The Chevalier d’Evron had appeared in London some years before, about the time that Bonaparte had assumed the role of First Consul. Armed with the story of an escape to Switzerland at the height of the Revolution, the chevalier maintained that the stolid respectability of the Swiss had driven him mad with boredom, thus forcing him to flee once again. Determining that England was the only place fit to live for a man of his cultivated tastes, he had made his way through Bavaria and Prussia and at last to London, or so his tale went. However, unlike most of the émigré’s who had barely escaped France with their lives, the chevalier seemed to lack nothing as far as pecuniary resources were concerned.
He had taken a handsome suite of rooms in Curzon Street, gotten himself proposed as a member of White’s, where he won just enough to be a player worth taking on and lost just enough to remain on good terms with everyone. In general he had made himself so agreeable that no one, with the exception of Lord Farringdon and one or two others, had thought anything about it.
Alistair, however, always more alert than the rest of society, had wondered at it all. Almost without exception, the other noble refugees lived in genteel poverty, forced to support themselves as best they could, while the chevalier lived in as much style as any wealthy young Englishman. His suspicions aroused. Lord Farringdon had made discreet inquiries among the French population in London and, not much to his surprise, had discovered that though the chevalier was well enough known now, no one seemed to claim an acquaintance with him that had existed prior to the Revolution.
This was enough to convince the Earl of Burnleigh that the chevalier bore watching. Of course it was possible that he had been able to smuggle a huge fortune out of revolutionary France, but it was highly unlikely. No other émigré had been able to do so. Alistair could only think that the young Frenchman was so plump in the pocket because it was being filled regularly by someone—someone such as Napoleon Bonaparte. Lord Farringdon was more than well acquainted with men in the pay of the Corsican upstart. The Earl of Burnleigh had been making it his business for the last eight years to learn everything he could about the people who were collecting intelligence for the Emperor. After so many years spent watching such people, he had gained a sixth sense for men who were not what they appeared to be.
Eventually, Alistair himself had become one of those who was not what he appeared to be, and at last had found something that had satisfied his yearning for a purposeful yet invigorating existence. Wild and adventurous to a fault, and having won all the curricle races, seduced the most courted opera dancers, and dallied with the brightest diamonds of the Upper Ten Thousand, Lord Farringdon had become bored beyond belief with life in the ton when, fortunately for him, the Treaty of Amiens was signed. This gave him the opportunity he had been waiting for.
Eager to escape the same old routine of routs and balls, days spent betting on absurdities in the clubs along Saint James’s, he had been one of the first to hurry over to France to learn for himself what had happened after the Revolution. Courting excitement in his usual way, he had frequented areas that others with a more healthy respect for their own skins might have avoided, and he had sought out people from every level of society in order to discover more about life under Napoleon. The more he had learned about Bonaparte, the more fascinated he had become with the man—his drive, his ambition, his brilliant tactics, and his organizational genius. It was during the course of all this that Alistair became aware of the leader’s Bureau d’ Intelligence. This formidable force of one hundred and seventeen men devoted to ferreting out intelligence about England and France’s other enemies was something that England could not compete with. Its existence worried Lord Farringdon, who could see that it would not be long before England and France were again at each other’s throats.
When he had returned to London, Alistair had gone directly to friends in Whitehall with all the information he had gleaned. However, the powers that were did not take readily to his suggestions that they set up a corresponding organization similar to the Bureau. “It sounds to me like spying, lad,” one beefy-faced general had blustered, “and spying is only the slightest bit less dishonorable than being an out-and-out traitor.”
As this disdainful attitude appeared to exist throughout the government and the military, Lord Farringdon had begun to despair of anybody’s heeding his concerns, but at long last one day at Tattersall’s he came across a relatively distant acquaintance, Lieutenant Colonel (as he was then) Sir George Murray, a man of excellent capacities whom Alistair dimly remembered as having a passion for information and organization. Latching on to the lieutenant colonel, Alistair had hurried the man back to his chambers in Mount Street, where he had plied him with port and all the intelligence he had been able to gather in France.
Unlike his peers, Sir George had listened closely and intently, seemingly receptive to Alistair’s suggestions. Unfortunately, however, he had disappeared from the scene soon after that, leaving Lord Farringdon to conclude that he was as unenlightened and disappointing as all the rest and that Napoleon with his superior organization would walk all over the British, who preferred retaining their honor at all costs, even if it meant defeat at the hands of the Corsican monster. When Murray resurfaced later, it was to invite Alistair to call on him in his rather obscure office high on the top floor of Whitehall, where he proceeded to acknowledge in a roundabout, almost apologetic way that, following the suggestions of Lord Farringdon and other interested parties, he and others had set up a Depot of Military Knowledge. Furthermore, Murray, who knew that he and many members of the Depot were likely to be called into active service at any time, asked Lord Farringdon if perhaps he might be interested in helping them out.
