Moonlight Masquerade

by Ruth Axtell

  Rees said nothing at first, distrustful of the young man’s words. Alistair Oglethorpe, third son of a baronet—as he’d let Rees know his first day at the Foreign Office and at every opportunity since then—had come in only a few months ago and been put in charge of the junior clerks, who had a much longer tenure.

  Oglethorpe raised a pale brown eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you interested? Or do you prefer to continue toiling away at your desk in obscurity?”

  Rees ignored the question, having grown inured to the man’s barbs. “Very well, what is it you wish me to do?”

  Oglethorpe twirled a quill between his fingers. “Too much information is going across the Channel and getting to Bonaparte. We need to tighten our scrutiny of the émigré community.”

  Rees frowned. While the Foreign Office supervised all British spies on the Continent, the Home Office was responsible for monitoring any spying activities in the British Isles.

  Oglethorpe’s next words captured Rees’s full attention. “We’re sending you over to the Home Office.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Oglethorpe smiled, an expression that always came across as a smirk to Rees. “It’s quite simple, old boy. They have oversight over all the French émigrés living in England and you know French.”

  Rees’s childhood French had been honed by the months he’d spent in a French prison when his frigate had been sunk off the coast of Brest.

  “They need someone who knows how to ferret out anything peculiar.” Oglethorpe shrugged. “You have been able to break codes. I told Lord Sidmouth I had a man who could fill the requirements of what they’re looking for.”

  Rees’s excitement began to grow. Perhaps a real opportunity for promotion was presenting itself.

  Oglethorpe leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk and tapping its surface with the tip of the quill. “We’d like you to play at butler in a prominent French household in Mayfair.”

  Rees grappled to understand what Oglethorpe was telling him. “You want me to what?”

  Oglethorpe’s smirk deepened. “To spy. You’ll assume the role of a butler. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you. Just look stiff—the way you’re accustomed to around here—and stand at attention.”

  When Rees had dared to question the orthodoxy of such an assignment for a clerk, Oglethorpe leaned back in his chair and eyed him through his glass. It irked Rees that his superior was but three-and-twenty—eight years his junior.

  “It’s this way, Phillips. Anyone we have with the skills for such an assignment is either over in France already or would be recognized in a fashionable house in the West End.” He chuckled. “Who would recognize a junior clerk with your—ahem—background?”

  Oglethorpe loved to lord his aristocratic standing over Rees’s middle-class one—ignoring the fact of how recent his father’s minor title was. He rubbed his hands together as if he had thought of the scheme himself. “It’s a perfect ruse. You know French and excel at trifling details. You have a talent at seeing patterns where others don’t. It must have to do with staring at those scribbles all day. If there’s anything out of the ordinary in that household, you’ll be the one to spot it.”

  He yawned behind a pale, manicured hand. “Really, you should be honored. You can enter that tonnish realm and partake of its splendors, as a butler, of course.” He laughed then shuffled the papers on his desk—reports Rees had been up late to compile—and adopted a dismissive tone. “It shouldn’t take you long, if indeed Lady Wexham is sending information back to Boney’s people. You’re to report to the Home Office tomorrow morning. They’ll fill you in on everything.”

  As Rees stood to leave, Oglethorpe threw out the last inducement. “You’ll be well rewarded. Sidmouth told me himself, if you help draw out a French spy, the Crown will show its appreciation.”

  So, it came to lowering himself to masquerading as a butler for a few weeks in a countess’s London establishment, or spending the rest of his days in a basement cubicle in Whitehall answering to a pompous ignoramus.

  From one basement to another.

  Céline rang for a fresh pot of tea before returning her attention to her guests. “Tell me, Kimberley, how have you been amusing yourself since you’ve arrived in London?” She was fond of her niece, even though she was only related to her by marriage. She and her mother had come to pay a morning call.

  They talked for several minutes about the different balls and routs Kimberley had attended since her coming out.

