Presenting Miss Letitia

by Andersen, Maggi

  “There you are,” Arietta linked arms with her and guided her into the supper room where a tasty array of food was served.

  Letty discovered herself in need of sustenance. Shadowing Cartwright made her hungry, and she needed some strengthening before she faced Arietta’s questions. She ate a portion of delicious tender chicken and sliced beef, and two rout cakes, which were sweet and richly flavored with fruit.

  “I saw you follow our quarry into the corridor. You must tell me everything later,” Arietta said, sotto voche, as they drank wine. “I hope it’s something that will aid poor Kendall’s memory,” she said. “He wasn’t buried in his family’s crypt, you know.” Her gaze over the rim of her glass looked desperately sad.

  Letty caught her breath as the inner struggle to keep faith with both of them tightened her ribs.

  “But the night is not yet over,” Arietta continued. “You might discover something more. Come and meet my friends, and when it is prudent to do so, you can slip away.”

  The tart wine went down the wrong way, making Letty cough. “Yes, of course,” she said feebly. Arietta had obviously not given up.

  Once Brandon made sure that Miss Bromley returned to the house, he entered the shrubbery. He circled the gazebo and came up behind it, hidden from view by the broad trunk of a chestnut while close enough to hear what was said. He feared he was too late to glean much. They had stamped out their cigars and were preparing to depart.

  “Lavalette’s wife might know more than we think,” Fraughton said. “She could be persuaded to reveal it.”

  The other man, who was shorter and broader in stature, shook his head. “What? And then kill her? We might as well put a notice in The Times. Patience, Fraughton!”

  “How can I be patient when you came back empty handed from Paris, Descrier? Lavalette has hidden it somewhere. It was his intention to blackmail us before he was thrown into prison, but he may well still intend to do so.” There was a note of anguish in Fraughton’s voice.

  “Lavalette will soon face the guillotine. It changes the game, does it not? We shall have more time to find this Journal Noir at our leisure. And with luck on our side, it will never be found.”

  “There is an appeal to save him,” Fraughton said.

  “Lavalette was in service to Napoleon,” Descrier said edgily. “He took over the Post Office for the General at the beginning of the Hundred Days, when Louis XVIII had already left Paris. Despite a popular campaign to free Marshall Ney and others, they were executed. Lavalette doesn’t have a chance.”

  “Will the others agree with you?”

  “Robert Marston is impatient,” Descrier said. “He lost a great deal of money this year at the gaming tables. The fact our market has grown considerably smaller has made him skittish. He is already planning to find a wealthy widow to marry.”

  “I’m afraid Marston’s reputation precedes him. And there are not a lot of gullible, wealthy widows about,” Descrier said dryly. He gave a heavy sigh. “It’s a blow for all of us. What about Elford?”

  “Distracted. His new bride is demanding. Elford doubts the journal will ever see the light of day, and if it does, it would be difficult to prove it is genuine.”

  “I believe it is written in Napoleon’s hand,” Fraughton said sharply.

  “Hell and damnation,” Descrier muttered. “Unfortunate. But still I think it wise to be patient. Lavalette could die within a matter of days. We shall decide what next to do at the meeting.”

  “Pierse is about to go to France and will visit the comtesse. He has ways of gaining information.”

  “He’s a hot head and might kill her,” Descrier snarled. “You must caution him against any rash action. It will stir up no end of trouble for us. And with no guarantee of success, for the woman may know nothing.”

  “As you have nothing better to offer, I shall do what I see fit,” Fraughton growled.

  They emerged from the gazebo and began to cross the lawn to the house. Brandon stepped farther into the deep shadows. The letter Susan Fraughton had shown him was to advise her husband of a meeting between the key players, the time, and the place. And Brandon intended to be there. As he watched them go, he mused over what he’d heard. He would have to pay Willard a visit at his home tonight. Word must be sent immediately to warn the comtesse.

  He turned to make his way back along the circuitous route he’d come.

