Intriguing the Viscount: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 2)

by Arietta Richmond

  Such shady dealings were unworthy of a gentleman, and deeply offensive to Charlton’s finely honed sense of honour.

  Nothing in his brother’s business was openly illegal, of course - Michael was far too canny to fall into obvious traps, or to run the risk of being blackmailed by some of his less savoury acquaintances, but, as a whole, his transactions were unethical to say the least.

  Charlton sighed and looked out of the window.

  Out on the square, the sun was sparkling upon the icicles wreathing the trees and somehow the winter light, with its blue hues, recalled to his mind Lady Odette’s eyes, those deep blue eyes in which violet lights danced, like in a pre-dawn sky in high summer. The colour was so unusual, so intense, that it had captured his attention immediately when he had first seen her, and drawn him in, instantly.

  He had danced with her, the previous evening, and it had been like stepping into a dream.

  She had demurred at first, not because she was playing the coy maiden, but because – quite unbelievably, in Charlton’s opinion – she thought that he was offering to dance with her only out of kindness, and had actually said as much, in so many words.

  “Do not feel obliged to ask me to dance, my Lord, if you do not feel like it. I am perfectly happy looking at people, you see. They offer an unending field of speculation, if one is of a mind to pay attention. One can imagine stories, plots and secrets or one can turn them into characters in an unending comedy. It can be very absorbing, you know.”

  “My dear Lady Odette,” he had answered her, quite bluntly “I have spent the last years obeying orders and doing things which I often disliked doing. Now I am set on indulging myself. I asked you to dance with me because I would very much like to do so and not, rest assured, because of some misplaced sense of chivalry.”

  She had smiled, a wonderful, open smile, revealing her even pearly teeth, had curtsied and had held out her hand.

  “That being the case, my Lord, I shall be happy to dance with you.”

  And dance they did, around and around, letting the lilting music of the waltz lead them in intricate swirls and patterns, the lights, and colours and scents drifting around them in a dizzying kaleidoscope.

  She felt so light and so alive in his arms, a smile on her upturned face, her scent, a subtle blend of exotic spices and roses, wafting around her.

  She was beautiful, it was true, but her beauty was only the outer layer of the attraction she held for him. There was something in her that appealed to him in a deeper and rather disconcerting way. They had exchanged only a few words, but he had felt a sudden affinity with her. Was it the amused curiosity with which she looked at the ton and at its whims? Or was it her being an outsider, someone who did not completely belong? Rather as he no longer felt that he completely belonged.

  Charlton’s reverie was interrupted by another image: a black clad gentleman, an aquiline profile, a ruby, like a drop of blood on his hand.

  Lady Odette’s father, the Comte de Vierzon.

  It was perfectly possible that he was not the French agent his comrade had pointed out to him in Paris. It could be a likeness, even a strong likeness, nothing more. For all he knew, the French agent and Lady Odette’s father could even be related, without being in any way connected in their activities.

  But something in his mind, some sixth sense developed during his years as one of His Majesty’s Hounds, discarded all of the above feeble excuses as mere balderdash. He was certain, deep down certain, of it: Lady Odette’s father and the French spy were one and the same.

  And, given Charlton’s interest in the young lady, this was a set-back, to say the least.

  His musings were interrupted by a discreet tap on the door.

  It was Clarick, the footman, with a silver salver in his hands.

  “A letter for you, my lord. An answer is requested.”

  Charlton stood and took the letter from the salver, broke the seal, and perused it quickly.

  “Thank you, Clarick. Please tell whoever is waiting for the answer that I will be there as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, my lord,” the footman bowed and left, while Charlton looked at the missive with a perplexed frown. Why on earth should Lord Cecil Carlisle, Baron Setford, ask for him to call on him in all haste?

  Lord Setford was a long-time acquaintance of his, the military spymaster to whom the Hounds had reported, and the mastermind of many a daring enterprise.

  He had a deceiving appearance, being little more than five feet five in his stockinged feet, with thinning ash blond hair and delicate hands. Only his eyes, of a piercing light grey, rimmed in black, betrayed his steely will and his superior intellect.

