A Spy's Devotion (2 page)

When the next dance was over, he asked another young lady. Phoebe, meanwhile, also danced with other partners. She stared too much at Mr. Langdon, but Julia was proud of her for not trying to flirt with him. Indeed, she had little chance to, as he danced every dance.

Julia remained busy playing for the lively crowd. Everyone looked to be having a good time, even Phoebe.

Everyone, that is, except Miss Sarah Peck, who sat in the same position all night, near Julia and the pianoforte. Julia took a moment here and there to speak to Sarah, but she had no time for real conversation. No one else said a word to her, as though her station as a governess made her invisible.

Julia had paused to choose some new music when Mr. Langdon suddenly approached Sarah with Julia’s aunt, Mrs. Wilhern, by his side. Her aunt introduced them, and Mr. Langdon asked Sarah to dance.

Julia was so gratified at his kindness, her breath hitched in her throat. Perhaps Mr. Langdon was more worthy of Phoebe’s high regard than Julia had thought.

Sarah smiled for the first time since the party had begun as Mr. Langdon gave her his full attention for the duration of the dance.

Sarah came back to her chair with color in her cheeks. Julia couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked the young governess to dance.

But perhaps his actions had been calculated to charm. Some men’s only obvious purpose in life was to make conquests of silly young females, although Mr. Langdon didn’t seem to be that type.

Julia had heard nothing but praise from Phoebe’s lips since she’d first met him two years before. His fiancée had jilted him for the older Mr. Tromberg, which resulted not only in making Mr. Langdon eligible again, but also making him the object of romantic sympathy—just the sort to make young girls’ hearts flutter. He’d had his pick of dance partners that Season.

Then, during Julia and Phoebe’s second Season, Julia had heard just as many lamentations from Phoebe, for Mr. Langdon had been sent away to the Peninsula to fight with General Wellington. Now that he was back, Phoebe was no doubt hoping to gain his attentions, and affections, before he must return to his duties as a lieutenant in the Peninsula campaign, fighting Napoleon.

Julia’s hands hovered over the piano keys to start the next dance tune. “Excuse me, Miss Grey.”

Mr. Langdon stood at her side with a young lady. “May I introduce someone to you? Miss Grey, this is my younger sister, Leorah Langdon. She would be delighted to play if you would do me the honor of dancing with me.”

Realizing her mouth was hanging open, Julia closed it and addressed his sister. “I am much obliged to you.” She stood and gave Miss Langdon her place at the instrument while quickly donning her gloves.

Turning to Mr. Langdon, she placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to lead her toward the dance.

Was he also trying to make a conquest of
her
? But in the small crowd, perhaps he was afraid of running out of partners and did not want to break his rule of never dancing with the same young lady twice in one night.

Julia was fond of dancing, but rather than focus on enjoying a dance with an agreeable partner, she should be thinking how she might direct Mr. Langdon’s interest toward Phoebe. She might never have a better opportunity, and Phoebe would never forgive her if she did not take every possible occasion to help her win Mr. Langdon.

As they lined up facing each other, she tried to think of something complimentary to say about Phoebe. But once she looked upon his countenance, it was impossible to look away. His warm brown eyes had a thoughtful tilt, his thick dark hair slanting over his forehead like a blackbird’s wing, his side whiskers reaching almost to his jawline . . . the combined effect made her heart beat strangely.

Had she truly once thought his blond, fair-skinned brother more handsome?

The dance began, and she seemed to understand Phoebe’s infatuation. There was something about his bearing, the expression of his countenance. Of course, he must know Phoebe and many other girls fancied themselves in love with him. Well,
she
wouldn’t be one of his conquests. Overly handsome army officers had never been to her taste, and she loved her cousin too well to ever fall for the man on whom Phoebe had pinned her hopes.

As they danced, every girl in the room was looking at him as though her dearest wish were to be an army officer’s wife. They were looking at Julia as well. She wore her white muslin gown with the square neckline, but as was her wont, she wore little ornamentation, only a small amber cross around her neck and her pearl earrings. Her hair, which she had curled herself, was completely unadorned. She hoped she didn’t look too plain.

Instead of worrying about her appearance, she turned her thoughts to how to influence Mr. Langdon to think favorably of Phoebe.

Julia rather liked matchmaking, and she always enjoyed pleasing Phoebe. And if Mr. Langdon were to ask Phoebe to dance a second time tonight, the girl would be in raptures.