  It came as a surprise that Robert Marston was party to this, but it explained a lot. The rake had been toying with Susan, no doubt with some ploy in mind. Should she be warned? Brandon dismissed it. There was scant reason for it yet, and he couldn’t see how he’d manage it without giving too much away. The less she knew the better. It was possible that her interest in finding a new lover could mean her involvement with Marston had ended.

  Brandon lit a cheroot and wandered toward a fountain centered in the closely shaved lawns. He rested a foot on the stone edge. It was an agreeable sight, the water cascading from a nymph’s stone urn into the pool, and sending out ripples across the surface. Like the ripples Miss Bromley set in motion when she’d first appeared in that library. From their seemingly innocuous meeting, their paths continued to cross. What was she about? She kept turning up like a bad penny though he did admit she intrigued him. He had been convinced she was what she appeared to be, a young innocent. She certainly looked the part when her thickly-fringed brown eyes implored him. But he couldn’t allow a girl to sway him. Too much was at stake. What was her involvement with Lady Arietta? He had thought after Kendall died the lady would let things be. Dangerous for her, and Letitia, surely, to get involved in this.

  He flicked his cheroot away and headed back to the house. What to do about Miss Bromley? He suspected he wasn’t done with her; his bully-boy tactics having failed. He must devise another strategy, he felt sure he would need it.

  Chapter Nine

  As Arietta had promised, after supper, she introduced Letty to several gentlemen and two ladies with daughters making their Come-out. Most greeted her warmly, but one older lady raised her plucked eyebrows. “Cumbria? At least you do not have the country burr.” Letty feared she expected her to chew on a hayseed. When Arietta gave her a subtle signal with her fan, Letty excused herself and left them.

  Arietta’s plea for information urged Letty to discover something more before the evening was over. It would be useless to shadow Cartwright; he would be watching for her. And she refused to subject herself to such embarrassment again. Not after the way he’d treated her in the garden. She didn’t trust him after that clandestine meeting with Fraughton’s wife and then lurking in the garden watching Fraughton. With such inexplicable behavior, he could not be a good man. If only she could get hold of that letter in Lady Fraughton’s reticule. It might explain why Cartwright wished to see it.

  After searching the reception rooms, she found the lady playing whist at a card table in the salon. But there was no sign of her reticule. Letty cast about but could not see it. She went to the drawing room. There it was! It must be hers. So unusual, shaped like a shell, with a shell clasp and decorated with gold beads. Lady Fraughton had left it on an occasional table, but unfortunately, her husband was not far away.

  Letty was about to admit defeat when Fraughton suddenly left the room. Her heart thudding, she glanced around before approaching the table. She placed a hand on the glossy wooden surface, as if to steady herself, her fingers inches from the bag, when Lord Fraughton appeared at the door. He came over to the table and picked up the reticule, casting a glance at her. “Lady Fraughton’s, I believe.”

  “Is it? It is very like my friend’s. I was about to return it to her.”

  Fraughton nodded and left the room.

  Letty remained where she was relieved that he hadn’t sought to question her. She trembled at the expression in Fraughton’s eyes. Could he suspect her? She tried to calm herself and order her thoughts.

  A dark superfine sleeve appeared in the corner of her eye, and a low voice soun
ded in her ear. She jumped and glanced up. Cartwright, with that steely glint in his eyes. He had a habit of appearing out of nowhere. Had he been hiding behind the curtains? The question hovered on her tongue, but now others had come within earshot, so she clamped her lips together.

  “Miss Bromley. How nice to see you again,” he said politely. “How is your aunt?”

  Letty swallowed, her throat horribly dry. “Aunt Edith is very well, thank you, Mr. Cartwright. She enjoys her stay in the country.”

  “Cumbria, wasn’t it? I have often wished to visit the area and the beautiful lakes. You must tell me all about it. I daresay you are returning there very soon. How could one stay away?”

  “No, I…”

  He shepherded her away, a hand resting lightly on her back. While he barely touched her, she still felt the heat of his skin through the silk. “Shall we find a seat? I believe I saw one or two free in the salon.”