  One of the Hounds – probably Geoffrey, who, being a second son, had originally been supposed to enter the Church, and had consequently had a classical education at Oxford – told them once that Julius Caesar was said to have had eyes like Lord Setford’s, and Charlton did not doubt it. Behind his unassuming exterior, there was a formidable and devious mind, and a strategist of nigh superhuman ability.

  Half an hour later, Lord Setford welcomed Charlton with a smile.

  “Sorry to have dragged you from home on such a devilish cold day, Lord Pendholm. Please be seated. May I offer you some refreshment to atone for my solecism?”

  Charlton nodded, and sank into the comfortable leather armchair in front of the roaring fire. He had been led to the library, a very masculine room, all nooks and crannies, with large bookcases bearing witness to the somewhat eclectic interests of their owner. His perusal of the room was disturbed by the arrival of a maid.

  “Ah, here is your coffee. I am told that you are partial to this beverage, and I share your tastes. Try this blend - I have it sent from Egypt by a local apothecary, who mixes coffee from the Arabian highlands, where it is said that Allah Himself led a weary shepherd to the blessed berries…”

  They sat in companionable silence, sipping the aromatic infusion and nibbling on sponge cake.

  “Well now, Charlton, if I may call you by your first name, you will be wondering why on earth I asked you to come and see me…”

  “Of course you may call me by my first name, Sir, only a few weeks ago you were my senior officer.”

  Lord Setford guffawed. “I see that I succeeded in teaching you something, did I not? You always were an apt pupil, though. I think that you have, perhaps, already divined the reason for my summons. I need you, Charlton. I need you again, in a different, but no less dangerous field. I cannot force your co-operation, mind you. But I would most deeply appreciate it. It is up to you.”

  Charlton silently swore. He was cornered and well he knew it. The “up to you” part was simply ludicrous. He would accept whatever task the spymaster saw fit to give him, not because someone or something compelled him to, but because, once a Hound, forever a Hound. If England needed him, well, here he was. And the thrice dratted Lord Setford was perfectly aware of it.

  He inhaled and exhaled slowly, like a village wise woman in Spain had taught him, to relieve his edginess. Then he stood, and gave Lord Setford a military salute.

  “I’m yours to command, my Lord, Sir.”

  Lord Setford laughed and applauded.

  “Bravo! You wish me to the devil and you are right, but you know where your duty lies. I did not expect anything less from you. Now, sit down, let’s have another cup of this excellent coffee and I will tell you everything about it.”

  Charlton sat as Lord Setford retrieved a portfolio from his desk.

  “Now, here we are. We strongly suspect a French spy to be operating in London, with the aim of seducing disaffected Englishmen into becoming Bonaparte’s supporters and thus obtaining a repeal of Napoleon’s exile to Saint Helena. With him freed, or at least in a much less confined situation, they undoubtedly hope to revive Bonapartism in France, and to start the ugly mess all over again. Even those who did not like Bonaparte much when he was in power may be involved, for it seems they like their newly returned King even less.�
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  “Rather preposterous, Sir.”

  “Yes, my boy, rather, but, well, there are quite a lot of people who would like to take advantage of an unstable and uncertain situation. There is much social unrest, many soldiers are returning to their homes to find them changed or disappeared, many more are war wounded and without a wage. For those who have no love for the English ruling classes, this is a double chance – they hope to create unrest, or even revolution, here, and to achieve their aims in France as well. Did you read the Two Penny Trash?”

  “No, sir, should I?”

  “You should rather. Lots of rubbish, of course, but with some important truth mixed in as well, and we should take care to separate the wheat from the chaff, if you ken my meaning. Thus” and he rubbed his hand in a businesslike manner “we have to nip it in the bud.”

  “Do you suspect somebody?”

  “We have a name: the Comte de Vierzon, a French aristocrat who married an English Lady, who is unfortunately deceased. They had a daughter, who was raised, these later years, by her maternal aunt, a Lady Farnsworth. Do you happen to know any of them?”

