Morgan and Archer: A Novella (2 page)

“Please sit,” she said, setting down her cup of punch and reaching for the plate. “And before you start with the small talk, you will explain why you were lurking in Westhaven’s box. Your cousin Benjamin has married Maggie Windham, which means you’re nearly family to the Windhams. Skulking about on your part makes no sense at all.”

Archer sat, felled by the very same combination of charm and boldness he often used in the line of duty. Lest his explanation tumble forth without any planning whatsoever, he took a sip of the punch, realizing too late, he’d brought the lady’s own cup to his lips.

***

The terrace was blissfully, blessedly quiet, which improved the chances Morgan would comprehend anything her escort said—and she very much wanted to understand what came out of his handsome mouth.

He set the cup of punch down after only the barest sip, for he’d likely been expecting something other than tepid orgeat.

“My usual approach with pretty ladies is to apply great quantities of flirtation and flummery to the encounter.” Portmaine moved the cup so it sat on the flagstones a foot away from his left boot, where any passing servant would know to gather it up and take it away. “I suspect flummery isn’t going to work.”

Neither would flirtation, Morgan hoped. “If you mean flummery isn’t going to distract me from interrogating you, you are quite correct, though I won’t mind if you try.”

“Very obliging of you.” He’d muttered this, but Morgan had been watching his mouth, so she caught the sense of his words.

“Are you in danger, Mr. Portmaine?”

He peered at the toes of his boots, his expression bashful and maybe a tad surprised. “I’m in danger of losing my heart to a woman who doesn’t find direct speech an unconscionable rudeness.”

Perhaps he was giving flirtation a try after all. She passed him a quarter of a pear. “I am duly charmed, but you didn’t answer the question. If your situation is perilous, the Windhams are here en masse, and they will rally to your defense out of family loyalty.”

“My situation is not perilous in the sense you mean it, else I would not be sitting here with you.”

Morgan said nothing—a woman’s company might be all the shield he needed if the danger to him was from a source bent on remaining hidden. She took a bite of her pear and indulged for a moment in the pleasure of a texture both creamy and slightly grainy, and a taste both sweet and spicy.

The Windhams did not skimp on hospitality, not ever.

“Here is my dilemma, Mr. Portmaine: if you mean mischief of any kind toward the Windhams, or more specifically toward my sister or her husband, I will do all in my power to stop you. I will be watching you the way you watched me for the first thirty minutes of this reception, and should you misstep, I will alert my in-laws.”

She munched on the rest of her slice of pear, detecting a tensing in the man beside her. He would not threaten her here, and he needed to know that loyalty was not exclusively a Windham characteristic.

“Miss James, I am going to violate every tenet of my personal philosophy, flirt with a deviation from the dictates of honor, and without doubt commit rudeness.”

“All that? Would you like some more pear while you misbehave so prodigiously?”

“Please.”

Their fingers brushed, though she couldn’t think it was deliberate on his part, because the contact appeared to fluster him. The lapse was slight—a firming of his mouth, a double-blink—but Morgan excelled at reading faces, and even short acquaintance told her Archer Portmaine normally enjoyed great self-possession.

Normally, so did she.
“You were saying, Mr. Portmaine?”

“I was in Westhaven’s box to elude the notice of a woman.”

Plausible, but she did not believe him—not entirely. “A married woman?”

Another blink. “Well, yes, but it isn’t what you think.”

Morgan finished with her pear and began to lick her fingers one by one, then caught her companion watching her. So far, he wasn’t gaining many points for originality. “Not what I think?”

“She is
not
a former inamorata.”

He passed her a handkerchief, tucking it into Morgan’s hand. While she made use of the monogrammed cream silk—his middle name apparently also began with an
A
—Morgan concluded the conversation had not yet achieved her goal.

“I know you are an investigator, Mr. Portmaine, and that you are involved with keeping scandal from befalling the best families in the realm.” Had he been involved in averting scandal for the Windhams?

The look he shot her was barren of charm and even friendliness. “The lady was among those I’ve investigated. I do not think she could recognize me, but one doesn’t want to take chances.”

“So you were eluding embarrassment.”

