by The Rogue
What he himself could have done with those resources and a bit of common sense . . . well, his daughters would be headed for the futures they deserved, marrying well and happily instead of putting themselves forward for the masculine leavings of Society.
By the time Napoleon came sailing over the Channel, Lord Maywell planned to have worked himself high enough up the chain of command within the network that he would be made a marquis at the very least.
A faint sound came from across the room. The small round-faced man stepped out of the shadows of the curtained window embrasure and into the circle of light thrown by the candelabra.
The small man looked at the door. “When I told you I saw him leaving the Liar’s Club, I thought you were planning to kill him.”
Lord Maywell leaned back in his chair, smoke wreathing his already whitened hair. “I thought about it. It did seem a waste. After all, his talents could come in just as handy for us.”
“They got to him first.”
Maywell took the cheroot between his fingers and gazed at it with satisfaction. “But I have something he wants.”
“The girl?” The smaller man scoffed. “No disrespect to Lady Jane, my lord, but Damont’s reputation precedes him. He has no problem with obtaining female companionship.”
“Yet he could never lay claim to a lady—especially not with the blessing of her family and friends.” Maywell inhaled another long draw on the cheroot. “True welcome in Society is the one thing Damont can never have—unless I give it to him.”
“You’d do that? You’d give him your blessing and your niece and all her vast inheritance—”
“I might. Or I might simply let him think I will.” Maywell rolled his cheroot in the ash receptacle that his wife insisted he keep in his study. “I think Jane likes him as well.”
“Do you really concern yourself with what a mere girl wants when the very future of England is at stake?”
“No. But her willingness will be a great lure for Damont. He will want to please her.”
The small man snickered. “From what I’ve heard, he ought to be good at that.”
Maywell stiffened. “Don’t be crude. That is a lady you speak about.”
The small man bowed. “My apologies, of course. I forgot myself. Allow me to change the subject. What about the larger plan?”
“We aren’t ready yet,” Maywell protested. “There are still preparations to be made.”
“We are as prepared as we are ever going to be,” the small man insisted.
Maywell shook his head. “Let me obtain the loyalty of Damont first. I have the feeling we’re going to need him.”
“Then you took a great risk, sending him to Court. What if that secures his loyalty to the Crown instead?”
Maywell’s lips twisted. “You don’t understand Damont the way I do. What he discovers there will send him reeling right into our grasp.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. If there is one thing on earth I am sure of, it is that Mr. Ethan Damont is about to turn traitor against England forever.”
Jane pressed a hand to her mouth, unable to believe what she was hearing. She’d heard her name as she passed the closed door of her uncle’s study and had been stunned to hear that her uncle was considering encouraging Ethan Damont to court her.
Surprised delight had coursed through her. She had pressed her ear to the door to hear more—she wasn’t accustomed to eavesdropping, but after all, the topic concerned her greatly—only to freeze with icy horror as she listened to the rest of the conversation. Now, she felt sickened by what she had heard.
Uncle Harold was a traitor—and worse yet, he was planning on turning Mr. Damont traitor as well!
Jane turned to run as lightly as possible from the hall, only to stop cold before reaching the stairs. She had no one to turn to—no one to tell. How could she go to her aunt with this story?
Aunt Lottie would think her malicious or mad, but she would certainly not believe her. Her cousins—they were too young and innocent to hear such things. Besides, what could they do against their own father?
Mother would know what to do.
Yes. If Jane posted a letter first thing tomorrow, she ought to hear back from Mother very quickly. Jane ran carefully up the stairs, doing her best to let no one hear her passing. Once safely in her and Serena’s room, she pulled out her writing case and began.
“Dear Mother, I have just learned the most disturbing thing . . .”
Serena dawdled over her evening biscuits and milk, unwilling to go upstairs to bed just yet. She’d been up to her room a few moments ago, only to find Jane bent avidly over her writing desk, pen scratching wildly, ink everywhere.