It was a heaven-sent opportunity, though at the time Alistair had not recognized quite how fortuitous it was. Bored though he was with life in the ton, he had found nothing that truly sparked his interest. He had a superb bailiff who looked after his estates in Somersetshire, besides which, country pursuits had never held the least allure. Lord Farringdon found his rural neighbors, though they were decent and upright folk, to be lacking in any spark of curiosity or originality. They in turn viewed him as full of outrageously revolutionary ideas, too much of a libertine in his pursuits, and far too attractive to be allowed near wives and daughters.
Nor did the military, though it offered a far more challenging and adventurous existence, interest the earl, who discovered that, to a large degree, it resembled nothing so much as a herd of bluff hearty sheep. They were good, courageous fellows, all of them, but without a unique thought or personality among them, and never encountered in groups of less than three or four boisterous fellows all devoted to following commands unquestioningly, no matter how stupid or how blind the person who issued them.
Such regimentation was not for Lord Farringdon. Having spent a lonely and isolated childhood virtually forgotten by worldly parents, who, possessing nothing in common with one another except the number and variety of affaires de coeur with which they sought to amuse themselves and compete against each other, Alistair had been forced to depend on himself for everything—amusement, education, and guidance. By the time he was packed off to school at a tender age, he was far too individualistic to be accepted easily by his fellows. They were highly suspicious of someone who thought for himself without bothering to take a consensus. He, in turn, was scornful of those who did not dare to attempt anything on their own without first checking the acceptability of their actions among their peers, and then constantly seeking approval while carrying them out.
The same sort of situation prevailed when he entered the ton. In truth, the only group who had accepted him wholeheartedly and with a great deal of appreciation was its female members, none of whom, old or young, married or in their first Season, seemed immune to his dashing good looks or his reckless charm. Alistair had reciprocated their appreciation with flattering attention to all of them. He had a ready wit and a genuine interest in everyone from the most stately dowager to the demur
est young miss, which made him a most amusing partner for a quadrille, a tête-à-tête, or something even more intimate. The only criticism that could be leveled at him at all was his singular aversion to matrimony, but his charm was such that very few ladies could even hold this against him for long.
However, one could not make a career, or even a life out of dalliance, or at least no one as intelligent and energetic as Alistair could. Thus, hungering for something more out of his existence, he had been delighted with Murray’s invitation to help them out at the Depot of Military Knowledge.
Espionage suited Lord Farringdon to perfection. Scorned by most of society as a most dishonorable occupation, its reliance on iron nerves, quick thinking, careful observation, deduction, cool resourcefulness, and a willingness to act on one’s own initiative made it a profession ideally suited to the Earl of Burnleigh. With his connections among the ton and acquaintances in the sporting world, he was able to move with ease in a variety of spheres, watching and listening for any conversations, any actions that might be in the least suspicious.
Murray and his fellow officers at Whitehall were well aware that French agents swarmed along the coast, especially in Kent, disguised most frequently as smugglers. What they were less certain of was where these agents were procuring the information that was being sent back to France. Someone with access to the highest levels was passing along intelligence to these men, and though Murray’s organization was perfectly capable of hunting down these individual spies, it was an exercise in futility until the major source of information was stopped. The identification of the traitor or spy with access to such vital secrets was the task that Murray had assigned to Lord Farringdon. After months of diligent appearance at every function likely to attract government officials and military men, and months of careful scrutiny, Alistair had at last come to the conclusion that somehow the Chevalier d’Evron was behind it all.
What remained to be done was to catch the chevalier in a compromising situation, a situation preferably that would reveal as much as possible of his organization so that those in the Depot could, in one fell swoop, eradicate it entirely. Now it seemed that a perfect opportunity was presenting itself. Rosalind’s invitation had mentioned the possible presence of Lord Edgecumbe, a man of so much power and importance in the affairs of state that it behooved anyone who wished to know the true disposition of the government toward any issue to spend some time in his company.
Alistair smiled broadly. Yes, the odds were excellent that the chevalier would also be putting in an appearance at Cranleigh, but even if he were not, the chance to reconnoiter the Kentish coast for suspicious activity and divert himself with the fair Rosalind were attractions enough to lure him there. After penning a note to the marchioness, Alistair instructed his man to prepare them for a trip to the country. It would be pleasant to see Richard again, too. Lord Tredington was making mice feet of his inheritance, but he still was most amusing company and ripe for any mischief should Rosalind’s little house party prove dull.
Chapter Eight
By the time Lord Farringdon arrived at Cranleigh, the rest of the party had gathered. Indeed, the first person he laid eyes on as he tooled his curricle up the sweeping gravel drive was the Chevalier d’Evron, strolling in a leisurely manner through Cranleigh’s celebrated rose garden. His gleaming dark head was bent attentively over his companion, whose countenance was obscured by a charming parasol. One glance at the elegant figure beneath this frothy confection was enough to identify her as the mistress of the house. Alistair grinned. His hunches were rarely wrong, and after months of observing the chevalier and his dalliance with Rosalind, he had developed a sixth sense as far as the actions of both of them were concerned. He would have been willing to bet all of his worldly goods that he would find the two of them here in just such a private conversation.