“I was, and being found in Westhaven’s box ‘by accident’ might have had to serve, though I’d rather nobody knew I was there, even momentarily.”

He was still at least partly lying. “And yet, the lady is not a former inamorata.”

He studied Morgan for a moment more, which allowed her to examine him in return by the torchlight. He was an exponent of Classic English Good Looks—blond, blue-eyed, and rangy, but imbued with a little Celtic ferocity too, in the slight hook to his nose and the angle of his jaw.

“And now I shall be inexcusably crude,” he said, “which will likely earn me a sound drubbing from your musical knight. The lady, Miss James, prefers women. If I avoided her notice, it was as much to spare her as anything else.”

Morgan stopped wiping at her fingers with his handkerchief. “Prefers
women
?”

Several long, lonely years of practice allowed Morgan to impersonate a young lady of good family enjoying a musical evening and the company of a near-relation. Mr. Portmaine’s disclosure suggested he could see beneath that artifice, and grasp some of the past Morgan struggled to keep from Society’s sight.

For she knew exactly what he meant, and in the next instant, figured out exactly why he was back to staring at his boots. “How mortifying—for you.”

When she thought Mr. Portmaine would bid her a curt good night and stomp away, he instead turned a self-deprecating smile on her. “This revelation was rather a blow to her husband, whose grand schemes were utterly thwarted. Point to the lady, I say.”

“Oh, you poor man. I hope you were paid for your troubles.”

The words were out, blunt and only half-teasing, but they revealed gaps in Morgan’s gentility that she suspected were part of the reason she’d had no serious offers.

And as for the other part…

“I was compensated, not only for my troubles, but I suspect to hold my silence as well. Now that’s enough inexcusable crudeness for one conversation, even from me. Are you going to eat those strawberries?”

Morgan had the first inkling she might be in difficulties when she realized she rather liked the fellow when he was inexcusably crude—and since when did honesty become crudeness?

“Unless you stop me, I will eat every morsel on this plate,” Morgan said, holding the plate out to him. “So you must join me. Keeping one’s silence can be a strenuous undertaking.” Particularly when that silence lasted for years.

The moment passed, the strawberries, cheese, ham, and lemon cake disappeared, and when Mr. Portmaine offered to escort Morgan back inside, she paused before allowing him to assist her to her feet.

“I will keep my silence on this matter too, Mr. Portmaine. You haven’t been completely honest with me, but my guess is you’ve been as honest as you could be. You were not in Westhaven’s box with any mischievous intent toward my sister’s in-laws.”

“I was not.” He said this quietly, but Morgan heard him, and heard the truth of his words. It was enough.

“Then let us part on friendly terms, and I will wish you a pleasant evening.”

When she rose, he put her hand over his arm, and without saying a word, he smiled down at her. It wasn’t a flummery-and-flirtation smile, not in the sense he’d used the phrase, as if referring to flummery and flirtation as a set of matched pistols from Mr. Manton.

His smile was warm, genuine, and honest. She smiled back and let him return her to the noisy, crowded, uncomfortable confines of the green room proper.

***

“It’s damnably frustrating, Your Grace.” Archer did not need to pretty things up for the Duke of Moreland. “All we know is this plot is aimed at the Crown itself, and the French are as puzzled as we are.”

The duke nodded genially at some whiskered old fellow across the card room and raised his wineglass a few inches in salutation. “It’s a sorry day when we must rely on the Frogs for our intelligence, Portmaine. When do you think you’ll have more information?”

That
was the only question that mattered, and trust Moreland to pounce on it.

“I’m circulating as much as I dare, Your Grace. All we know is people in high places are in support of whatever’s afoot. I drowse in mine host’s library of an evening, chat up the wallflowers and companions all over Mayfair, lose at cards with more skill than anybody would credit, and I’ve yet to hear even a juicy innuendo.”

“Then you keep listening, Portmaine. The Crown is worried. Very worried. Shall we put it about I’m backing you for a pocket borough?”

Shrewd blue eyes regarded Archer levelly enough that the question might be sincere, and not asked merely in the interests of justifying tête-à-têtes like this one.

