“Lady Henrietta Harcourt has a dashing Frenchman trailing her. Rumor has it he’s smitten with her,” Aunt Euphemia said.
He had trouble swallowing his bite of mutton. Henrietta couldn’t be serious about the cad. Surely she could see his hypocrisy. Isabelle was De Valmont’s mistress.
“Wasn’t it expected that Lady Henrietta would marry the Duke of Wycliffe several seasons ago?”
He had never liked Wycliffe, just as now he disliked De Valmont.
“Cordelier, do you remember rumors around Lady Henrietta and the duke?” With her usual prescience, Aunt Euphemia perceived his interest in Henrietta.
“There were rumors that Lady Henrietta was to become betrothed to him. But her mother became ill, requiring Lady Henrietta to return to the country,” he said.
Henrietta had left London before he could further his acquaintance with her, as if fate was always against him. But not any longer.
“Rumors about Henrietta? I wouldn’t believe it for a minute. She is the kindest woman, and witty,” Gwyneth said.
“When did you meet Henrietta?” He couldn’t hide the edge in his voice.
“Henrietta?” Gwyneth raised her eyebrows. “I met her at Madame du Puis’ when I went for my first fitting. She asked me to call her Henrietta.” His sister’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Did she give you permission, too?”
He had been with his sister and aunt no more than an hour and they had already deduced his entire private life.
“I don’t recall meeting Lady Henrietta at Madame du Puis’.” His aunt watched his face looking for his reactions.
“You arrived late because of your earlier commitment, Aunt. Henrietta and her good friend Amelia Bonnington were there when I arrived. I had a cozy chat with Henrietta during Amelia’s fitting. Cord, did you see Amelia and Henrietta at the Wentworth Ball? They were planning to attend.” Gwyneth watched his face with the same searching look as Aunt Euphemia.
If they weren’t his relatives, he’d consider giving his aunt and sister positions with the Abchurch office. The only problem was Aunt Euphemia didn’t take directions from anyone.
All faces were turned toward him and Ash had a ridiculous grin.
“I did see Lady Henrietta across the floor.”
Cord hadn’t seen her friend Amelia. All he had seen were hordes of men surrounding Henrietta, especially damn De Valmont. He was supposed to be the man taking her arm, touching her, smiling into her emerald eyes, not the entire male population of London.
“Did you dance with Lady Henrietta?” Aunt Euphemia asked. His aunt could be like a hound, relentless in her searching, pursuing.
“Henrietta told me she had danced with you in her first season. What happened the night you met her?” Gwyneth asked.
“Did she? Why would she mention that evening?” His face grew red when he remembered what an insufferable ass he had been.
“Did you dance with her at the Wentworth Ball?” His sister was becoming more and more like Euphemia.
“A colleague plagued me through the night, preventing any dancing,” he said.
Gwyneth turned toward Ash when he snorted.
“Don’t tell me neither of you gentlemen danced?”
“Unlike your brother, who was involved with…business, I did speak with Lady Henrietta. And she is a most pleasing lady.” Ash grinned at Cord, baiting him further.
“Henrietta invited us to a soirée next week at Lady Chadwick’s. I’m hoping we can attend,” Gwyneth said.
“Emily Chadwick, I haven’t seen her in age. Cord, will you have time to attend?” his aunt asked.
He smiled at the idea of encountering Henrietta in a crowded soiree, pressed against her soft curves. “It’d be my pleasure to attend.”
When he looked up, all three dinner companions stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
Ash coughed into his napkin, barely concealing his laughter. “You surprised us with your enthusiasm to attend a soiree.”
“It isn’t the soiree. It’s the pleasure of escorting the Beaumont ladies.” Three pairs of eyes watched him as if he were the lion at the Tower of London, ready to escape his cage.
“Thank you, Cord.” Gwyneth winked at him. “I’m thrilled we shall attend the Chadwick Soiree.”
Darn the minx. He wasn’t ready to have his privacy scrutinized by his younger sister.
