knew he wasn’t just any common servant. So she lifted her nose, and in the haughtiest tone she knew, told him, “I don’t believe I owe you any explanations.”

  She knew from the way he eyed her that he registered the difference in the quality of their attire, yet he did not move.

  “You are blocking my way,” she pointed out.

  His brows raised. “Indeed I am. I’m simply making sure there’s no trouble, here. You could be a thief, for all I know. And a servant’s job is to protect the interests of his master.”

  “And who is your master?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe the wrong way to say it. Either way, Charity knew she was in trouble by the way his expression became doubly guarded.

  “A yellow-haired woman of Quality, sneaking around with no good reason,” he mused. “Tell me, are you acquainted with a Lady Pullington?”

  She was caught. Because before she had time to answer—or to scream—his large hand clapped over her mouth. His other pulled the door closed, shutting them both within.

  Chapter 13

  Philippe waited for Bea to come out of the study. What was she up to? And who was that man? Not a lover—he hadn’t sensed a romantic undercurrent at all. And yet her nervous reaction to his interruption told him her “business” was not merely a household matter.

  The woman he’d pegged as a shy but beautiful widow was turning into a bundle of contradictions.

  Meanwhile, his own matters of “business” had been far more simple. Meaning practically nonexistent. He’d received one letter from Lord Owen, originally addressed to his lodgings in London and then sent on from the hotel. The old man had written to inform him that, given the current state of politics with France’s rogue Emperor, he felt it his duty to return to London to take his seat in Parliament. Philippe, he said, was welcome to set up a studio in his house on Charles Street.

  A kind offer. In fact, Philippe suspected the Englishman�
�s true motivation lay less in politics than in getting to know his son better. Philippe felt that same pull. He would never know Henri Gaudet—his mother’s secrecy had ensured that. The best he could do was learn from the man who had loved and lost her.

  Perhaps when he and Bea finished at Montgrave, he would trade his hotel lodgings for a stay with the father he’d never known. How awkward could that be? Philippe laughed. Good thing he’d never been the inhibited type.

  As for the man who’d raised him, he’d heard nothing. Not that he expected letters from home. After all, he was a grown man, and had never been close to his stepfather. He imagined Richard was currently waist-deep in political maneuverings. Likely he hadn’t spared so much as a thought for his wayward, art-loving son.

  Philippe tapped his foot impatiently. Mrs. Moffett was ready to go as well, so he studied her while they waited. She sat demurely on a chair, a calm contrast to Philippe’s unchanneled energy. Though he judged her to be a few years older than Bea, she had the flightiness of a much younger girl. And, unless he was mistaken, a fondness for imbibing spirits when she thought no one was looking.

  Not that Mrs. Moffett wasn’t agreeable—in fact, Philippe had to commend the Duchess of Beaufort on her excellent taste in companions. He was in no place to protest Beatrice’s desire to give the appearance of propriety during their interlude at Montgrave, but he was infinitely relieved that such appearances did not reflect reality. When the duchess had first mentioned the presence of a widowed cousin at Montgrave, he’d pictured someone far more dour.

  As usual, Philippe’s thoughts turned to art. He’d never painted a freckled woman before. Not that he was interested in painting Mrs. Moffett. But it would be a challenge—capturing that sun-dappled, healthy glow, as opposed to the spotted, diseased look he feared most artists would produce.

  As though she sensed his scrutiny, a pink flush grew beneath her freckles, and she trained her gaze out the window and away from Philippe.