“You are smiling. Are you enjoying the dance so much?” Mr. Langdon quirked an eyebrow at her.

“I enjoy dancing very much, thank you.”

“I should think you were ready to get away from the pianoforte for a bit.”

“Indeed. You are very kind.” His words seemed to suggest he was fishing for a compliment, but when she looked him in the eye . . . What was it that was so unnerving about his eyes that made him seem as if he cared?

She certainly could not allow herself to be silly about this man. She thought a moment and then said, “I am no great dancer. Not like my cousin Phoebe, who is such a spirited girl. She dearly loves a ball.”

The look in his eye changed. Had she said something wrong?

At that moment, in the natural course of the dance, they were forced to change partners. When they came back together again, Mr. Langdon said, “You play and sing exceptionally well, Miss Grey. And I don’t say that lightly, as my mother is something of a connoisseur. But I remembered this about you from the several occasions when we attended the same parties two Seasons ago.”

“Thank you.” She was surprised he remembered. “Are you pleased to be home? I am sure your family was very glad to see you.” She blushed, remembering he had come home due to the grave nature of his wounds. “I should say, once they were sure of your complete recovery.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You are quite recovered, then?”

He smiled down at her. “Yes, thank you. My broken leg healed quite nicely, don’t you think?”

“Nicely enough to allow you to dance.” She almost smiled back at him but then remembered that Phoebe might be watching. And she didn’t want Phoebe to suspect what Julia was thinking at that moment, which was how graceful a dancer, how charming a conversationalist, and how handsome he was.

“Do you enjoy playing and singing as much as you enjoy dancing?” he asked.

Was he only trying to make polite conversation? Or was he thinking that her aunt and uncle had forced her to play so that their daughter could dance? At a ball, they would engage a small orchestra to play, but at a smaller party such as this one, Julia usually ended up at the pianoforte. It wasn’t as if she had no choice. But she knew Phoebe wanted her to, and she would do almost anything for her cousin. Some people no doubt characterized Julia as the Wilherns’ “poor relation,” but she owed so much to Phoebe’s parents. The Wilherns had taken her in when her own parents had died, leaving her very little inheritance. How could she refuse such a small act of service?

“I do enjoy playing, and I would rather play than sing.”

“And would you rather play than dance?” She must have looked uncomfortable, because he said, “Forgive my impertinent questioning. I’ve been amongst men, some of them quite rough, for too long. You are equally graceful at playing and singing and dancing.”

Of course, it was the polite thing to say, but he did say it most charmingly.

“Your sister plays well,” Julia said. “She is very gracious to take my place at the pianoforte.”

“Leorah does play well and is gracious but still not quite grown up at heart, I’m afraid. She’s only three years younger than I. Tell me, Miss Grey, would you believe that my elegant little sister used to put toads and lizards in her pockets, walk through muddy creek beds in her bare feet, and defeat her brothers in archery competitions?”

Julia couldn’t help laughing, but then she immediately felt guilty, hoping Phoebe hadn’t seen her merriment under the gaze of Mr. Langdon’s overly cheerful face.

His smile was too appealing for anyone’s good.

“You shouldn’t tell such tales. Your sister would not like it.”

“On the contrary, she loves to tell those stories even more than I. She regaled the entire company of guests at my parents’ last dinner party with how she wrestled a poor defenseless rabbit from the jaws of a fox when she was ten.”

Their turn came and they obeyed the rules of the dance, taking each other’s hand and whirling to the music. When they had another chance to speak, she said, “Your sister reminds me of my cousin Phoebe. Even now she enjoys a good tromp through the woods on the family’s country estate. She would go fishing with the groomsmen if my uncle would allow it.”

They switched partners for a few moments, Julia congratulating herself on again turning the conversation to Phoebe. When she faced Mr. Langdon, he had a strange look on his face.

“When you dance with me, I want to hear about you, not your cousin.”

Blushing as if she’d been caught doing something wrong, Julia tried to think of what to say. Should she give him a good set down? He was rude to tell her what she could or could not speak of. But she sensed that he had caught on to her scheme of trying to manipulate him into an attraction for Phoebe.

How annoying to be so transparent.

“So when a lady dances with you, she must stick to the subject you choose?”