The dinner felt interminable under Aunt Euphemia and Gwyneth’s gaze. There was also something amiss with Ash. He was pensive and restless, not his usual bantering self. He tried to put his friend at ease. “Ash, we’ll take our morning ride tomorrow?”
“Can I join you? It will be like old times, before you both left for the Continent.” Gwyneth turned to Ash and smiled. “I hope you won’t try to outdistance me as in the past. I believe I can keep up now.”
What was the matter with his friend? Ash had such a silly look, as if someone challenged him to parade naked through Mayfair.
“I’ll look forward to the challenge,” Ash said.
“Cordelier, since its family, please forego the port, and let us move to the drawing room.” His aunt rose from her chair and headed to the door. “I’m sure Lord Ashworth wouldn’t mind if I have a few moments of privacy with you.”
Aunt Euphemia knew that neither Cord nor Ash could refuse her directive.
“Gwyneth, please escort Lord Ashworth to the drawing room and summon your maid. Cord and I’ll confer for a few minutes in the library.”
Like a frigate to battle, Aunt Euphemia plowed down the hallway, the feather on her turban blowing like the Union Jack.
Gwyneth gave him a look of understanding when he turned and followed his aunt down the corridor to his library.
Aunt Euphemia seated herself on the settee next to the warm fire. In its soft light, it seemed to Cord that his aunt hadn’t aged a moment from his youth. Aunt Euphemia had always been part of the Rathbourne household when she wasn’t travelling the world.
“Aunt Euphemia, may I offer you a sherry?”
“Brandy, my boy. I need something to take the ache out of these old bones. I can still feel that long damp carriage ride.”
He poured generous drinks for himself and his aunt. Aunt Euphemia wasn’t a teetotaler.
“You truly do look wonderful, Aunt Euphemia, and I’m glad you and Gwyneth are in London.” He handed her the deep golden liquid.
“It feels good to be back at Rathbourne House.” She took a long drink from the cut crystal glass and looked into his eyes. “How are you faring in London?” Direct as always, Aunt Euphemia wasted no time.
He wished to discuss neither his transition from spy to administrator nor his transition back into society as the new earl. Aunt Euphemia would be relentless in pursuing both.
Aunt Euphemia paused, trying to force him to answer, then she would probe to hear if his inner demons were still driving him.
He had learned a few tricks during his time on the Continent. He would outwait her.
“Are you finding it difficult to make the transition from your life in France?” she said.
“I’m adjusting. There are many challenges and responsibilities as the new earl.”
“I’ve heard the rumors about you at Lady Wentworth’s ball. Your grief drove you to outrageous behaviors in the past. I had hoped that the years in France helped you to forget.”
Forget? He tried every day to forget that he had been the cause of his brother’s death. If only he hadn’t challenged Gray to take the jump. His return to Rathbourne house, with all its memories, stirred the feelings he kept well hidden. Anger crept into his voice. “Aunt Euphemia, I’m able to conduct myself in society.”
“I know you’d never insult my dear friend, Abigail Wentworth.”
“I’d never wish to insult your friend or disappoint you.”
His aunt deserved an explanation, but what could he say? Protesting that he hadn’t brought Isabelle would sound absurd. And the purpose of his
relationship with Isabelle was to keep those rumors afloat, establishing her entrance in London society to mix with the men she was to befriend. The only glitch in the plan was Isabelle’s appearance at a respectable event.
“My darling boy, you can never disappoint me. I believe deeply in you. I had hoped…” His aunt grew quiet and gazed into the fire, regret etched on her face. She sighed. “I had hoped you might be ready to settle down. Perhaps the right woman could help you make a life. A solid marriage has been the making of many men.”
If it were only that easy. His aunt loved him and stood by him, but how could he explain he wasn’t sure if he was capable of happiness. Something changed after Gray’s death. It wasn’t just that he’d lost his brother and best friend. He’d lost his innocence, the belief that all matters could be fixed. He couldn’t fix Gray’s death or his parents’ grief.
“Cord, you must forgive yourself.”
