The Miss Mirren Mission

by Jenny Holiday

  “You keep saying ladies, plural. Does Mrs. Talbot have a companion?”

  “Yes, she arrived with a friend. A childhood bosom friend, I am led to believe.”

  “Early and she’s brought a hanger-on. A smashing start. This must be Manning’s former ward.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, it will be good to meet her. Of course she won’t know anything about his dealings, but it’s good to get as complete a picture of Manning’s past as possible.” As he made his way downstairs, Blackstone surveyed the house. The corridors and stairways in the “new” wing, which dated from the middle of the last century, were oak paneled, and though twilight slanted in through the mullioned windows, there was not a speck of dust in sight. Everything was as immaculate as it had always been.

  They hadn’t spent much time here as boys, he and Alec, mostly because their mother fared better in town, closer to her friends—and her doctors. Others in his class at Eton talked about their families’ country estates with great affection, joyously bounding off on summer holidays and returning to paint pictures of bucolic paradises, days whiled away riding and fishing. By contrast, when his family removed to Clareford, it was always with great trepidation, the men collectively holding their breath, praying that the countess would stay well, hoping against experience that the sea air would fortify her.

  Yes, despite its soot, noise, and displays of human wretchedness, he much preferred London. He glanced at one of the paintings hanging in the stairwell. An old ancestor—he wasn’t sure which one—stared back at him. In the city, he was free to make his own way, divorced from the weight of the past he could, even now, feel settling upon him, a yoke around his neck. He would not be sorry to be the end of this line.

  Still, in the meantime, duty called. It always did.

  “Mrs. Talbot,” he said, meeting his guest at the foot of the stairs. As was often the case, there was a bit of awkwardness when he offered his hand to take hers. She hesitated, glancing at his useless right arm. He sketched a bow, hoping to smooth things over. Bailey was quick on his heels down the stairs, and Blackstone performed the introductions.

  “I hope your father will be able to join us, Mrs. Talbot,” said Blackstone.

  “Indeed, I hope so too, my lord. He and my husband were called away on an urgent matter. They asked me to convey their apologies and to tell you they will gladly join us if they can make it by the end of the week.”

  Blackstone met Bailey’s eyes. Stuck hosting a party in Essex when their prime target conducted business elsewhere. “I understand you’ve brought a companion?”

  “Yes! I know it was presumptuous of me, but she’s practically a sister, and when she learned I was on my way here she…oh, there she is!” She pointed to the stairs.

  Blackstone’s sudden intake of breath was audible in the otherwise-silent foyer. The angel from the lake! He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of such a creature doing something so banal as walking down a dim staircase lined with images of his censorious ancestors. It seemed impossible that she could exist independent of the brilliant sun he’d seen illuminating her. Yet here she was, approaching in an unremarkable purple dress, her fair hair, which he knew reached well past her shoulders, confined in a simple knot at the back of her neck.

  “Miss Emily Mirren,” said Mrs. Talbot, once her friend had reached the last step, “allow me to present His Lordship, the Earl of Blackstone.”

  Miss Emily Mirren. Blackstone didn’t hear the rest of Mrs. Talbot’s words because the rush of blood in his ears made it impossible to focus on anything except surviving this horrible moment he’d dreaded for so long. Miss Emily Mirren. Acid flooded his stomach as surely as it ever had in the heat of battle. He had been naive to think he could avoid her indefinitely. To think that just because she was a bluestocking who didn’t go about in society, their paths would never cross.

  He exhaled a short, bitter laugh, which drew Miss Mirren’s attention from where it had rested on Bailey, who had been clasping her hands in a warm greeting.

  My God, she was beautiful—slender with just a hint of womanly curviness. And he would know those eyes anywhere—deep blue, so dark they bordered on violet. They were the captain’s eyes. He saw them nearly every night in his nightmares.

  Clearly he had been wrong about the appearance of an angel at his lake, in his own personal hell. She merely looked like an angel. But of course she had been sent by the devil, the latest—and greatest—in an endless string of torments, punishments he accepted as his due.