  “I am so relieved she had her presentation before Princess Augusta’s death,” her mother, the new Countess of Wexham, said. Céline retained the title only as a courtesy. “Can you imagine if we had waited until now when they are all in mourning?” She shuddered. “As it was, the Queen’s Drawing Room was well attended when Kimberley made her debut.”

  “There is nothing like a young lady’s presentation,” Agatha simpered, looking up from her tambour screen.

  Since Kimberley and the countess were her direct relations and the new heirs, Agatha fawned over them. Céline suspected she was hoping to be invited to live with them in their Grosvenor Square mansion—the house that had been Céline’s home until the old earl’s death.

  Bernice, the countess, folded her hands in her lap. “Since then, Kimberley has received so many callers.” She smiled indulgently at her daughter. “Such nice young gentlemen like the Duke of Devonshire and Lord Delamere have been quite assiduous in their attentions.”

  The color rose in the girl’s cheeks.

  Céline smiled. “Have any of them found favor with you or are you keeping them all at bay for the moment?” she teased.

  Kimberley looked down at her gloved hands, which clutched her reticule. “I don’t know . . . they’ve all been so civil.”

  “There is no rush to settle on any one gentleman yet,” Céline hastened to assure her. “You’re but seventeen and in your first season.”

  Kimberley’s blue eyes widened. “But Lady Wexham, didn’t you wed during your first season?”

  Céline smoothed the worked muslin of her gown. “Yes, that is so. But I hold that a young lady has plenty of time and should enjoy her first season.”

  Agatha pulled her embroidery needle up from the frame. “A young lady can’t afford to let a good offer pass. More than two seasons and she is in danger of being considered on the shelf.”

  Céline reined in her irritation at her sister-in-law. It seemed whatever she said, Agatha would take the contrary position.

  Bernice sniffed. “Plenty of young women marry at Kimberley’s age. Why, I myself made what my parents considered a very good match at eighteen. As did you,” she added with a pointed look at Céline.

  Céline’s sympathy for young Kimberley grew. Between her mother and great-aunt Agatha, they would have her married to the highest bidder, regardless of how suited the couple was to each other. She hated the thought of young ladies being forced into marriage against their will with no thought to their future happiness. To be shackled to someone merely for sake of name or fortune could become a nightmare once the vows were exchanged and the couple settled down to married life.

  She laughed to lighten the atmosphere. “You must enjoy your seasons, Kimberley, and trust that you’ll meet the right young man in good time whether it’s one season or several.”

  “Several? I should think not!” Agatha declared, knotting her thread. “I’m sure Kimberley will meet nothing less than a duke or marquess this very season.”

  Céline eyed her sister-in-law, wondering what possessed her seamstress to suggest that particular shade of evening primrose against her complexion. “I’m certain she shall meet many young gentlemen. She has no need to fear being left on the shelf.” She gave Agatha a pointed look. The earl’s sister had never married. No man would offer for so disagreeable a personality regardless of her portion.

  Agatha pinched her lips together and concentrated on her stitch, an ugly flush staining her sallow cheeks.

  Céline
considered taking a hand in young Kimberley’s season. At least she could help the poor chit broaden her opportunities before she was forced into some loveless marriage. She considered what to do as she poured the tea William had just brought in.

  When they had all been served, she eyed the ladies over the rim of her cup. “I should like to give you a ball, Kimberley.”

  The girl gasped. “A ball? Truly, Aunt Céline?” She turned to her mother, a smile breaking open on her mouth. “Did you hear that, a ball for me!”

  “How very thoughtful of you, Céline.” Despite her words, the new countess’s words held a complacency that showed she considered it a matter of course that Céline should host a ball for her daughter. Céline tried not to let it annoy her. By now she should be used to the fact that if she had borne the late earl a son, Bernice with her bobbing ostrich feathers would not be flaunting her status in Céline’s drawing room.

  “When is it to be?”