When Jane first came to visit, Serena had been very happy, especially when it meant that she was moved into the largest, nicest bedchamber with her cousin. It had used to be Augusta’s room and Augusta had lorded it over all of them that she no longer had to share a bed.
Jane was usually good company. Serena liked to hear about her life in Northumbria, although it was difficult to get Jane to talk about her years in the Dowager House.
Serena pictured someplace brooding and romantic, with windswept moors and towering dark clouds. Jane had laughed at her when she’d said that.
“There is wind and there are clouds indeed, but I doubt you’d find it so romantic when you were trying to keep your bonnet in place.”
Sometimes Serena suspected that Jane purposely suppressed all romantic urges, just to be practical. Serena wasn’t fond of practicality. Practicality meant doubling up bedrooms and the youngest daughter getting the most elderly of the gowns and cheap shoes from Shepherd’s Market that looked just like the expensive ones from Bond Street but fell apart after a few wearings and pinched horribly until they did.
Finally, Serena couldn’t force herself to maintain interest in her stale biscuits and left the room to dawdle her way down the downstairs hall.
The door to Papa’s study opened a few feet ahead of her and a familiar figure hurried out with barely a polite nod in her direction. Serena sighed. It was only Papa’s man of business, that small, round-faced fellow who came and went at all hours.
The study door remained open, so Serena peeped in to see if Papa was in an expansive mood. She saw him leaning back in his chair at his desk, blowing rings of smoke over his head and smiling slightly.
Encouraged, Serena tapped timidly on the doorframe. “May I come in, Papa?”
Papa smiled warmly at her and Serena relaxed. She knew Papa favored her over the others, but she was also fairly sure that was because she was careful never to nag at him for more gowns and shoes. One had to be careful to catch Papa in just the right mood, or he could be as gruff as a bear.
She ran to him and twined her arms about his neck, laying her head on his shoulder fondly. “You are working very late, Papa.”
“And you are up late yourself, Angel,” he said, patting her clumsily on the shoulder.
Serena closed her eyes, breathing in the smoky, sandal-wood Papa scent that surrounded him. Such moments came rarely and Serena treasured every one. Some girls had loving papas and some did not. Serena knew she should feel fortunate that every once in a while, her papa was actually hers. She only wished such moments came more often.
“Why aren’t you in bed, Serena?”
She sighed into his shoulder. “Oh, Jane is writing another letter. I think she is upset about something, for she is nearly breaking the nib of the pen.”
She thought she felt him stiffen. “What would Jane have to be upset about? She seemed fine when I spoke to her this afternoon.”
“I don’t know. I looked over her shoulder but all I could see was a line about overhearing something.”
Papa’s hand dropped from her shoulder and she felt him shrug her off.
“Get off to bed now, Serena,” he said shortly.
Sighing, Serena straightened. She would have liked another few seconds—but never mind. If she was good and s
weet and careful not to nag, then sooner or later she would be welcomed back on that broad shoulder again.
The next morning, Ethan dawdled on Pall Mall. The Royal Guard was in high evidence near and around the Prince’s residence. Carlton House didn’t have literal gates, of course, but there may as well have been a moat with no drawbridge before him, so vast was the gulf between mere Ethan Damont and George IV.
Finally, he tossed his cheroot into the gutter and took a breath. It was a ridiculous errand, one he was sure Maywell had sent him on for one reason only.
“Time to teach the merchant’s son his place,” he muttered to himself. A conservatively dressed, bespectacled fellow scurried by at that moment and cast Ethan a curious glance. With a twist to his lips, Ethan watched him approach the Guard and be whisked indoors. “Now why didn’t I wear my royal underling suit? Oh, that’s right,” he muttered to himself. “It’s being cleaned.”
He sauntered forward. The Royal Guard were a tall lot, all muscle and rigid spine. The two men standing on either side of the entry were no exceptions. Ethan blew out a low breath. What did they feed these blokes, elephant’s milk?
