by Brenda Hiatt
"But when a man's public politics are at odds with his personal opinions —and writings —what then? Surely you cannot absolve such a man of hypocrisy." Sir Nelson was publicly allied with the conservative Tories, as his father had been. Else he would not hold a position of such importance in the Home Office.
She raised a skeptical brow above the rim of her spectacles. "Yes, I suppose that would smack of hypocrisy, but I cannot say that I know of any such man."
She was proving a tougher nut to crack than he'd anticipated, particularly after last night. Abandoning the matter of the mysterious essayist, he tried a different approach. "Tell me, Miss Riverstone, did your brother fight in the war?"
"Nelson?" She appeared genuinely surprised by the question, or perhaps she was merely startled by the abrupt change of subject. "Perhaps 'fight' is too strong a word, but he served briefly in the army, yes. Why?"
He ignored the question. "In what capacity? To what unit was he assigned?"
"To the 52nd Light Infantry , but he was injured in a minor skirmish shortly after his arrival in France. After spending several months in a field hospital, he was eventually sent home."
"And when might that have been?" he asked, abandoning subtlety in his eagerness.
"He returned in the spring of 1814, a few months before Father died."
So Sir Nelson had been in France when the Bishop had been passing information to Napoleon. He could not have been at Waterloo, but perhaps a confederate had planted evidence—
"Mr. Paxton?" He looked up to find her frowning anxiously.
And well she might feel anxious. He was more certain than ever that the Bishop and Sir Nelson were one. Still, he felt compelled to somehow reassure her, to erase the worry from her eyes —if only temporarily.
"I simply meant to make the point that a man who went voluntarily into the Army would be guilty of hypocrisy if he were to criticize the war effort. Not that I'm claiming your brother has done so, of course."
She still looked dubious, and no wonder. His explanation sounded extremely feeble even to his own ears. Quickly, he gulped down his cooling coffee and stood.
"I really must go now, but I thank you for yet another stimulating conversation, Miss Riverstone."
"Um, yes, of course." She nodded to him almost absently, apparently lost in her own thoughts now.
As he hurried out of the room, for a moment it occurred to him that he had perhaps been unwise to tip his hand to her so soon. She was exceptionally intelligent, and even if she had not yet pieced together his disjointed questions, she would likely do so soon. He would have to keep her off balance, keep her wondering about his motives.
Otherwise, his very life might be forfeit.
He didn't want to believe that Miss Riverstone would intentionally put him at risk. But presuming she did not know of her brother's treasonous activities, nor how dangerous the man could be, she would have no compunction about warning him. She would not know that Noel's life would be at stake.
And if she did know . . . ?
Putting Miss Riverstone firmly from his mind, he turned determined footsteps toward the Crown and Horn, where he hoped certain inquiries might solidify his case beyond doubt.
* * *
Rowena stared after Mr. Paxton, her mind in turmoil. What on earth had that been about? It was patently obvious that he was fishing for information of some sort, but what it might be, she had no idea.
For a few heart-stopping minutes she'd been convinced he'd identified her as MRR, but as he continued it seemed clear he believed her essays were written by a man. And he had called her arguments "persuasive," she recalled with a spurt of pride.
Then she frowned. What of that odd tangent about Nelson's army service? Mr. Paxton's "explanation" hadn't explained at all. Could he conceivably think that Nelson —or MRR— was the Saint of Seven Dials? Perhaps that all three were one? It was the only explanation she could fathom, but it made little sense.
She remembered the halfhearted promise he had extracted from her as he had left the dining room the first time. Yes, he must think she had information about the Saint, which must mean he at least suspected Nelson.
The very idea of Nelson writing her essays —or acting as the Saint —was so absurd she nearly laughed aloud.
Of course, he would find out soon enough that Nelson had been in the country while the Saint was active in London last winter. But in the meantime, she saw no need to disabuse Mr. Paxton of his amusing notion. While he pursued Nelson, he would not be pursuing the real Saint, whoever he was.
