A View to a Kiss

by Caroline Linden

  Within a few minutes another man, paunchy and colorless, slid onto the bench beside him. “Fine night, eh?” said the new fellow.

  “The finest,” Tom replied in languid tones.

  His companion gave a sharp, satisfied nod. “Good work, Sinclair.”

  Tom the footman, who was neither named Tom nor a footman, tilted his head to look at the other man. “Did you think I wouldn’t get it?”

  “Never know,” muttered Mr. Phipps. “Any trouble?”

  “None.”

  Phipps just grunted as the girl brought the ale, leaning forward to display her overflowing bosom. Sinclair gave her a slow smile and a golden coin. She sashayed away, casting him an inviting look over one shoulder.

  “Mighty free with his lordship’s coin,” Phipps said over his tankard.

  Sinclair lifted one shoulder. “What are his lordship’s coins for, if not to spend?”

  Phipps took a long drink, then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Under the table he opened his hand between them. With no apparent attention, Sinclair dropped the paper from Madame’s jewel case into it. “Take this,” Phipps said, pushing a tightly folded note no larger than a shilling back into Sinclair’s hand.

  “What is it?” Sinclair palmed the note without looking at it, then lifted his ale again.

  “An opportunity.” Phipps slipped the paper Sinclair had given him into his own pocket. “You’ll be wanting to read that soon.”

  “Indeed.” Sinclair seemed utterly uninterested. “Why?”

  “Word is you’ve got ambition.”

  Sinclair was watching the barmaid, who was smiling and winking at him as she wiped down a nearby table. “Every man has ambition—even you, I daresay.”

  Phipps’s lips twisted. “Not like yours.”

  One corner of Sinclair’s mouth quirked, but he said nothing.

  “You should take it as a commendation,” Phipps went on. “Not everyone gets a chance like that.”

  Sinclair just looked at him from under lowered eyelids. “Indeed.”

  Phipps gulped down the rest of his ale before shoving to his feet. With only a brief nod, he slapped a cap on his head and started to turn toward the door.

  “One question,” said Sinclair behind him, although without much curiosity. “Why Wollaston?”

  Phipps braced his hands on the table and leaned over him, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Why is not your concern. You do what you’re told, Sinclair.”

  “But I notice no one’s taking much notice of what the Frenchwoman does with the information he gives her.” Sinclair’s eyes glittered before sliding away, back to the buxom barmaid. “And it’s not your neck in the noose, is it, Mr. Phipps? It’s mine, if I get caught.”

  “You knew that at the beginning.”

  “Aye,” agreed Sinclair in the same emotionless voice. “I did.”

  Phipps hesitated, then swung around and stomped out the door.

  Sinclair stayed where he was and drank his ale. After a while the serving wench came back, running her fingers along the collar of his evening jacket and whispering an invitation in his ear. He gave her a halfhearted smile and his last coin, then gathered his hat and walking stick and left.

  Outside, he stopped beneath the first gas lamp he came to, fishing the small note from his pocket. He held it up to the light, squinting at the cramped handwriting, reading it three times before understanding everything it said.

  For a moment he stood motionless, his face drawn in thought. A hackney clattered by, and he stuffed the note back into his pocket. Then he strolled off into the darkness, swinging his walking stick and lightly, quietly, whistling a tune.

  Chapter 1

  Doncaster House was a true mansion, an imposing edifice in the grandest style set in Mayfair. Tall windows glowed with candlelight and the front doors were thrown wide open to admit the throngs of elegantly attired guests climbing the steps. The air was filled with the soft strains of music from inside the house, mixed with the jingle of harnesses and the clatter of carriage wheels outside. The guests must number in the hundreds, all of them wealthy, fashionable, and important.

  One man surveyed the scene from under lowered brows as he mounted the steps, rapping his cane sharply on each tread. He had never been to Doncaster House before, and his eyes roamed over the expanse of stone and glass and wrought iron as if he were counting the windowpanes and pediments. Halfway up the steps he paused, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket to blot his face.