He stood his tallest, which helped some, and pasted an arrogant smile on his lips, which helped more. “Hullo, lads. I’ve come to ask for a private audience with the Prince Regent.”
They didn’t laugh, he gave them that much.
“Your name and business, sir?”
Ethan swept off his hat and bowed facetiously. “Ethan Damont. I am no one of any influence or importance whatsoever. I’ve no business at all. I’m simply here on a whim.”
The guard on the right glanced back over his shoulder at the gatekeeper, who bent to busily check something. After a rustle of pages, the gatekeeper raised his head. “He’s on the list. Let him through.”
Ethan blinked. “I’m what?”
The Royal Guard stepped apart, creating a space in the wall of muscled imperturbability. A bemused Ethan wandered through, his mind racing. What list?
Once within the doors, he stood quite still, too stunned even to look about him for a moment. Then he came back to himself enough to blink at the grandeur around him. He stood in an entry hall that could have held his own fine house and had room for part of the garden as well. Gilded molding created panels on the walls that each held an individual mural depicting—apparently—the visitor’s entrance into heaven.
Well, that had yet to be seen, hadn’t it?
A bewigged, beribboned, and begilded servant stepped up to him. “If you’ll follow me, sir.”
Ethan nearly whistled. The man’s white satin livery with gold-thread trim was blinding. Various obnoxious comments concerning its resemblance to cake icing rose to Ethan’s lips, but he said nothing as he was led down a grand hallway that was wider than his house. Eventually the servant stopped before an ornately carved door and stepped through. Ethan could see only the man’s shiny rear end as he bowed deeply. “Mr. Ethan Damont!”
Someone murmured something in the room and Ethan found himself gestured inside. He imagined he was going to find himself before some officer of the Crown who would demand an explanation.
Instead, he entered the room to find himself face-to-face with the face on the coin—the face of the Prince Regent of all the British Isles, George IV, who was smiling genially at him, Ethan Damont!
“Hello, Ethan,” His Royal Highness said in an oddly familiar voice. “Rescued anyone else from a dungeon lately?”
Ethan gaped, breathless with shock. Finally, his numb lips formed one word.
“Codger?”
Jane carried her letter downstairs this morning instead of allowing the chambermaid to do it. She meant to see it posted straightaway.
Just as she reached the bottom of the stairs she saw Robert, dressed to go out, collecting the rest of the outgoing post from its customary spot atop the table in the entry hall. “Robert, are you going to post those?”
“Yes, my lady. Is there something you’d like me to post for you?”
Jane started to hand him the heavy letter she’d composed to Mother. It had taken several sheets of paper to tell all the details she’d held back before concerning Mr. Damont. She’d included everything this time, from their first meeting under the elm to yesterday’s bewildering encounter in the second parlor. She’d laid herself naked in her plea for help, but Mother would understand. Mother must understand. Jane had no one else to turn to.
Robert reached out to take the letter. After a moment, Jane released it uneasily. Then she scoffed at herself. She was seeing conspiracy everywhere. What could happen between here and the Post Office? Robert certainly wasn’t going to read her letter. He was no wicked henchman. Robert was a pleasant, rather nondescript fellow who carried parcels and tea trays and letters to the post.
Nevertheless, Jane watched him leave the house, then moved to the window in the front parlor to watch him march purposefully down the street toward the Post Office. Only when he was finally out of sight around the corner did Jane relax her vigil. The letter was well on its way. Help would soon arrive.
“Codger, eh?” The Prince Regent’s eyes flashed at Ethan with amusement. “Most people call me ‘Your Highness’ or even ‘Your Royal Highness.’ On occasion, a few people whom I hold in great affection are permitted to address me as ‘George.’ ” He waved Ethan toward a velvet chair and sat himself down before a vast tray of breakfast. “You, my dear Damont, are the only person on earth who has ever called me ‘Codger.’ ”
Ethan stumbled toward his chair, unable to take his eyes off the prince. The last time he’d seen the man he knew only as Collis Tremayne’s stout old uncle—whom Ethan had immediately dubbed “the Codger” with his usual irreverence—had been after he’d dug the battered and bruised old fellow out of his iron manacles and released him from the cellar of a munitions factory owned by a traitor.