“I believe, Your Grace, that the fewer political aspirations I show, the more likely somebody is to let something slip in my presence.”

“Best be flirting and courting, then.” This time, His Grace raised his glass and aimed a smile at a turbaned older woman sitting several yards away at the loo table. “Nose about this year’s herd of young beauties, turn them down the room as if you’re in contemplation of marriage.”

“That can be a perilous ruse, Your Grace.”

“Only if you’re careless. It can be a lot of fun if you’re not.”

Moreland winked at Archer, clapped him on the shoulder, and strode off in the direction of the men’s punch bowl.

Leaving Archer to take a swallow of gaggingly sweet ratafia and wonder how great a sacrifice a man was supposed to make for King and Country. He was pondering the same dismal notion as he sorted through the contents of Lord Braithwaite’s escritoire thirty minutes later.

“Nothing. Not an obscene snuffbox, not a lurid novel. Not a single indication of manly imagination, much less treason. No wonder Lady B. terrorizes the university boys.” Archer addressed his remarks to the room, then spotted a painting of foxhunters immortalized at that moment when the pack had set upon Reynard and tossed him bodily into the air. Several fellows on horseback in their pinks were pointing jovially at the carnage; another gestured with his hat while his horse shied at the commotion.

The painting was abominable, also ever so slightly askew.

“
Voila
.” Archer had no more than swung the thing forward on its hinges to reveal the safe behind it when the door to the adjacent sitting room opened. In the time it took to silently concoct a foul oath, he replaced the painting and took a seat on a sofa along the wall.

“Pardon me, sir! I was not expecting anyone to be in our private apartments.”

Lady Braithwaite paused in the doorway and studied Archer with more curiosity than indignation. She was on the tall side, buxom, and approaching the age when she’d be described as matronly rather than well endowed.

“My lady.” Archer rose slowly and showed only welcome in his eyes as he approached her. “I beg
your
pardon. I presumed, because I was certain these were the chambers of the house most certain to afford privacy. I’ll just…” He heaved a sigh and glanced around the room, wall by wall, his gaze lingering on the hapless fox. “I’ll just be going.”

“You’re Portmaine, aren’t you?” She perused Archer more closely than he’d inspected the room. “Were you waiting for a young lady, Mr. Portmaine?”

Did every member of the titled set think people had nothing better to do than swive each other and flirt?

“I am a gentleman, my lady.” Archer allowed a hint of a knowing smile into his expression. “A gentleman would not admit his good fortune were he in anticipation of an assignation.”

She approached, and observing her walk, Archer felt a sinking sensation in his middle. He was doomed,
doomed
, to kiss women he didn’t desire, and to bid a fond farewell to the ones he did.

“My husband would not like to find us here.” She stopped a mere foot away, scrutinizing Archer’s chest and shoulders with the same pursed lips and cocked head displayed by the fellows who looked over the equine offerings at Tatt’s. “To be alone like this is completely improper.”

“As I said, I’ll just be going.”

She proffered her hand on cue, and he grasped it in his own. If he was lucky, she’d content herself with a racy—

Over Lady Braithwaite’s shoulder, Archer watched in horror as the sitting-room door swung open to reveal Morgan James standing in the entrance. She stopped abruptly, her eyes going wide, her gloved hand covering her mouth.

Very possibly, the damned woman was hiding a smirk.

Archer let his smile degenerate into a leer and used Lady Braithwaite’s hand to tug her against his body. “I’ll leave as soon as I’ve stolen at least a kiss.”

Bother.
A bit of wretched melodrama was the best he could think of, and when he’d followed through on his declaration, he saw Miss James was standing as if she’d sprouted roots, watching every moment of the performance through dancing eyes. While Lady Braithwaite’s tongue imitated an auger, boring against Archer’s lips, Archer pointed directly toward the corridor, and—to the extent a man could while enduring an oral assault—he glowered at the intruder.

Miss James withdrew, smirk and all, while Lady Braithwaite plastered herself against Archer from north to south and at every point in between. She was a substantial woman and determined on her objective.

Archer had nearly resigned himself to at least pleasuring the woman, when a bad situation threatened to become worse.