“No.” He leaned his head nearer hers and said softly, “But you should know that I find you
quite
as interesting as your cousin Miss Wilhern.”

The dance ended. The other participants applauded politely as Julia stared up at him.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Grey. I hope to have the pleasure again . . . soon.” With that, he bowed politely and turned away.

Julia was staring at his retreating back, just as Phoebe had earlier in the evening. She turned and made her way toward the refreshments.

She stood in a corner, drinking her lemonade and fanning herself. How strange that she should have been caught in Mr. Langdon’s spell. What kind of loving cousin would blush as she remembered the handsome face of the man her cousin admired leaning over her?

She was mostly hidden behind one of her aunt’s potted plants, a large rubber tree, as she stood against the wall, forcing her thoughts back in order.

Taking another sip of her lemonade, she recognized her uncle’s voice very nearby.

“Langdon has the diary? You are sure? We shall have to retrieve it—tomorrow.”

Julia peeked around the plant’s large leaves. Her uncle was talking to Mr. Edgerton. They stood with their backs to her. She should reveal her presence, as it would be very rude to continue eavesdropping on their conversation, but a small frisson of fear stopped her—the harsh tone of her uncle’s voice did not fit with the occasion, as well as the fact that they were speaking of Mr. Langdon.

“How do you propose—” Mr. Edgerton began a question that was interrupted by her uncle.

“You must go first thing in the morning. If you fail, I’ll send a man—two men.” Her uncle lowered his voice even more. “We will talk no more tonight, not till after the guests have gone.”

As her uncle and Mr. Edgerton moved away, Julia let out the breath she’d been holding.

Their conversation was so strange. Something about getting a diary from Mr. Langdon. But what could her uncle want with a diary?

CHAPTER TWO

Nicholas sat in the sitting room facing east. This was his favorite room in the morning, as he liked to see the sun slanting in the windows. The rest of the family was still abed, and he had sent his valet, Smith, to ferret out the whereabouts of one Garrison Greenfield, the man to whom Beechum had bade him take the small leather diary. His only direction, besides the name Garrison Greenfield, was the Horse Guards in Whitehall. He must have meant the War Office. Whatever the case, Smith would find him.

Nicholas sat reading the newspaper, still catching up on all the political news since he had been away, when Foster announced that Hugh Edgerton was calling.
So early in the morning?

“Show him in.”

Edgerton greeted him with a weak smile. His eyes were red and puffy.

“Must be something important to bring you out so early.” Nicholas nearly chuckled at the way Edgerton winced and shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight.

“Important?” Edgerton stood still a moment. “Not at all. What makes you say that? I wanted to call, as I know you may be off again soon.”

Edgerton proceeded to talk of the war, and he asked Nicholas several questions about his time in the Peninsula, about General Wellington, and what Nicholas thought the future position of the British army would be. It was beginning to strike Nicholas as very strange conversation, not at all what Edgerton usually talked of.

Edgerton wandered over to the small desk against the wall. “Have you caught up on your correspondence since you’ve been convalescing?” He leaned over the desk, and though Edgerton’s body was blocking his view, Nicholas believed he heard Edgerton open and close the desk drawer.

“Do you need something?” Nicholas walked toward him.

“No.” Edgerton straightened and took out his snuffbox, carefully taking a pinch of the brown powder. “I thought I saw some cigars in your desk, but I was mistaken.”

Soon afterward, Edgerton cordially bid Nicholas a good day and left, expressing a wish to meet him again before Nicholas sailed.

While Nicholas was still puzzling over why Edgerton had called on him so uncharacteristically early and then left so abruptly, Smith arrived back from his errand.

“Did you locate Greenfield?”

“No, sir. And there is something odd about it.”

“Odd?”

“When I inquired about him at the War Office, a clerk told me to wait, and he went and fetched another man with a colonel’s uniform, who asked me why I was looking for Garrison Greenfield. I told him my master had something to give him. He asked, ‘Who is your master?’ ‘The William Langdons of Lincolnshire and Mayfair,’ said I. ‘What would the Langdons of Lincolnshire want with Garrison Greenfield?’ he asked. I said, ‘I already told you, and if you cannot tell me where to find him, I shall be on my way.’ The man looked hard at me. I thought it best that I come and tell you what he said before I inquired any further.”

“Thank you, Smith. You did well. I shall investigate myself.”