  Hearing the name, Charlton froze. He was right, then. His instinct had not failed him

  Charlton told Lord Setford about it, and he nodded, unsurprised.

  “Well, Charlton, see you get to know him better. Bring your social graces up to snuff. Try to glean what he is thinking. Your sister Harriet is going to debut soon, isn’t she? Invite the Comte de Vierzon, his daughter, and his sister-in-law to the celebration. Flatter the Viscountess. Engage the daughter in light flirtation. I hope she is not an antidote, hmm?”

  Charlton could not help but smile.

  “If you know that my sister is going to debut soon and that coffee is my favourite hot drink, then am I right to think that you know very well that Lady Odette is not an antidote?”

  Lord Setford laughed outright.

  “Better for you, my boy, better for you. I am most mightily pleased with your way of thinking. Report to me as soon as you have some interesting information. Good hunting, my Hound.”

  Odette and her aunt were sitting in the morning room, chatting amiably about the previous evening’s Ball.

  Lady Farnsworth, who had a rather caustic sense of humour, was making short shrift of many a lady they had met.

  “Did you notice Lady Merriman’s gown, my dear? It was a sartorial malapropism. Lime green looks good only with very fair complexions, not with sallow ones. The poor woman looked exactly like a tree frog. One almost expected her to shoot out her tongue and gobble a passing fly. I do not know what her couturière was thinking of. And poor Miss Minton, with those ridiculously tall blue and green feathers stuck in her hair? She looked like a half plucked peacock.”

  Odette giggled. Her aunt’s ability to wittily tear to shreds other people’s sartorial choices, whilst keeping a serious, and somewhat stern, face was a constant source of amusement.

  Lady Farnsworth gave her a half smile.

  She was really very fond of her niece, a very pretty girl with a good head on her shoulders, who needed only to overcome her unfortunate shyness to be assured of being a success in the upcoming Season.

  “The jonquil satin you wore yesterday was very becoming, I must say, my dear. Many a young gentleman looked at you with interest, I hope you noticed it.”

  “Really, Aunt, I think you are flattering me. There were many young ladies far prettier than me…”

  Lady Farnsworth rolled her eyes and huffed.

  “God give me patience. The dratted girl is set on turning into an old maid. Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror, you silly little goose?”

  Odette blushed. She knew she was passingly good to look at, but somehow she did not really believe that anybody could find her interesting. Lord Pendholm, now… she smiled, thinking of him and of his answer to her reticence, so direct as to border on rudeness, yet so refreshing after the manner of the other gentlemen that she had met.

  Lady Farnsworth looked at her with her shrewd grey eyes.

  “And did you find any of the gentlemen you danced with interesting, my darling?”

  Odette thought about it. Other than with Lord Pendholm, she had danced with Sir Larraby, a pimply young man who was apparently only capable of speaking about horses, with Lord Camelforth, a hard featured man with a knowing smile and with Lord Ramsey, a Scotsman with a head of flaming red hair who spoke with an almost unintelligible Highland burr.

  “Not really, Aunt. Besides, I did not dance with many gentlemen, did I? Mostly I was a silent witness to the revelry. Sometimes I feel like a spy in a foreign country.”

  Lady Farnsworth shook her head.

  “You are too fanciful, my dear. You should spend less time hidden in the library, perusing musty old volumes. It is not healthy for a young woman to live like a recluse. You should ride in Hyde Park, you should have friends of your own age, you should be carefree and merry. I know,” and she fondly patted her niece’s knee, “you underwent many a sad experience. You were compelled to leave France, you lost your mother and your grandfather… But this doesn’t mean that you should not be happy, all the same. So do tell me - did you not like even the very handsome Lord Pendholm? Even a tiny bit?”

  Odette blushed and laughed, without answering her aunt’s pointed question.

  She sobered suddenly.

  “It is true that I miss my mother, Aunt, and sometimes I miss France as well. But you have been so very good to me and I really like it here in England - Aunt, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, my dear, do tell me…”

  Odette sighed.