  Kimberley’s tone held such enthusiasm that Céline’s irritation disappeared. “Let’s see . . .” She tapped a finger against her chin. “We need time to get out the invitations. It needs to be a large ball. We’ll clear the drawing room and the rear sitting room as well, and open the connecting doors. I shall hire musicians, we need flowers, and of course, a theme.”

  “Oh yes, a theme!” Kimberley leaned forward. “Lady Thorncroft’s ball was fairies and sprites.”

  Céline nodded, casting about for something original. Although she was used to entertaining, she hadn’t held a ball since long before the earl had passed away.

  As the ladies took up the discussion, deciding whom to invite and when to hold the ball, Céline continued pondering. She wanted to attract the best crowd and make sure enough eligible bachelors showed up for Kimberley’s sake. If her mother was going to pressure her into a betrothal her first season, the least Céline could do was ensure the poor girl would have a wide array to choose from.

  She turned her thoughts to the ball’s theme. Hmm. What would be a good draw this season? A fête of flowers, a rite of spring, Arabian nights? She discarded them as already having been done or too ostentatious in a time of mourning for Princess Augusta.

  She continued thinking. What was on everyone’s mind?

  The war.

  That was a depressing thought. But wait, why not turn it around? A patriotic ball. Decorate the drawing room with the colors of various regiments. Celebrate some of the Peninsular victories. Invite the Horse Guards and whichever other officers were on leave.

  It would certainly draw everyone. A sort of morale boost.

  And with so many military figures in her ballroom, who was to say what bits of information she might glean?

  She smiled at Kimberley. “I have an idea for the theme . . .”

  The next afternoon, Céline had a hard time sitting for her portrait. Her mind flitted from one thing to another—from details for the upcoming dinner party to the many tasks to be done for Kimberley’s ball.

  She half-regretted her impulsive gesture to host the ball. But she quickly shook away any qualms, reminding herself sternly of the reasons. She would not have the poor girl subjected to the same fate she had been forced to endure.

  “My lady, if you could erase the scowl from your pretty features and look this way, please.”

  She smiled at the artist, one of the most renowned in the country. “Forgive me, Mr. Lawrence.”

  “You are too beautiful a lady to appear to all posterity as if you were forever having the blue devils.”

  “Indeed not.” She straightened her shoulders, attempted to lighten her features, and glanced in the direction the portraitist indicated, wondering why she had agreed to this portrait. Perhaps because in a couple of years she would be thirty.

  A soft knock interrupted the depressing thought.

  Trying not to move from her pose, she called, “Enter.”

  “Excuse me, my lady, you rang for me.”

  At the sound of MacKinnon’s voice, she turned just enough to face him. “Yes. Please, don’t stand there in the doorway, come in.”

  His glance shifted to the painter. “I can return at a better time. I don’t wish to disturb you.”

  She waved aside his concerns. “Nonsense. Mr. Lawrence can continue working as we talk.” She motioned to the silver salver her butler carried in one hand. “Good, you brought my visitors’ cards. I wish to go over them with you. Could you be so kind as to read the names for me?” She had only just returned half an hour ago from her own morning visits and needed to continue familiarizing her new butler with those visitors for whom she was in and those to whom she was unavailable.

  “Certainly.” He picked up the first card. “Lord Dunston.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “When did he call?”

  “Shortly after noon. It was his second visit today.”

  She sighed. “Very well. If he calls again, show him up.” Prosy old bore.

  He picked up the next card. “Countess Wexham and her daughter.”

  “Oh, I am sorry I missed them. I’m sure they are here to discuss the ball.” At the lift of his dark eyebrow, she added, “I have decided to hold a ball here in Lady Kimberley’s honor.” Her butler really did have fine eyebrows, she noted as she spoke—straight and heavy and very dark. They set off his light-colored eyes to distinction, making them appear all the more deep set.

  She tilted her head, unmindful of the portraitist’s impatient throat-clearing. “Do you think you are up to a ball, Mr. MacKinnon?”

  Her butler inclined his head a fraction. “I shall endeavor to do my best.”