  This was an especially cruel one, though.

  …

  The Earl of Blackstone didn’t seem particularly mysterious to Emily. In fact, as he stood there silently—except for that sneering laugh he’d tried to cover up—she could think of several other adjectives to add to the list next time Sarah was searching for one: rude, self-important, boorish. And, if one could judge by the slightly slack-jawed way he stared at her, perhaps even “simple.”

  Suddenly, though, he awakened as if from a trance. “Miss Mirren, forgive me. I confess I was taken aback for a moment. You look so like your father. I served under him along with Mr. Bailey.” His right arm hung limply by his side—the much-referenced war injury, no doubt. When she offered her left hand in greeting, aiming it toward his good hand, his eyes changed. He didn’t smile—far from it. But as he dipped his head over her hand, his sharp-edged, patrician features softened. But then they returned to their previous harsh arrangement, and she wondered if she had imagined it all.

  He shouldn’t have been handsome, with a nose that was crooked and slightly too large and eyes so brown they were almost black, but somehow he was more than the sum of his parts. And he certainly had a way of commanding attention. She could see why everyone was so fascinated with him.

  He bowed, and as he righted himself he paused with his head at the level of her own. She could have sworn he was looking at her hair, which was still slightly, embarrassingly, damp. Goodness, the man didn’t miss anything, did he? She met his gaze as he continued to hold her hand.

  Restless under his scrutiny, she tugged her hand out of his. “The honor is mine, my lord. It is always gratifying to meet my father’s fellow men-at-arms.”

  It was true, mostly. But the honor was always accompanied by a bit of bewilderment. She never knew how to act around her father’s men. They always vaunted him as a hero, a deity even. That wasn’t the man she knew. But of course that was the rub—she hadn’t really known him.

  No wonder the Earl of Blackstone was “mysterious.” She glanced at his injured arm. Men didn’t survive war without consequences, and not all of them were physical.

  Bailey’s eyes followed hers. “Lord Blackstone was injured at Badajoz. Three weeks after your father died.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. “I understand the siege was long and difficult.”

  Lord Blackstone stared straight ahead, as if he hadn’t heard her at all.

  “Your father’s death was a great blow,” said Bailey quietly. “Allow me to say how sorry I am.”

  She hoped she wouldn’t have to spend the week listening to Mr. Bailey talk about her father. Though if Mr. Manning didn’t show up, it wouldn’t matter anyway—she’d learn nothing about Billy and she’d have to call the week a loss. Even if all was for naught, at least she might carve out some time to work on her upcoming columns without Sally fussing over her.

  Dinner was not quite the trial Emily had imagined, thanks in large part to Sarah’s ability to talk. And talk and talk and talk. Mr. Bailey was gracious and made every attempt to answer her questions, not having learned yet that Sarah wasn’t really in search of answers, just an audience.

  The earl ate in silence, but she felt his regard. Every time she risked a glance at him, he was already looking at her. It wasn’t that he wasn’t listening to the conversation. In fact, when asked a question, or prompted to speak by something Mr. Bailey said, he knew his part. But it did feel like he was playing a role on stage
, showing them only a surface version of himself, while something else entirely went on inside his mind.

  Near the end of their final course Emily was startled when he cleared his throat and said, “I understand you’re a scholar, Miss Mirren. They say you’re quite the book lover.”

  She wanted to ask who “they” were, but Sarah spoke before she could. “Miss Mirren is indeed a bluestocking! And she doesn’t even mind you calling her one, can you imagine? She once told me she was of a mind to have a modiste fashion some actual blue stockings for her! Too busy, though, isn’t she, with her nose in a book, to visit a modiste?”

  Emily watched the earl’s eyes narrow. She knew that to outsiders the comment sounded like a set-down. He didn’t know that Sarah wasn’t wily enough to be cruel, that she merely spoke what she believed to be the truth. And it was the truth, for the most part. Emily’s devotion to reading prevented her from paying as much attention as she perhaps should to corporeal matters. Lately, though, when tucked away in her rooms at her grandmother’s house, she was writing more than she was reading. Writing—and preparing for action. But Sarah didn’t know that. No one did.