  “I am very worried about my father, Aunt. He is so different from the merry, smiling, energetic man I remember. He is bitter, brooding; he hardly speaks to me, as if we were estranged. Why is that, Aunt? I know that he still grieves for Mother, but I would have thought he would have been happy to see me again, and alas, it seems it is not so.”

  Lady Farnsworth looked thoughtfully at her niece. The girl was far too clever for her own good. Many young ladies had only a very formal relationship with their fathers, and would not have noticed such a change in their demeanour. But she was right - poor Jean-Baptiste had not been the same since his dear wife’s demise, it was true, but his wounds went deeper than that. She had had words with him about his attitude, when she had tried to talk him out of his despondency.

  “My dear sister-in-law,” he had replied with a haughty sneer, “it is very easy for you to speak, when war never reached England’s green and pleasant land, as the poet has it. You live in peace and have always lived in peace. You did not see your country torn apart, you did not lose your legacy, your dignity, your honour to a nobody from Corse, who had the gall to call himself Emperor. You, and all of the lazy, effete, spendthrift, useless British aristocracy kept everything of yours, while we lost everything of ours. And now we are here, exiled from our own country, waiting for that Bourbon puppet, Louis 18th, to decide whether we are traitors or martyrs. Did you know, my dear sister-in-law, that a group of French noblemen approached your Iron Duke, Wellington, on his way to Paris and asked him to allow them to choose another, worthier King for our beloved country? And did you know that Wellington naysaid them, because it was much better for Great Britain to have a fat, useless, childless old man as the King of France?”

  So great had been the bitterness and the scorn with which the Comte de Vierzon had delivered his tirade, that Lady Farnsworth, valiant though she was, had not been able find it in herself to reply.

  Remembering, she sighed and took her niece’s hand in a heartfelt sign of affection.

  “Do not work yourself into a state, my dear. Your father loved your mother very much. It is natural for him to mourn her, even after all these years. But he loves you as well, be sure about it. Have patience, be a dutiful and affectionate daughter and you will see, he will be back to normal in next to no time, believe me.”

  Odette nodded in acquiescence, but, deep down in her hea
rt, she knew that something was very, very wrong with her father.

  Later in the afternoon, when the light faded as the short winter day was coming to an end, Odette went to the library, which had always been her favourite room, everywhere she had lived. But the library in her aunt’s house was her favourite of favourites.

  It had a cavernous appearance, with its dark oak panels, its maroon velvet curtains and its thick carpets.

  Her uncle, Lord Farnsworth, had been a scholar with a particular interest in natural history and geography, while her aunt was an avid novel reader. Her mother, something of a bas bleu, was interested in the Classics and was fluent in French, Italian and German.

  Odette had always been fascinated by literature and by books in general. She was a compulsive reader and, having inherited her mother’s flair for languages, she could read virtually everything the library contained. It was like having the whole world in only one room, she told herself.

  This evening she would read something light and entertaining, such as Mansfield Park, one of Miss Jane Austen’s novels, whose subtle humour and well-rounded characters made for a relaxing evening’s reading.

  But, try as she might, the intricate plot, and Fanny’s adventures with her wicked cousins, did not seem able to hold her attention. Her mind was continuously straying away to the waltz she had danced with Lord Pendholm.

  She had not fooled her aunt, she knew that well. Lady Farnsworth was far too needle-witted to be led astray and had figured out whom she was really interested in. And she was interested; there was no doubt about it.

  It was very strange, because, at first, she had thought him an intense, yet otherwise unremarkable, if perfectly proper, gentleman. Then, when he had coaxed her into dancing with him, and had whirled her away, she had realised that he was very remarkable indeed. He had the warmest eyes she had ever seen, the same rich colour as melted chocolate, with tiny motes of gold dancing in them. When he smiled – and he had often smiled while they were dancing – little creases appeared at the corners of his eyes, making him seem both merry and wise, like somebody used to looking at wide, sunny horizons.