“Oh, my Lord Braithwaite! I am pathetically relieved to see you!” Morgan James sounded near tears right outside the sitting-room door. “I am completely turned about, the women’s retiring room is nowhere in sight, and my need for it is becoming
urgent
.”

Lady Braithwaite retracted herself as if bitten. “He mustn’t find me here. My pin money, my allowance for the modiste, my little habit at the whist tables—”

She twisted about, eyes huge, while Archer stifled the urge to clap a hand over her mouth.

“They’re leaving,” he whispered. “He’s escorting the young lady down the hall. Listen to the footsteps.”

Relief replaced panic in Lady Braithwaite’s gaze, followed by an air of wounded dignity assumed with astounding rapidity. “I must be going, Mr. Portmaine. Steal your kisses from somebody else.”

With
pleasure.
“My apologies, Lady Braithwaite. I should not have presumed.” He bowed low, the better to encourage her departure. If she ran true to Archer’s experience, her first stop upon returning to the ballroom would be her husband’s side. She’d fuss and coo and spend at least ten minutes making sure all and sundry observed their marital accord.

Which gave Archer about fourteen minutes to open the safe, review its contents, and return to the ballroom without being seen.

Seen
again
.

***

Morgan checked the clock above the mantel in the card room. Mr. Portmaine had needed approximately sixteen minutes to make his way back to the ballroom. She did not believe those minutes had been necessary to cool a passion on his part for Lady Braithwaite, but that left the question of what, exactly, he’d been about.

“You, sir, have a knack of appearing somewhere, as if you’ve been lounging in that very spot all evening.”
When
I
know
you
haven’t.

“Miss James.” Mr. Portmaine’s smile was cool, his expression giving away nothing. “A pleasure to see you
again
.” He bowed over her hand correctly, and Morgan did not bother playing the game of keeping his hand in hers. “Might I inquire as to whether you’re engaged for the supper waltz?”

Oh, damn.
“You’re not supposed to be this bold when confronted, Mr. Portmaine.”

“You’re confronting me? This confrontation is by far more charming than others in recent memory. Will you dance with me, Miss James?”

What was he trying to say? What was he trying to
do
? Couples positioned themselves in the middle of the ballroom, where Morgan would be able to interrogate him for at least the duration of a dance. “It would be my pleasure.”

He looked not pleased, but relieved, the scoundrel. She placed her gloved fingers over the knuckles of his proffered hand and let him escort her to the dance floor. They observed the protocol for beginning the dance, and then the orchestra swung into a lilting triple meter.

Because the Braithwaites hadn’t hired a mere quartet or trio, but an orchestra, and because that ensemble boasted a piano and a proficient double bass rather than a mere harpsichord, Morgan could
feel
the music.

Or perhaps her pleasure in this particular waltz had to do with her partner. “You are light on your feet, Mr. Portmaine.”

He turned her through a corner and momentarily brought her a hair closer in his arms than propriety allowed. “The better for sneaking about? You are a graceful dancer as well, Miss James.”

“I like waltzing.” With the buzz of the surrounding crowd, and the good efforts of the orchestra, Morgan would not catch Mr. Portmaine’s every word. She would, however, be able to see his face while he spoke, which helped tremendously.

“Is the appeal of the waltz its scandalous nature, Miss James?”

“Scandalous? When Wellington himself enjoys it? Hardly. I like it because of the downbeat.”

She hadn’t meant to say that.

His smile suggested he knew she hadn’t meant to say it, too. “Explain yourself, Miss James.”

“I can feel the rhythm, particularly if there’s a piano, even better if there’s tympani.
One
-two-three,
one
-two-three…” From the puzzlement on his face, Morgan realized she was in the arms of one person who hadn’t heard of her “unfortunate history.”

She regretted her disclosure for half the length of the room, then caught Mr. Portmaine regarding her closely. He was tall, but not so tall as to make her feel like an adolescent. At her come out, she’d danced with Valentine Windham…

Who was too tall for her.
That
, she realized between one violin trill and the next, was what had been off about every dance they’d shared—that and her besottedness with him.