He had nothing to say which would reassure his aunt. She was trying to shape his life into a normal existence. She had his best interests at heart.
“Is there no lady who has captured your interest? What about Lady Henrietta? I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting the lady, but I’ve known her uncle for many years.”
Henrietta did give him the hope of happiness. He was drawn to her vibrancy. She was filled with radiance, a joyfulness that he had been missing for years.
“Cord, you’re looking very serious. I assume if she were the right lady you’d at least smile.”
“I’m content with my work as the earl. And now I have you and Gwyneth in London.”
Perhaps he should be offended that, at the age of thirty, his aunt was still interfering in his life. But he was grateful to have someone concerned about him. His aunt would be vastly entertained that the lady had captured him, and he was definitely caught. After the Wentworth Ball, he had a lot to explain to Henrietta before he could share the good news with his aunt.
“Gwyneth and I’ll be busy getting ready for her presentation into society. Of course, you’ll make yourself available to escort Gwyneth and introduce her to acceptable men?”
“I’m looking forward to spending time with you and Gwyneth. I can’t say I’m thrilled to attend many society functions.”
“Cord, you must prepare yourself for the mamas. You are a wealthy unmarried earl and a war hero. I expect you’ll receive as much attention as Gwyneth.”
The thought of the society mamas required fortification. He took a large gulp from his brandy glass. The smooth liquor didn’t seem to be helping the tightening in his throat, as if his cravat was tied too tightly.
Aunt Euphemia rose from the settee, sweeping her ribbon-covered skirt aside to start her march to her bedroom. “I’m fagged from our long journey and will retire for the evening. We’ll have time to further pursue my concerns.”
Aunt Euphemia’s words might sound reassuring, but the promise in her tone was familiar. I’m not done with you, young man.
Rising from his chair, he offered his arm. “Let me escort you.”
“Thank you. I’m able to get to my room on my own. You’d better go help your friend. He seemed to be having a difficult time adjusting to the spectacular beauty of your sister.”
Aunt Euphemia chuckled. “This should be a most interesting season.”
Chapter Eight
Henrietta tore into the paper, too impatient to wait for a knife to open the large package from France. She needed to make this small contact with Michael. Her hands shook with the anxiety that beat through her body.
Mrs. Brompton stood over Henrietta. “Master Michael has finally sent us the silks from Paris.” When excited, Mrs. Brompton reverted to her past affectations for the Harcourt children she had help raise.
“Oh, such beautiful silk…look at this purple. How do they achieve the delicate colors?” Mrs. Brompton chattered, unaware of Henrietta’s heightened tension. “What about Edward’s knife?”
Henrietta held up a triangular shaped, heavily wrapped object for Mrs. Brompton’s inspection. “I assume this is the knife that Edward requested.”
“Edward is going to be thrilled. We mustn’t open the package.” Mrs. Brompton was as excited by the package as her younger brother would be.
Henrietta tried to appear calm but she found it hard to breathe, as if her corset strings were tied too tight. She continued to dig through the soft material, hoping for a letter. Even the briefest note would reassure her that her worries over her wayward brother had been for naught. She felt something soft, square. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo against the whalebone. Dear God, please….
She peeled away a sky blue silk to find a worn, brown leather book. She tightened her grasp on the book, trying to stop her hands from shaking. She opened the dog-eared volume, looking for a letter, some word of Michael.
Leafing through the pages, she examined the columns of numbers—a code table. She immediately recognized that this extensive code table was unique. The pages had endless numbers matched to French letters and words. To the untrained eye, this table would appear no different than the one she used to decipher messages sent to Uncle Charles from the Abchurch offices.
She focused on the book trembling between her fingertips. Was this some sort of strange and oblique joke, one of Michael’s McGregors? But Michael never joked about linguistics or codes. No one in the Harcourt family joked about such matters.
A memory floated to the surface—her brother’s high voice fluting down the hallway, calling out to his horrified sister that he had broken one of their mother’s favorite vases. “We’re in a McGregor.” And it seemed nothing had changed over the years. He had her involved in another McGregor.