  A pair of young men—dandies from the looks of them—burst through the doors, talking and laughing in the careless, too-loud manner of men who have drunk too much. They clattered down the steps, jostling him out of the way without so much as a backward glance. He teetered on the steps for a moment before a footman hurrying in their wake came to his aid, offering his arm and a murmured solicitation. The guest nodded, leaning heavily on the footman until he got his balance back.

  “Blasted scoundrels,” he muttered, now breathing heavily. “In my day young men knew better than to go about too foxed to walk straight.”

  “Yes, sir,” murmured the footman, discreetly slipping one hand under the gentleman’s elbow as he helped him up another step.

  “And mind, I’m not sorry to be in my dotage, if that is England’s future,” the old man went on. “Save for your old age now, lad, and pray they don’t bring the country to complete ruin!”

  “Yes, sir.” The footman eased him up another step.

  “If my boys had behaved that way, I’d have taken a cane to them, I would have…” His voice trailed off and he sighed. “Eh, but they’re both dead now. Gone with my dear wife in ’ninety-six to the consumption.”

  “Terribly sorry, sir,” said the footman, urging him up the last step.

  “What, what? Not your fault.” He patted the footman’s arm. “There’s a good lad. Write to your mother, would you?”

  “Er—yes, sir.” The footman bowed as the old man went into the house, leaning on his cane and favoring his left leg.

  Inside the house, the elderly gentleman shuffled through the bustle, handing off his cloak and hat to another footman and making his way toward the ballroom to greet his host. It was a grand ball, but he’d arrived rather late, and the receiving line had dwindled to almost naught.

  “Lord Henry Wroth,” a servant announced him.

  The Earl of Doncaster bowed, tall and urbane, his dark hair threaded with silver. “Good evening, sir.”

  “And to you.” Lord Wroth executed a shaky bow over the countess’s hand. “Madam.”

  “Welcome to our home,” said Lady Doncaster with a gracious smile. She was younger than her husband, with a face more handsome than beautiful. “How kind of you to come.”

  Wroth chuckled, a hoarse, rusty sound. “And my great pleasure it is, too. But I hope you’ve not served a surfeit of punch. It tends to go to the young men’s heads, it does.”

  “Indeed not,” she replied smoothly. “I quite agree with you, sir.”

  He nodded his shaggy gray head. “Well done, madam, well done.”

  He bowed again and hobbled away, but slowly enough to overhear the exchange behind him in low tones.

  “Wroth?” murmured the earl. “I thought that title died out.”

  “Apparently they found an heir,” said his wife. “A distant cousin, I believe.”

  “Ah.” This satisfied the question for Doncaster. He greeted his next guest with the same cordial manner as he’d shown the unknown Lord Wroth. Lady Doncaster followed suit, the curious old man dismissed from her mind as well.

  The man called Lord Wroth listened with satisfaction, and went on his way. They would hardly be so calm if they suspected they had just welcomed a common spy named Harry Sinclair into their ballroom, in the completely fabricated guise of a recently discovered Lord Wroth. Then again, if he did his job properly, they’d never suspect anything like that at all.

  The ballroom was a sight to behold. Long swaths of pale green silk
hung from the walls, glowing in the light of dozens of fine wax candles augmenting the gas lamps. Harry had been to balls before, but never seen anything quite like this. There were flowers everywhere, all white; everything in the room was either green or white, he noted, scanning the room over his spectacles. It must have cost a bloody fortune just to decorate for an evening’s entertainment.

  His gaze flitted over the three sets of French windows standing open onto a wide terrace, just visible beyond the glow of the ballroom. Beyond that, he knew, lay a large garden. Guests were strolling in and out of the doors, for it was a warm evening and the mass of tapers made it warmer. It would be entirely possible for anyone to slip around to the back of the house, go through the garden, and in the terrace doors. There was no attempt to secure the house at all. Eyebrows lowered, he trudged on.