  The earl stood abruptly. “Clareford Manor has an impressive library. Or so I am told. Would you like to see it?”

  Sarah, in an almost comedic reversal of gender roles, popped to her feet after the earl did, but Emily remained seated. “Or so you are told? Haven’t you been there?”

  “Yes of course, but I’m not much of a reader. My father and brother were collectors, though.”

  “I can’t imagine being surrounded by books and not wanting to read them.”

  “I prefer to get my information firsthand, from experience rather than theory.” It sounded as if he were scolding a recalcitrant child.

  What an odd man. Emily rose and smiled to break the standoff. “I should adore seeing your library, my lord.”

  …

  Why the hell hadn’t they known about her?

  After bidding the ladies good night, Blackstone returned to the library and tried to look at it through Miss Mirren’s eyes. When he’d ushered them in, her face lit up. He’d been forced to spend the next ten minutes manufacturing small talk with Mrs. Talbot while Miss Mirren drifted around, running her hands along spines of books. He’d watched the long, elegant line of her throat as she tipped her head back to gaze at the gallery above, which was also filled with volumes. Her hair had become curlier as it dried, little ringlets popping out of their knot. Watching her mind whir as she took in the collection, he imagined that damp hair being heated from inside, from the sheer intensity of activity inside her head.

  This was what he had been afraid of all these years? This beautiful, scholarly, slight woman? He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. He, who had faced down enemies, French and otherwise, who had witnessed evil and survived war, had spent years avoiding the society of Emily Mirren. And now, despite the stab of guilt that pierced his gut anew each time she trained those deep blue eyes on him, she seemed far less fearsome than he’d imagined.

  She’d given a little sigh of delight as she stood on her tiptoes to see the titles on a shelf above her head. The sigh went straight to his groin, bringing to mind the noise she might make as she lay back against a pillow, flushed and satiated.

  He forced his mind from its indecent wanderings. It was hard to make sense of her. If everything said about her was true, the woman was as disinclined to the social scene of the ton as he was. He was forced into polite company from time to time when working on missions. But why would Miss Mirren suddenly decide to attend a house party hosted by someone she didn’t know, which would, in turn, be attended by scores more people she didn’t know?

  It couldn’t be simply a question of loyalty to Mrs. Talbot. Obviously, the pair was well acquainted, but they lacked the easy shorthand he often observed between long-time women friends.

  He shook his head. He was overly suspicious—an occupational hazard. Not everyone had a secret agenda. And even if this woman did, as long as it didn’t involve a threat to the Crown, it was no business of his. Perhaps she was husband-hunting.

  Hearing Bailey enter, he returned to the question at hand. “Why didn’t we know Emily Mirren was Manning’s ward?”

  Bailey held his hands up, as if surrendering. “We knew he had a ward—had being the key word. She attained her majority nearly eighteen months ago and moved to town to stay with her grandmother earlier this year. It’s a coincidence, yes, but does it matter?”

  Blackstone didn’t like coincidences. They usually signified sloppy work. “And what of this grandmother? What happens when she dies? It would be good to see Miss Mirren married. She has beauty. Does she have money?”

  His friend went to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.

  When Bailey didn’t answer he continued. “What? Is she destitute? I wouldn’t have thought so, but that’s easily fixed. God knows, I owe her that much.” Bailey still didn’t speak. “You can’t be disagreeing over the beauty. She looks like she stepped out of a painting, for God’s sake, with that riot of curls cascading…”

  He trailed off as Bailey shot him a quizzical look. Since they’d seen Miss Mirren with her hair up, there was no respectable reason for him to have knowledge of anything cascading.

  “What about Mr. Leighton?” Blackstone continued. “My neighbor—you’ve met him. A gentleman farmer. She could do worse.”

  Bailey took a chair near the fire and sighed. “I know that seeing her so unexpectedly is unsettling. But she’s not your responsibility. We’ve got to focus on Manning. He’s the target.”

  “Le Cafard is the target,” said Blackstone, more harshly than he intended.