“Just in time for the Firth ball.” Mrs. Brompton startled her from her reverie. “Shall I send over the deep green silk to Madame de Puis?” Mrs. Brompton folded the silk carefully over her arm. “Remember how your mama always favored her designs? Your mama was always heads above all the other ladies.”
Henrietta nodded. From the look of the cover, the book was old but why would Michael send her old French codes. Was this a book of the new codes the French were working on?
The code developed in the 1700’s was too lengthy and complex to be useful at the battlefront. The French had shortened their coded messages to track troops and communicate strategy. England and France were at peace since the Treaty of Amiens had been signed, but no one believed that Napoleon was finished in his drive for world power.
She fanned the pages of the book, looking for a letter, a note of explanation. “I must return to my work.”
“So you agree? I should send the green silk?”
“Whatever you think, I’m sure…” Henrietta turned back to her desk and reached between two massive volumes retrieving a slender packet—the code table she had meticulously edited based on Abchurch’s previous tables.
When he recognized her prodigious talent, Uncle Charles demanded her ability to recognize patterns, uncover subtleties the men often missed be put to use. Uncle Charles maintained she was the best code breaker in the family.
Again and again, she scanned the arrival. The French had broken new ground. She was used to deciphering with less than fifty numbers. This new table was at least one hundred and fifty numbers.
Why hadn’t Michael sent the book to Sir Ramston? Nothing made sense unless Michael’s work for the intelligence office had been exposed. She pressed her hand against her chest to slow her speeding heart. She needed to speak with Sir Ramston and share the codebook.
Her last attempt to gain entrance into the offices had failed dismally. Sending Sir Ramston a note for an appointment was out of the question. Women didn’t communicate with men who weren’t family and definitely didn’t write men concerning intelligence work.
She decided to send a letter to Sir Ramston, pretending it was from her uncle. Why hadn’t she considered that before?
At her appointment with Sir Ramston in Uncle Charles’s place, she would be able to ask about Michael a
nd the communications he had with Sir Ramston. Then she would give Sir Ramston the codebook.
She began the letter to Uncle Charles’s old friend asking for an appointment for the following day since Lady Chadwick’s soiree was tomorrow. The two-day wait would be interminable, but an unscheduled appearance at the Abchurch offices would be fruitless.
By the looks of the codebook, Michael had gotten into more than a foolish prank. Did he refer to the McGregor in the letter from her cousin because there would be dire consequences with his newest caper? A niggling uneasiness filled her body. She was going wring his neck when she saw him. Why did that idea make her eyes tear?
Chapter Nine
Isabelle paced in her lush sitting room, decorated with black lacquer in the Chinoisere style. The dark, exotic atmosphere with midnight blue wallpaper and japanned furniture was designed to appeal to the sensual.
Attendance at the Wentworth ball had been a miscalculation. She had followed Lucien’s suggestion to distract Cord while he pursued the codebook and Lady Henrietta. But Cord’s fury could jeopardize their mission of obtaining the stolen codebook.
She stopped her frantic movement. It was best not to attempt explanations but seduction. Her life had prepared her for persuading men. By the attentions of her uncle at an early age, she had become adroit at sexual manipulation. Except, now she was the victor, not the victim.
Bolton announced a visitor and ushered Comte Lucien De Valmont into her sitting room. It wasn’t the arrival she had expected.
“My darling, you are enchanting this afternoon.” He bowed.
She had dressed in a cornflower blue dress that made her black hair and eyes shine, creating the appearance of an innocent. Men always found the illusion of virginal innocence juxtaposed with the low-cut décolletage stimulating in a tawdry way.
Lucien raised her hand to his lips. His eyes darkened with desire as he surveyed her. “What is the English expression? You are in fine fettle today?”
Lucien was breathtakingly beautiful, every woman’s fantasy. His intense blue eyes and curling blonde hair gave him the look of a devilish cherub. He slid his long narrow finger down the cleft between her breasts.
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