  When he had gone halfway around the room, he plopped down into a chair too near the musicians for anyone to be sitting and conversing nearby. He pulled out his handkerchief again and mopped his face. Within moments a footman stopped beside him. “May I fetch you a drink, sir?”

  “Aye,” said Harry. “None of that pissy champagne. Some good port.”

  The footman bowed his head. “Yes, sir.” He hurried away and returned in a moment with a glass. As he offered the tray, he tilted it too much and sent a wave of plum-colored port sloshing onto Lord Wroth’s yellowed cuff.

  “Oh, you blasted lummox,” Harry grumbled. The servant stepped nearer, leaning solicitously forward until his powdered wig almost brushed Harry’s cheek.

  “Beg pardon, sir, I do apologize.” The footman whisked out a cloth and dabbed at the spilled wine. “Nice to see you this evening,” he murmured. “A bit late, of course.”

  Harry scowled. “Be more careful, sirrah,” he said peevishly. “That’s a waste of fine wine, and my linen also.” Then he added in a much quieter tone, dabbing at his upper lip with the handkerchief, “It takes an eternity to get this bloody suit on, you know. Care to switch jobs? I’ll give you the shoes this instant.”

  The footman’s lips twitched as he rubbed a little harder at the stain. “Not at present, no. You look better gray and humped, actually.” He glanced around and lowered his voice even more. “All quiet here tonight.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Harry leaned back a little, scanning the room again over the other man’s bent head. Doncaster was still greeting guests, his dark head visible above the crowd. After a moment Harry located Lord Crane, a thin stooped figure who stood across the room opposite the musicians. He was talking to Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary, accenting his remarks with emphatic slashes of one hand. Whatever they were talking about, Castlereagh seemed to be getting the sharp edge of Crane’s temper.

  Harry glanced down at the man still scrubbing at his cuff. Alec Brandon would make a fine servant if he ever decided to give up spying. He considered telling Brandon so, after the snide remark about his tardiness. He’d done well to make it here at this hour, given the constraints of old Wroth’s clothing. The coat was too tight in the sleeves and too loose in the shoulders, having been let out in back to accommodate the thick padding that gave Wroth a humped back. The shoes were too small and pinched his feet, forcing him to shuffle along with a genuinely grim expression, as any elderly man with gout might. It was a good disguise, and he was rather brilliant in it if he did say so himself, but it was horribly uncomfortable.

  “Spill a little more next time, would you?” he muttered as Brandon continued working. “Go to, man, just fetch another glass,” he said loudly, pulling free. “I’m not a damned teapot to be polished all night long.”

  Brandon’s eyes flashed but he merely bowed. “Yes, sir.”

  Harry leaned back again and half closed his eyes as he surveyed the room again. There were over three hundred of the most prominent people in London here tonight, and the doors stood open wide enough for a dozen radicals to storm in with powder kegs under their arms and blow the whole lot to bits. That would certainly win him no favors, if it were to happen under his nose. Harry stifled his impatience, reminding himself he was only strictly responsible for the safety of two men present.

  Lord Doncaster was moving into the room, his countess on his arm. Lord Crane was still haranguing Castlereagh. All looked calm and normal, at least so far as Harry was responsible for noticing. He reached for his cane, prepared to circle the room to keep them both in his sight.

  And then he saw her.

  “Your wine, sir. I do beg your pardon once more—” Brandon’s voice died abruptly. Harry tore his eyes off the woman and snatched the glass from his fellow agent’s hand, but the damage had been done.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Brandon hissed between his teeth. “She’s not for you.”

  “Of course not.” Harry raised his eyebrows insolently and tossed back a gulp of wine. He could still see her from the corner of his eye, dancing with a scarlet-coated officer.

  “Remember it,” Brandon was saying in his ear. “Doncaster’s daughter is the prize of the season. You wouldn’t be good enough to wipe her shoes even if you were as you appear, Lord Wroth.”

  Doncaster’s daughter. That would be Lady Mariah Dunmore, only child of the wealthy and influential earl. Of all the females to catch his eye…She was so far above his reach, it was somewhat surprising lightning hadn’t smote him from on high just for looking at her. Harry said nothing.