  She was effortlessly propelled from the room. Small groups in fervent discussion paused to nod at Cartwright as they passed. One gentleman murmured something to his companion. Did they think Cartwright had made a conquest? She firmed her lips.

  In the salon, Letty eased away from him. She put a gloved hand to her mouth to feign a yawn. “You must excuse me, sir. I am fatigued. I shall ask Lady Arietta if she is ready to leave.”

  “Quite so.” Noting the resolute expression in his eyes, she had to look away. “I shall have to be patient to hear all your news at a better time, Miss Bromley. The hour does grow late.”

  With a bow he left her. Without moving beyond the bounds of propriety, he’d managed to inject a note of warning into his voice. She watched him disappear through the drawing room door. His cold blue eyes told her he had declared war. He wanted her to go back to Cumbria or at least, stay out of his way. Letty would not return to Cumbria, and Arietta would not agree to the latter. She wished sorely that she might utter some of his curses. It was clear he was now determined to thwart her.

  Letty did not welcome their next meeting. She went in search of Arietta and finally found her in the withdrawing room.

  Arietta turned from the mirror. “I can see you are tired, my dear. We shall say our goodbyes.”

  Letty, wishing she had more to offer her kind patroness, walked with Arietta through the reception rooms.

  “I’m afraid we must go. Dear Miss Bromley is accustomed to country hours,” Arietta cried gayly, in response to entreaties to stay. “Shall we meet again at the races, tomorrow? Who has a horse running?”

  Two gentlemen spoke up.

  “Then I shall cheer them both home,” Arietta said warmly. “Come, Letitia, dear.”

  Letty followed slowly, beginning to droop while she wondered if Mr. Cartwright attended the races.

  As they traveled home, Arietta turned to her. “Well? Did you discover anything of interest?”

  She explained about the meeting between Cartwright and Lady Fraughton, and the letter.

  Arietta frowned. “What happened? Did you see them embrace?”

  “No. Although they seemed to be on comfortable terms. He told her to put the letter back where she found it.”

  “It would appear that Cartwright is spying on Lord Fraughton. I wonder why? Fraughton is an honorable gentleman. He should be warned.”

  “That would put an end to our endeavors and anything we may yet discover,” Letty said quickly. She would hate to be responsible for what might occur if Fraughton was made aware of Cartwright’s association with his wife. There was something mean about Fraughton. She saw it in his eyes. Although duels were illegal, they were fought for less reason, and inevitably, someone was badly wounded or killed. That it might be down to her made her tremble with horror. She waited, holding her breath as Arietta gave it some thought.

  “Yes, you are right,” Arietta said finally. “Though I would like to know the content of that letter,” she mused.

  “I did try to remove it from Lady Fraughton’s reticule, but then her husband came to get it. Cartwright had his eye on me, so I gave the idea away.”

  Arietta placed an arm around Letty’s shoulders. “But how interesting. This alone tells us a lot, Letty!” She gave her a squeeze. “We are onto something. I can feel it in my bones. You are doing far better than I anticipated. How very clever of you!”

  “I wish I could do more, but Cartwright suspects me. I fear I may be unable to continue.”

  Arietta removed her arm from around Letty and took up her fan, employing it vigorously. “Nonsense! You have shown yourself to be remarkably skilled. I feel sure another chance will present itself. Be ready to grasp it with both hands. I don’t mind telling you, my dear, that I am excited by this. There’s some conspiracy afoot which will show Cartwright’s true colors, and clear my dear husband’s name.”

  Letty smiled weakly as she sank back onto the squabs.

  Brandon entered Willard’s library. He repressed a chuckle. Willard had just returned from a soiree and wore a purple brocade dressing gown, patterned with snarling gold dragons, over his shirt and pantaloons.

  “A Christmas present,” Willard said in answer to Brandon’s raised eyebrows. “From my mother.”

  “Very handsome,” Brandon observed, tongue in cheek.

  “Enough.” A smile lifted a corner of Willard’s mouth as he waved him to a chair. “Brandy?”