Not wishing to encounter Rosalind until he was good and ready, the earl urged the horses up the drive toward the massive stone portico where the butler, alerted to his arrival by a sharp-eyed stable boy, was awaiting him.
A few minutes later, following the housekeeper to his chambers. Lord Farringdon was struck by the size and impressiveness of Cranleigh. It was clear that there were compensations to be had for marrying the pompous Harold. Cranleigh was certainly one of the finest estates in England. A brilliant shaft of light fell across Alistair’s path, and without even thinking he glanced quickly toward the source, an enormous window in what appeared to be the library. Framed in the glow of the afternoon sun which touched the golden highlights in her hair was a young woman standing, book in hand, poring over the text in front of her.
So absorbed was she that she did not even stir or look up as the housekeeper and Lord Farringdon, their footsteps echoing in the vast hall, passed by. Her intentness on the work in her hands was revealed in every line of her slender figure, from the head bent eagerly over the pages to the hands gripping the book, and Alistair, accustomed to the women of the ton whose attention was most often fixed on the effect they were having on those about them, was struck by the almost palpable concentration of the woman in the window.
He was intrigued. Never in his life could he remember having seen a woman read anything deeper than La Belle Assemble, and certainly it was never with the interest of the young lady in the library. It was so rare that anyone of Lord Farringdon’s acquaintance expended any energy on anything that the image of the solitary reader, brief though it was, impressed the earl and remained with him as he followed Mrs. Dawlish to his chambers. Who was the woman? What was she reading that made her so oblivious to her surroundings? Did she approach everything in her life with such dedication, or was there something so important about that particular book? Having had infinite experience with women of all sorts, Alistair was surprised to come across one who did not readily fit into any of the usual patterns he recognized. He looked forward to meeting her and discovering more about her.
In the meantime, while one of her guests was busy with his speculations, the hostess herself was being subjected to a most interesting, though not necessarily comfortable examination in the rose garden. What Lord Farringdon had assumed to be a delicious tête-à-tête, and what Rosalind had expected to be a delightful interlude from her duties as mistress of Cranleigh, was turning out to be a great deal less delightful and a great deal more threatening than she could have possibly foreseen.
Bending down to gaze deep into the dark eyes shaded by the parasol, the Frenchman smiled enigmatically at her as he spoke. “Yes, my dear Rosalind, as I previously mentioned, I believe that we can be of enormous help to one another.”
Rosalind eyed him doubtfully. This was not the way things were supposed to be. Men were supposed to aid and protect women, not the other way around. She laughed lightly. “Oh am sure I do not know what you mean, Chevalier, how could I, helpless female that I am, possibly do anything for you?”
The chevalier’s smile broadened. Flutter her eyelashes and flash her dimples though she might, the marchioness was not the least bit helpless. One look at the determined expression in those deep brown eyes and the sound of the steely undertone in the soft voice were proof enough that she was a woman to be reckoned with. But the chevalier had been dealing with far uglier customers than the Marchioness of Cranleigh for the better part of his life, and he was not the least bit daunted.
“Why, I find myself in a most desperate situation, my lady,” he continued smoothly. “There are those in France who would dearly love to be rid of me, and, though they are on the other side of the Channel and at war with us, they have a very long reach, long enough to dispose of me when and where they will.”
“No!” Rosalind gasped in horror and clapped a dainty hand to her mouth. “You are under the protection of English law now.”
The chevalier smiled grimly. “Law, I assure you, has little to do with it when men are this determined.” He did not bother to enlighten her as to the reasons behind their menacing behavior, which involved his betraying the secrets of those
who had saved him from the guillotine.
“You could save me, Rosalind,” he murmured softly.
Her eyes widened. “I? I have no knowledge of such things.”
“No, you are much too lovely, much too delicate even to know that such wickedness exists, but you do know much that could be of value to me.” She stared at him blankly as he elaborated, “Come now. Your husband is an important man in the government. Surely, he must tell you many things that would be of interest to my tormentors, information that I could trade for my life.”
The marchioness, still gazing at him in patent astonishment, shook her head slowly. The idea of Harold’s discussing anything intelligent with her was ludicrous in the extreme. Of course his ostensible reason for confining himself to the most mundane topics of conversation with her was that she should not trouble her charming head with such weighty affairs, but leave them to men such as he to sort out. However, the real reason was somewhat different. Rosalind knew, and she imagined that her husband suspected, that she was a great deal cleverer than he. In some areas this superiority did not matter, but politics was not one of them. The Marquess of Cranleigh liked to think himself an authority on affairs of state, and he was not about to threaten that position by discussing them with his wife. “No.” With an effort Rosalind concealed her relief at being able to deny all knowledge of Harold’s affairs. She was not a prude or a prosy Methodist, but what the chevalier was proposing did not sound entirely honorable. “No, he never speaks of such things to me.”
“However, I am sure that Lord Edgecumbe, so much more perceptive a gentleman than your husband, realizes that you are quite intelligent enough to understand whatever he may confide in you as to the latest problems that are pressing him,” the chevalier persisted smoothly.
The Reluctant Heiress Page 6