  “Just keep your eyes and mind where they belong.” Brandon pressed his lips together; he’d been standing next to Harry too long and they both knew it. “May I fetch you anything else, my lord?”

  Harry made a vaguely dismissive gesture. He’d gotten the message. “No, no, leave me in peace.” He raised his glass again and turned his back on Brandon, shuffling away. Brandon spoke cold hard sense. A woman—any woman, let alone that woman—was not for him, not now. He was supposed to be guarding Lord Doncaster’s life, not having lustful thoughts about his daughter. Over the rim of the glass he looked out into the crowd, in any direction but hers.

  Lord, but she was a beauty, he thought, giving in to temptation within a few minutes. He sipped his wine again, in case Brandon or anyone else was watching. From the corner of his eyes he watched her leave the dancers, escorted by her partner. The officer bowed over her hand, but Harry could see her face and knew the fellow didn’t have a chance. She was smiling politely, but her eyes conveyed something else entirely. Harry was quite good at reading expressions. Her feelings were as clear to him as if she had whispered it in his ear: Stop talking and go away…

  Harry drank some more of his wine to hide a smirk. Poor fool, that captain. The officer lingered a moment while Lady Mariah turned away and spoke to someone else, then awkwardly took his leave. He might have felt sorry for the man, except that the captain had danced with her, held her in his arms, and basked in her smile, even if it had been forced and insincere. And Harry, who would be doing none of those things, couldn’t pity that.

  Of course, he knew he was leaping to conclusions, which was just what he was not supposed to do. He moved through the crowd, studying the guests from all angles without appearing to do so, always keeping one eye on his two principal marks. Brandon was correct that he would be entirely beneath Lady Mariah’s notice no matter what he wore or called himself. Even if not, she was just a beautiful young woman, nothing more, nothing less, no doubt as fickle and vain as any of the species. He knew how women were; he had put the knowledge to use many times, and there was no reason to think this beautiful, wealthy, well-born lady would be any different.

  And yet…He caught sight of her again, speaking to her mother the countess. Glossy dark braids were pinned high on her head, with little white flowers here and there. She was upset, her cheeks rosy but her mouth hard. There wasn’t much of frail delicacy about her that he could see. There was a passion and vitality in her every movement that commanded his attention. Oh yes, there was something different about her, at least to him.

  He drifted around the room twice
over the next hour, like a comet in orbit, always keeping his gaze scrupulously away from her. A few people he had become loosely acquainted with stopped to greet him, and Harry chatted with them as long as he must; Lord Wroth couldn’t move about society without knowing anyone, after all. But when they moved away, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was much easier to do his job if he didn’t have to attend to any conversation, and the conversation at these affairs was invariably pointless and dull.

  Satisfied everything was secure inside the ballroom, Harry strolled toward a draped doorway he knew led to a balcony overlooking the garden. Alec Brandon had supplied him with painstakingly exact drawings of the house and grounds, and he wanted to see it himself. As he had already noted, there were more than enough places someone could sneak in and cause mischief, and it was his job to prevent anything like that. He waited until Brandon caught his eye from across the room, then gave the slightest of nods. Dabbing his face with the handkerchief again, he slipped out into the darkness of the night.

  There was something wrong with her.

  There simply had to be. It was humiliating, but there didn’t seem to be another explanation. Instead of enjoying the ball, her first in London, Mariah Dunmore was wildly impatient for it to be over. That had rarely happened to her before, and she didn’t know what to make of it.

  She was hardly unused to gatherings like this. For the last five years her father, the Earl of Doncaster, had been an emissary of the Crown to various European capitals, and his wife and daughter had gone with him. Mariah had attended royal levees in Vienna, had tea with the czarina of Russia, and danced with a Spanish prince. With few exceptions, she had loved every minute of it. Even the dull people she met were interesting on some level, as they were so different from her, and she’d been almost sorry when her parents decided to return home.