Still she could not ignore a small ache in the vicinity of her heart. Though she had tried not to, she had briefly allowed herself to believe that kiss last night had meant something to him. Now it seemed clear that he merely considered her a means to an end.
A spurt of anger abolished melancholy. Did he really think, if Nelson were the Saint, that she would betray her own brother? What kind of person would be capable of such a double betrayal, of both principles and blood, for a mere kiss?
No, she would think no more about the matter —or the man.
She had a mission in London, and any feelings she might have developed for Mr. Paxton would only interfere with that mission. Just as well she now saw him for what he was, and could nip such fledgling feelings in the bud.
She would use today and tonight strictly as the opportunities they were, to speak with men of political influence and to learn more about the undercurrents that bound or separated such men. Last night had been all but wasted in that sense.
But not completely wasted, she reminded herself. She had met Mr. Richards, and could look forward to future conversations with that most intelligent man. If he were not so much older than she—
No! She had nearly fallen into that trap with Mr. Paxton. She would certainly not entertain any romantic notions about Mr. Richards. But should she meet a man who combined Mr. Richards' ideals with Mr. Paxton's appearance and address . . .
No, she must not think along those lines. She signaled for a fresh pot of coffee, deliberately concentrating on what she would say to Mr. Richards about Nelson as soon as she had a chance for private conversation with him. The awkwardness of such a petition successfully distracted her for the remainder of her meal.
CHAPTER 9
To Rowena's surprise, nearly as many people arrived for the card party as had attended Pearl's ball the night before. Though the ball hadn't been quite the ordeal she had feared, she had hopes of feeling less out of her element tonight. At least with cards she need not fear treading on anyone's toes.
The trip to the Exeter 'Change had been rather disappointing, though she told herself that was because of the condition of the poor tigers. She had taken it upon herself to speak to the keeper, to the amazement of the other ladies present.
Mr. Paxton had not joined them, but after their conversation this morning she hadn't wanted him to. No, the real source of her disappointment was the absence of any men of influence she might cultivate. The party had consisted primarily of ladies, along with two or three young bucks who had only come along to spend time with said ladies. A pointless enterprise altogether.
"Well met, Miss Riverstone!" Mr. Galloway broke into her musings. Turning, she saw that he was again accompanied by Lord Fernworth and his cousin, Mr. Orrin.
"Good evening, sirs, my lord," she said with a smile, though these men would not serve her purpose either. "It is pleasant to see you again. I believe we will be breaking into various tables shortly."
"And Mr. Galloway promised you a chess match, if I recall," said Mr. Paxton, coming up just then to stand at her elbow. "I've already spoken with Lady Hardwyck to make certain a board is available."
Rowena fought to subdue the instinctive thrill that assailed her nerves at his nearness, sternly reminding herself of his true motives in befriending her.
"I had thought to play cards," she said, though in truth she would far prefer chess. She would do nothing to gratify Mr. Paxton, however.
"Come, there are four of us, not counting Stick-in-the-mud Paxton," Lord Fernworth exclaimed. "What say you all to a few hands of whist?"
He moved toward the nearest card table as he spoke, Mr. Galloway and Mr. Orrin following readily enough. Rowena glanced involuntarily at Mr. Paxton, who was frowning. That was enough to decide her. She joined the others.
"You'll partner me, will you not, Miss Riverstone?" Mr. Galloway accompanied his request with a charming smile and a pleading look that was undeniably flattering.
Pointedly ignoring Mr. Paxton, she assented, taking the indicated seat at the table. The cards were dealt and the play commenced.
At first Rowena found it hard to concentrate, so conscious was she of Mr. Paxton hovering just behind her. After a few minutes, however, he wandered off and she was better able to focus on the game.
Focus, in fact, was her main concern. She had to continually remind herself not to bring the cards ridiculously close to her face, that she might better see the pips. Nor would she squint. Therefore, it was a fairly easy matter to play less than her best, which no doubt pleased the gentlemen.