“Good God,” Ethan gasped. “That munitions fellow, the one who beat you up and chained you—”
The prince nodded. “Louis Wadsworth,” he said around a mouthful of food. Ethan supposed if one was the leader of the British Empire, one didn’t have to bother with table manners. The Prince pointed his fork skyward. “In the tower now.”
“Too bloody right,” Ethan breathed. “Did he know—”
The prince shook his head. “No more than you did. It was a priceless moment when he figured it out—rather like just now.” The Prince smirked at Ethan. “I thought you’d figure it out sooner or later, although to be honest, I rather thought it would be sooner.”
Ethan barely noticed the dig. His mind was swirling with the knowledge that he was sitting in the presence of the Prince Regent, watching him eat sausage and toast, and surviving having called him a codger. It all left him rather breathless.
“I think I need to sit down,” he said weakly. “Oh, that’s right, I am.” He took a breath. “Perhaps I need to lie down.”
The Prince chuckled. “So, Damont, what brings you here today? If you didn’t know that it was me you rescued a few weeks ago, what possessed you to waltz up to my guard like that?”
Something clicked in Ethan’s mind. Maywell had known. Somehow, through some channel, Maywell had known what Ethan had not.
As had the Liars. Ethan’s gut went cold. Etheridge and Collis and even Rose had known what precious cargo they had carried from that dungeonlike cellar. Known all the while and never told Ethan, though his life was every bit as endangered as theirs.
Not a word, not even yesterday after he’d sweated blood and bullets to pass their bedamned tests—
They still didn’t trust him enough to welcome him in truth. He could almost have laughed if it hadn’t hurt so badly. So much for brotherly camaraderie. So much for belonging. It turned out Ethan was just a tool after all.
“It was a whim,” he told the Prince dully, betrayal writhing like hot lead in his belly. “It was only a whim.”
Chapter Fifteen
When Jane stepped into the carriage with the help of
Robert, she took one look at Ethan waiting there for her and turned right around. “I am suddenly feeling a bit ill, Robert—”
Ethan leaned forward to touch her gloved hand where it rested on the doorframe. “Lady Jane, please . . . I would very much like to escort you to your supper this evening.”
Jane hung there for a moment, undecided between stepping down and stepping in. Finally, what decided her was the thought that here was perhaps her last opportunity to detach Mr. Damont from her uncle’s web of deceit before Mother removed her from the house.
She sat down and eyed him warily, for fresh in her mind was that fascinating, disturbing moment in the second parlor. They would be every bit as alone together now in the carriage, for the footman clung to the back and the driver remained on the fore.
“Light the lantern, if you please, Robert,” she ordered. Robert leaned in to fiddle with the small carriage lantern that hung down from the ceiling to light the interior.
“Sorry, my lady, but it’s empty of oil. It will take a few moments to fill it.”
Jane blew out a breath. “Then never mind. Thank you, Robert.” She arranged herself carefully on the seat, head high, gloved hands clasped demurely before her. When Robert had closed the carriage door and they felt the carriage shift as he boarded the boot, Jane could not resist a suspicious glare at Mr. Damont.
“Did you arrange this?” Her gesture indicated everything from his presence as her escort to the empty reservoir of the carriage lantern.
He laughed darkly. “Why, Lady Jane, I must protest! I hate to disappoint you, but I am neither as nefarious nor as clever as you seem to think. Although I shall be sure to remember the bit with the lantern in the future, should I ever wish to accost a lady in a dark carriage—”
Jane moved to knock on the ceiling of the carriage to get the driver’s attention. She found her fist cupped in Mr. Damont’s palm, his fingers gently caging hers.