Very odd.
Nicholas tried to think who he knew at the War Office. His father would know someone. He’d go ask him and then send a letter today, requesting a meeting. And later . . . he should look and see what was in that diary.

Going upstairs, he remembered his brother had left the day before. Jonathan had told him that his wife, Isabella, planned to make some changes to the nursery and some of the other rooms at the Abbey before their first baby came.

The family estate, Glyncove Abbey in Lincolnshire, was where Nicholas, Jonathan, and their sister, Leorah, had grown up. But it was more his sister-in-law’s home now than his own. But that was as it should be. Jonathan was the eldest son and rightful heir.

Nicholas went into his father’s study to find him staring out the window.

“Ah, Nicholas. I suppose you will be going back with the next ship heading to the Peninsula, eh?”

He cringed inside, but army life was his fate, unless he were to sell his commission. He had thought to make the church his profession, but his father had pressured him since he was a small boy to become an army officer. A clergyman, he said, had no chance of making his fortune. He had joined the army more to please his father than anything else. Over the many days and weeks of his convalescence, he’d had plenty of time to ponder what a foolish reason that had been.

“Yes, Father. I leave in a week. But at present, I need to ask you—who do you know at the War Office?”

“The War Office?” His father’s voice boomed, seeming to fill the entire room. He stroked his chin. “McDowell, of the Westmoreland McDowells, a second son who is in the Foreign Office. Then there’s the Griffiths’ third or fourth son, but he’s little more than a clerk in the Home Office, I understand. Why do you ask?”

Nicholas cringed inwardly at the way his father qualified men as to their birth order. Just the way he said the words “second son” showed that he held them in lesser esteem, while “third or fourth son” carried even more of a stigma. Nicholas had always known that, in his father’s eyes, he was lesser than his brother, Jonathan. And the making of Nicholas’s military career was his father’s pet task, much like altering the nursery and children’s rooms at Glyncove Abbey was Isabella’s.

“I was only curious.” For some reason, he didn’t want to tell his father about the diary.

“Not thinking of transferring to the War Office, are you? There’s no glory in that, and you could hardly make your fortune there.” His father picked up his pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco. “Little enough chance to make your fortune in the army, even in wartime, but at the War Office? No chance at all. Speaking of which”—he paused to puff on his pipe as he lit it—“is it time for me to pay for your advancement to captain’s rank?”

“Not yet, Father.” He frowned, but his father would never notice, nor would he notice the wry tone of Nicholas’s voice. “I need more experience.”

“More experience?” his father bellowed. “You’ve had nearly a year’s worth of fighting and been wounded besides. Another year, my boy, and then it will be high time you were made a captain, at least. Perhaps even a major.”

“I appreciate your interest, Father, in furthering my military career.”

This elicited a grunt from his father.

He was eager to leave before his father began to outline plans and strategies for Nicholas’s future as a great army officer. Besides, he had the information he needed.

He headed back to write a letter to Philip McDowell, with whom he had a friendly acquaintance. In his short letter, he requested to meet with him as soon as possible.

After making sure his letter would be sent by the two-penny post and arrive later that day, he went to his trunk and found the diary. He undid the metal clasp over the brown leather cover and opened the book. He carefully flipped the pages. Most of them were blank. But when he came to some writing, he paused to read it. There was some unimportant talk of Beechum taking the post chaise for a visit to his grandmother as well as a description of a bird’s nest he had found. Nicholas skipped a few pages until he came to one that made no sense. The passage was filled with what looked like words, but instead of words, the letters and numbers and symbols seemed to be strung together randomly. He studied it more closely, but there was no sense to be made of it. He turned the page and found more of the same, just gibberish at best, undecipherable code at worst.

Code. Perhaps this diary was written in some sort of code.

He leaned closer and searched through the entire book. He could not make out a single word of the rest of it. He used his fingers to probe the inside of the covers, looking for a hidden pocket where something had been concealed, but there was nothing. All the information Nicholas had was that the diary had belonged to Richard Beechum, now dead, and the name Garrison Greenfield.

If what was written inside the diary was sensitive information, perhaps it was best if he made a copy of it. On the other hand . . . perhaps it was safer not to. If it were to get into the wrong hands, it could be dangerous. Still, better to have two copies than one. Nicholas grabbed a stack of parchment and dipped his pen in ink and began copying the first page of the diary.