"Oh, dear, silly me," she said when she played a club instead of a spade for the second time. "I told you I was new to the game, did I not?"
Her poor play cost the first hand, but after that she paid closer attention —and held the cards just a tiny bit closer —and she and Mr. Galloway rallied to win the rubber, just as Mr. Paxton returned.
"Change partners for another rubber?" Mr. Orrin suggested.
But Mr. Galloway shook his head. "First, that chess match Miss Riverstone promised me. If you're still willing, that is?"
"Of course." Rowena thought he looked rather smug at the prospect, and was torn between wanting to put him in his place and wanting to frustrate Mr. Paxton's evident desire to see her do just that.
They passed Lord and Lady Hardwyck as they crossed the room to where the chessboard was set up, and Pearl pulled Rowena aside for a quick word.
"Remember, dear," she said softly. "Most men are not like Luke, or your Mr. Paxton —they like to win."
Rowena nodded, though she nearly lost the sense of what Pearl said. Her Mr. Paxton? She opened her mouth to protest the designation, but the others were watching now, so she turned and followed them.
Of course he was not her Mr. Paxton. How absurd. Surely Pearl couldn't know—?
"Here we are," Mr. Galloway exclaimed gleefully as they reached the chessboard. "I'll take black, of course."
Even without spectacles, Rowena's eyesight was sufficient for this game she knew so well —as long as she paid attention. Still, she was determined not to afford the hovering Mr. Paxton the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Galloway soundly trounced, much as that might gratify her own ego.
She made her first move, the perfectly conventional king's pawn opening. Unfortunately, within five minutes it was clear that Mr. Galloway was a far poorer player than even Pearl. Losing to him would be all but impossible.
The only thing that kept her from ending it sooner was the obvious disapproval radiating from Mr. Paxton. Rowena did her best to delay the inevitable, sitting back to make it harder to focus on the pieces, ignoring several obvious openings and even allowing Mr. Galloway to take her queen. She could almost feel Mr. Paxton stiffening with outrage, and had to hide a grin.
Finally, however, she had little choice but to checkmate the black king and win the game. To her amazement, Mr. Galloway seemed genuinely surprised to have lost.
"It seems Mr. Paxton was not exaggerating, Miss Riverstone," he exclaimed. "You are a formidable opponent indeed. My congratulations!"
Rowena glanced about and realized with some dismay that a fair number of guests had gathered to watch the conclusion of the match —to include Lester Richards. Mr. Paxton was frowning at her, which bothered her not at all, of course, but Mr. Richards' opinion was another matter.
It was all she could do to accept Mr. Galloway's congratulations graciously, as poorly as she had played. She prayed he would not suggest another match.
In fact, Mr. Galloway appeared more than satisfied to return to the card tables. "Now that I need not have all my wits about me, I'll try some of the claret," he said, plucking a glass from a tray carried by a passing footman. "Perhaps one of you gents would care to try your skill against our clever Miss Riverstone?"
But most of the other gentlemen and one or two ladies merely regarded her quizzically before beginning to disperse. She shot a defiant glance at Mr. Paxton, but then turned to find Mr. Richards watching her. She flushed, wondering how much of the game he had seen.
"I'd enjoy a match, if you would oblige me," he said smoothly, a smile making his face almost handsome. Well, not handsome, exactly, but . . . magnetic.
"Certainly, sir. I am pleased to see you again so soon," Rowena replied, fighting down sudden nervousness. Much as she would prefer not to, she really must mention Nelson to him tonight. She had promised.
"And I, you, Miss Riverstone. Shall we?" Deftly, he began resetting the board.
Though most of the spectators had drifted away, Mr. Paxton remained. Irritated, Rowena turned to him. "Surely you have better things to do than to watch me play again?"
The words were rude, and she regretted them at once, but he only smiled. "I find it quite an enjoyable pastime, actually. I'd like to play the winner if she —or he— doesn't mind."
"I've no objection, Paxton," Mr. Richards said. Rowena thought she caught a hint of eagerness in his dark eyes.