  He certainly had all the imperturbability of a butler in the making. And yet . . . there was something behind that steady regard. “That is all I can ask. In any case, I shall be discussing it further with you and Mrs. Finlay.”

  “Very good, my lady.” He read another card. “Mrs. Morrison. She called about an hour ago.”

  “I’m in for her.”

  “Mr. Smythe-Wiley and his sisters.”

  “No,” she said promptly.

  “Miss Jamieson.”

  “Yes.”

  “Lord Marley.”

  “Hmm . . .” She pursed her lips, considering. “Yes.”

  He set the last card back down. “Those are the individuals who called when you were out.”

  “Good, that takes care of the first lot for today. You shall have to bring the other cards to my sitting room as visitors arrive.” Her lips curled upward. “Don’t worry, soon enough you’ll know who are the dead bores, who must be received, and those I take pleasure in receiving.” She couldn’t help a laugh. “The latter list is quite short, so you shall have no problems with that one.”

  His own lips quirked upward at one corner, but then he quickly cleared his throat, erasing all amusement from his features. “Yes, my lady.”

  Valentine’s words drifted into her thoughts. She could well understand how her abigail had found this man’s looks and understated charms irresistible. “I shall be going out again, so please tell the coachman to have the phaeton ready at five.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Although the words were spoken in a calm way that revealed nothing, the butler’s gaze held an intensity that not only intrigued her—but drew her.

  She tore her gaze away with effort, looking instead to her portraitist. He was tapping his paintbrush against his palette. “I must resume my pose for the long-suffering Mr. Lawrence. He is much sought after, and I mustn’t waste his time.”

  MacKinnon took a step back and bowed. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”

  Before she could make any reply, he turned away, leaving her feeling as if something unfinished lay between them.

  5

  The next morning, Rees left his room and headed down the basement corridor to the rear of the house for breakfast. He entered the servants’ dining room adjacent to the kitchen to hear Valentine speaking to one of the chambermaids. “You zink you can get in her ladyship’s good graces with zis?”
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  The lady’s maid jabbed her finger in the chambermaid’s face. Rees paused on the threshold, observing the two, who had not heard him come in.

  “You had better watch yourself, you stupid girl, or you’ll be scrubbing ze scullery floor—”

  Rees coughed, hastening forward. “What has Miss—Virginia,” he remembered in time, “done to cause you displeasure?” He tried to look his frostiest as he eyed the Frenchwoman.

  Valentine glared at him. “This slattern who calls herself a parlor maid has made a mess of her ladyship’s belongings. I am absent for an evening, and she cannot serve her ladyship without leaving everything in disarray.”

  He held up his hand to silence her and turned to the girl, who looked hardly more than seventeen, her eyes large with fright. “What is it that you have—ahem—supposedly done?”

  “Supposedly done!” Valentine’s dark eyes flashed at him. “There is no supposed about it. She is a clumsy, ignorant—” Valentine lapsed into a string of French, ending with the clear “cochon!” Pig.

  Rees could not let on that he understood her insults. “That is enough, Valentine.” He gave the other maid his attention once again. “Virginia, please continue.” He waited, his hand still held up to keep the other woman silent. Valentine only fumed at him, her arms crossed.

  “If you please, Mr. MacKinnon . . . I’ve done nothing wrong.” The young woman was near tears. Casting fearful glances at Valentine, she continued at Rees’s nod. “Mlle. Valentine accused m-me of l-leaving a mess in her ladyship’s room the night h-her ladyship came home early, but, sir, Lady Wexham insisted I leave her things as they were. I-I tried to tidy up, sir, honestly I did, but she wished only for me to leave. She said that Valentine would take care of things in the morning—”

  Valentine harrumphed. “I’m sure ze countess did not mean for you to rummage about in her armoire and wrinkle her gowns when she told you to leave her things.”

  Rees swallowed, realizing exactly who had left the disorder. “Ahem. Did you leave her armoire in the state Valentine describes?”