It was dull work. After half an hour, he was tempted to stop. But it wasn’t as dull and tedious as lying still in bed for months with a broken leg and a bullet to the shoulder. After enduring the pain of travel with serious injuries, and then the inactivity of convalescence, he could certainly persevere through the task, as the diary could prove to be an important message pertinent to the safety of his fellow Englishmen fighting in a foreign field for crown and country.

Julia sat in front of the looking glass preparing her hair, as they were all invited to Mr. and Mrs. Smallwood’s for a dinner party. She was thinking of her dance with Mr. Langdon. True to form, he had danced all night but never with the same girl twice.

Julia couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him. But she would never allow herself to develop an affection for the man her cousin wished to marry. And she still blushed to think he had seen through her scheme of trying to influence him.

As if Phoebe needed any help getting a husband, with her twenty thousand pounds. Phoebe’s reckless infatuation with Mr. Langdon and Julia’s loyalty to Phoebe had caused her to do something she wouldn’t normally do. But from now on, Julia would be strictly sensible—and stay away from Mr. Langdon.

She could hear Phoebe in her dressing room across the hall, doling out instructions to the lady’s maid, Molly, who was dressing Phoebe’s hair for the party.

Julia pinned the last strand of her own brown hair in place. Her hair was easy to curl, and it was much too thick to need false locks to make it look tall and full. Still, her coiffure was rather plain. She could ask Molly for help with some ribbon, pearls, or other ornaments, but she dismissed the thought, not wanting to displease Aunt Wilhern, who could become extremely vexed if Molly was helping Julia when
she
needed her.

“Can’t you make it higher, Molly?” Phoebe’s voice carried through her open doorway.

“I’m trying, miss,” Molly’s patient voice answered.

“See how flat it is? I look like I just came in out of the rain.”

Phoebe could occasionally be petulant with the servants and her parents, but with Julia she was invariably affectionate and warm. Julia admired her cousin’s ability to make conversation without being intimidated by even the most formidable military officer or dowager. Phoebe’s verbosity and easy banter made her a favorite with many. She did perhaps go a bit too far at times with her talkativeness and drew a muttered “Impertinent girl” occasionally, which Phoebe never seemed to hear.

A knock came at Julia’s open door. Sarah Peck stood at the threshold.

“Come in, Sarah.” Julia had long since stopped calling her former governess by her surname. She was too near Julia’s own age to take offense, and Sarah had become Julia and Phoebe’s companion since they no longer needed a governess. Julia and Sarah were of similar natures, and Sarah was also an orphan, brought up to educate others.

Sarah stepped in and shut the door behind her. Her pretty face bore a sad, drawn look and an almost wild glint in her green eyes. Her reddish-blond hair was pulled back away from her face.

“What is it?”

“I am departing tomorrow, to go to my new situation.”

“What? You are leaving?” Julia had thought the Wilherns would keep Sarah on as a companion for Julia and Phoebe, at least a while longer.

Sarah nodded. “A situation in Sussex Mrs. Wilhern found for me, with four boys and two girls.” A tear slipped down Sarah’s cheek.

Julia stood and placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Oh, Sarah.”

Sarah sniffed and fumbled to reach her handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.

Julia tried to think of some words of comfort. “I shall miss you terribly, and I know Phoebe will too. Please do write to us. We will write too, if you wish it.”

Sarah nodded. “Yes, I thank you for that.” She looked Julia in the eye, grabbing her forearm and leaning close. Her voice strained and insistent, even strident, she said, “Julia, you must marry.”

Julia was taken aback by her sudden entreaty, as well as by the intensity in Sarah’s red-rimmed eyes.

“I will do my best, Sarah, but you know we always promised each other never to marry unless there was a strong attachment.”

“Who was that man I saw mooning over you two nights ago?”

Julia blinked, trying to think whom she meant.

“I saw a young gentleman staring at you all night. He did not ask you to dance, but you gave him no encouragement at all. I believe his name is Dinklage.”

“Daniel Dinklage? He couldn’t be interested in me. Everyone knows his mother intends him to marry well. He might be interested in Phoebe—she has twenty thousand pounds, but I have no—”

“Listen to me.” Sarah tightened her grip on Julia’s arm. “He isn’t interested in Phoebe. He’s interested in you. His eyes drank you in every moment of the evening. You should secure his affections, and as soon as possible.”

Secure his affections?
“I hardly know the man.”