"Nor I," she echoed. Then, turning resolutely back to the board, she opened with the same move as before. How could she bring up Nelson's delicate problem with Mr. Paxton within earshot?
A few minutes' play proved Mr. Richards a vastly superior player to Mr. Galloway, though not of Mr. Paxton's caliber. Rowena concentrated, unsure whether she wanted to best her idol or not. She very much wanted to win his respect, but she feared alienating him. Plus, there was the matter of Nelson's—
"Gadslife, Ro! Trust you to find a chessboard at a card party." Her brother's voice at just that moment made her start.
"Good evening, Nelson. You know Mr. Richards, I believe? And Mr. Paxton —you wished for a word with my brother, did you not?"
To her relief, Mr. Paxton took the cue.
"Indeed. Do you have a few moments, Sir Nelson?"
"Anything beats watching a chess match," Nelson agreed readily. "May as well watch paint dry."
The two men moved away, and Rowena relaxed marginally —though what she had feared, she was not sure. Seizing her opportunity before she could lose her courage, she said, "I understand my brother has been— unwise— in his gaming, Mr. Richards."
Her opponent was frowning at her last move, but at this he lifted his eyes to hers and smiled slightly. "I suppose one might say that. Sir Nelson's luck is such that he would do better to avoid games of chance."
"I agree. However—" But just then, two couples wandered over to watch the match, and Rowena was forced to drop the subject. "Perhaps we might talk of this later?"
"As you wish," said Mr. Richards, his attention again on the board.
* * *
Noel wasn't sure whether to bless or curse his luck. He had wanted an early chance of conversation with Sir Nelson, but he very much preferred not to leave Miss Riverstone alone with Mr. Richards. There was something about the man—
"What did you have in mind to talk about, Paxton?" Sir Nelson asked, reminding him of his mission —the only thing that should matter now.
Besides, Miss Riverstone was scarcely alone. The table she shared with Mr. Richards was in full view of half the room.
"Your sister tells me you served in the army, Sir Nelson. I was wondering if we might have an acquaintance or two in common."
"Oh? Army man yourself, are you?" The stocky young man puffed out his chest a bit. "My time under Wellington was the most memorable of my life, I must say."
Noel was experienced in sifting men's words and expressions, but could detec
t no false note in Sir Nelson —not yet. "I'm a great admirer of Wellington myself," he said, "though I never held a commission under him. I did some courier work during the recent wars, however."
The Black Bishop would know what that really meant. But though he watched Sir Nelson's expression carefully, it showed not the slighted flicker of comprehension —merely mild curiosity.
"Courier? Delivering messages and such, you mean? Not a fighting man, then, eh? Though I suppose you must have ventured into danger now and again." He said it kindly, as though offering a sop to Noel's pride.
"Now and again, yes." Noel smiled, pretending gratitude while actually recalling the dozens of life-or-death situations he'd faced —more than many soldiers had faced, in fact. "I take it you saw your share of the fighting, then?"
Sir Nelson's fair skin pinkened slightly. "Not as much as I'd hoped, truth to tell. Took a bullet in the leg at Bayonne and though I wanted to get back into the fray, the surgeon wouldn't let me. Got to hear many a rare tale, though, let me tell you."
This echoed Miss Riverstone's account, though of course it would, if it were the cover story her brother had been using. Noel had serious doubts now, however. Either the man was a superb actor, or he was nowhere near clever enough to be the elusive Black Bishop.
"You spent some months in France, did you not? That must have been—interesting."
Sir Nelson shrugged. "Maybe if I'd been nearer Paris, instead of trapped in a minuscule hamlet miles from anywhere. Since I speak only the sketchiest French, my only news came from fellow soldiers, wounded more recently than I. And, of course, from Captain Steen, who came to visit us when he could."
Noel's attention sharpened. "Captain Emory Steen?"
"Yes, of course. I was in his company, you know. Never progressed beyond ensign myself, thanks to that bullet."