  “Please.”

  Willard went to the drinks tray and poured two snifters of brandy from the crystal decanter, returning to hand Brandon one. He took the chair opposite. “What have you uncovered that requires this visit?”

  Brandon told him.

  “A good evening’s work. I shall alert the comtesse to the danger although she is well aware of it. The lady is intent on pursuing her plan at whatever cost. So, what is this market they speak of, I wonder? And how does it relate to the Journal Noir?”

  Brandon felt the familiar kick of excitement tighten his chest. “I’ll try to discover it without delay.”

  Willard nodded. “Yes. Time grows short. But now we have the gentlemen’s names. Wealthy and powerful men who will be difficult to bring to justice. We must have proof, and until we get the journal, we need to catch them red-handed at something unlawful. However, the investigation shall continue. I trust you will be nearby when they attend that meeting?”

  “Depend upon it.” Brandon drained his glass and stood. “I shan’t keep you from your bed, and I must confess, I am ready for mine.”

  As Willard saw him to the door, Brandon turned. “Remember that business with Sir Gareth Kendall? Killed himself when he came under a cloud of suspicion after he was accused of working for the French. He tried to make me the scapegoat, but failed when Whitehall took measures to silence him.”

  “Yes, agents paid him a visit and persuaded him to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Is there evidence that he was working for the French?”

  “The Home Office had enough information to arrest him. He would have been hanged, knew it, of course, and beat them to the punch. If indeed it was suicide,” he said after a thoughtful silence. “The postmortem was inconclusive. Some evidence of interference.”

  This was new to him. Brandon whistled silently. “What about his wife? Could she have been involved?”

  “Lady Arietta? Nothing to suggest it. I felt rather sorry for her at the time. She fought tooth and nail for him. A loyal and loving wife, it would appear.”

  “Foolish. But love can blind one.” He shrugged into his greatcoat.

  “Eh?” Willard opened the door. “Rather late in the evening for such a deep philosophical thought, is it not? You aren’t in love, by any chance?”

  Brandon shook his head with a wry smile. “No. Spies have no business falling in love. Best we avoid the parson’s mousetrap while in the business.”

  “You’ll consider it one day, surely.”

  “I doubt I’m husband material.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Brandon.” Willard frowned. “I sometimes wonder if I
did the right thing dragging you into this.”

  “You didn’t drag me in, you rescued me,” Brandon said as he donned his hat. “Goodness knows where I might have ended up if you hadn’t.”

  “You would have righted yourself.” He rubbed at the beginnings of a beard on his jaw. “I should have resisted, perhaps. You were young, but I recognized your potential when you saved me from those footpads in Covent Garden. A handy piece of work.” He nodded. “My judgement was on the money. About your potential, I mean.”

  “I don’t regret it. I hope you don’t.”

  Willard smiled. “That goes without saying. Just as long as you stay alive. I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

  Brandon merely grinned and picked up his cane from the hall table. With a nod, he departed into the night in search of a hackney. It had been raining, the roads wet and not a carriage in sight. Sighing, his cane over his shoulder, he set off down the street. When would he toss it in? Did the reason he took this path no longer drive him? He had become involved in his early twenties. His father had cut him off, accused him of being a wastrel after he’d been sent down from Oxford in his final year. It was the result of a wild escapade that ended in tragedy.

  After a night spent in the local pub drinking into the early hours, he and Freddie Maxwell emerged in their cups and decided to climb the church tower. He couldn’t remember whose decision it was, and it didn’t matter. The pain of what followed would have equal force either way when Freddie had lost his grip and fallen to his death.

  His father’s contempt for him was justified. For a while, Brandon made sure he lived up to it, carousing in London with a rowdy group of bucks, until he was approached by Willard and took up the offer to become an agent for the Crown. He’d gone into it back then because he agreed with his father’s assessment of his character and didn’t care if he lived or died. He continued to do it because he wanted to prove something to himself, that he wasn’t that complete wastrel his father considered him, and because the work he performed was important to the nation’s security.