  “One step at a time. We know that a smuggler is transporting l’espion de maître. It might be Manning. It might not. We’ve eliminated several of his competitors, but there are other possibilities.”

  “It’s him.” Blackstone watched his friend swallow a retort. He knew he was being irrational. But he also knew Manning was the one trafficking secrets and spies among his casks of brandy and bolts of silk. But that was no reason to become snappish. He should have been proud. Bailey was doing exactly what Blackstone had taught him, approaching a mission with cool, detached logic. It was just that sometimes truth transcended logic, arriving inexplicably in a man’s heart. Manning was the one who would lead them to Le Cafard.

  “Regardless,” Bailey cleared his throat, “my point is that Miss Mirren’s surprise appearance is unfortunate, but you mustn’t make it a distraction.”

  Blackstone was about to open his mouth to protest that he wasn’t distracted, when Bailey held out a hand. “Don’t argue with me. What happened was not your fault.” Setting his drink down with a thud, he grinned suddenly. “Unless you’d like to volunteer for the role of bridegroom? That would solve your succession problem!”

  “Good God, no! And I don’t have a succession problem. I just thought—”

  “Soldiers die every day,” Bailey interrupted. “It’s what happens in war.”

  Blackstone glanced down at his good-for-nothing arm and winced, trying to block the wall of memories that was always threatening to fall in on him.

  “Does it hurt?”

  The frankness of the question surprised him a little. He shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his sleeve. “No more than usual.” Even now, all these years later, he hated looking at the stump. It repulsed him. But he made himself do it every night. Made himself remember. “Focus on the target, you say. That’s impossible, isn’t it, without Manning here? Instead, we’re stuck with his chatterbox of a daughter.”

  Bailey remained silent a moment, as if resisting the change of subject. “We need to try to find out what he’s up to. What is the urgent business matter?”

  “If his business is in Bristol, it’s got to be slaving,” Blackstone said. “He was quite openly running slaves before ’07, so there’s no reason to think he’s stopped just because it’s illegal now.”

  Bailey
nodded. “As I see it, all we can do now is wait and hope he arrives.”

  “Agreed. It’s too late to cancel the party.”

  Bailey tapped the edge of his glass. “Perhaps we can get something useful out of the daughter?” He grinned, as if acknowledging the futility of that avenue.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing of substance there.”

  “Perhaps Catharine could help,” said Bailey, referring to Catharine Burnham, who would be among the guests. She had done some spying for Blackstone six months ago, and her ability to extract information from society’s drawing rooms was unparalleled.

  “Catharine knows nothing about this mission. Only those—”

  “Who need to know, need to know.” Bailey, a stellar pupil, was familiar enough with Blackstone’s maxim to finish the sentence. “I would have thought you’d make an exception for Catharine.”

  “No exceptions.” Blackstone conducted his espionage according to rules. Relaxing them put everyone in danger.

  “Perhaps the more promising lead is Miss Mirren,” Bailey said.

  Blackstone looked up sharply.

  “She and Mrs. Talbot were childhood friends, yes?” Bailey asked. “And she lived with the Mannings for long stretches. Mightn’t she know about the family’s dealings?”

  “What the favorite puddings are, how Manning ever got anyone to marry that daughter of his, that sort of thing,” said Blackstone. “But treason? No, I can’t imagine she knows anything.”

  “So just a regular party, then.” Bailey rolled his eyes. Blackstone knew his friend had as little patience for polite society as he did. The difference was that where polite society revered Blackstone, they looked down on Bailey, whose wealth, though as vast as Blackstone’s, had been earned in trade.

  Blackstone sighed. “Just a regular party.” He reached for Bailey’s drink and threw back the remainder in a single gulp. “God help us.”

  …

  After Bailey said good night, Blackstone remained in his chair, staring at the fire as he settled in for his nightly trial. He didn’t care for reading, it was true, but he did like the library at Clareford. Even as a child it had been a favorite spot to pass the time when the weather was ill. His mother never set foot in this room, so there was no trace of her memory here now.