“You are distracted, Miss James. Or perhaps you’re simply enjoying yourself?”

“I am planning your interrogation, sir.”

“I will answer your questions as honestly as I can.”

His reply wasn’t what she’d expected, but it allowed her to enjoy the balance of the dance and move through the buffet line beside him without further conversation. He left the choice of seating to her, so she decided on a small table far down the gallery.

“A good location for interrogation and torture, if one is allergic to roses,” he remarked. “What would you like to know?”

She wanted to know if he’d enjoyed kissing Lady Braithwaite and where he’d learned to dance so well. She wanted to know if he was in trouble, and she wanted to know what his kisses were like.

Morgan waited until they were seated, a single plate between them, before she put her first question to him.

“Why did His Grace tell you the Crown is very worried?”

***

The trouble was, Archer
liked
Morgan James. He’d bungled the search of Braithwaite’s chamber badly, and Miss James had saved him from exposure. He liked practical women, women who could deal with life’s vagaries without making a fuss.

He liked pretty women as well as the next fellow did.

He also, however, liked smart women, which was unfortunate indeed when his line of work meant how he spent his time ought to remain undiscussed, or better yet, unnoticed.

“You were not in the card room when I had a conversation with His Grace which might have included those words.” Those exact words.

“I was a few feet outside the doorway.” She tugged off her gloves, exposing hands that sported short, unpainted nails, and a sturdy, practical quality at variance with her graceful evening attire. “Care for a strawberry?”

“I would rather hear how you were privy to a discussion taking place twelve, even fifteen feet away from you. The card room was buzzing, the orchestra sawing away, and you could not have heard us.”

“I didn’t hear you. Eat something, Mr. Portmaine, or people will suspect we’re quarreling.” She served up a section of orange, along with a saucy, naughty smile.

He whipped off his gloves and set them down next to hers. “Thank you.” His mind raced over dire possibilities as he took a bite of the orange. Nobody had overheard them—nobody. He’d been sure of it.

“I do not hear well,” Miss James said.

He paused mid-chew. “I beg your pardon?”

“I do not hear well.” She looked right at him and spoke slowly, as if
he
didn’t hear well.

“I’m sorry to—”
Hear
that. He accepted another section of orange from her. “That’s too bad, though given what goes on in the typical Mayfair ballroom, you might consider yourself lucky.”

“You’re an idiot if you think deafness is a blessing.” Her voice was a low hiss, making it plain the subject was sensitive. Archer liked that the momentum of the conversation was in his hands; he did not at all like that she was upset.

“Tell me.”

She passed him some ham rolled up around a nibble of pineapple, suggesting the lady shared Archer’s penchant for fresh fruit. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me what it’s like when your hearing troubles you.”

She hadn’t expected that question—her expression was positively flummoxed. He chewed the tidbit and realized on the two occasions when he’d had substantial conversations with her, she’d chosen quiet locations.

“Hearing trouble is a constant frustration,” she said, holding up another bite of ham. “If you’re blind, people will help you. They can close their eyes and get a taste of what you deal with. It scares them, but they know it isn’t catching. If you’re deaf…”

She trailed off, staring at the food in her fingers. Archer plucked it from her grasp and held it to her lips. “Eat, Miss James. If you’re to interrogate me properly, you must keep up your strength. You were telling me what it’s like to be deaf.”

She nibbled the food from his fingers, a delectable, delicate sensation with erotic overtones Archer suspected Miss James was oblivious to.

“If you are deaf,” she said slowly, “people think you’re stupid. They shout at you—you can
see
when a voice is raised at you—they use little words and use them loudly. They give up trying to speak with you, and don’t think to write down their words instead. You let them give up, because the shouting causes others to stare, and the pity is worse even than the disgust.”

Archer had an image of an intelligent young woman bombarded with shouting she couldn’t hear, and jeering glances she couldn’t avoid. “I’m sorry, Miss James.” To underscore the sincerity of his sentiment, he reached across the table and wrapped her bare fingers in his own. “I’m sorry it hurt.”

“Everybody has hurts and burdens.” She said this wearily, like an aphorism passed down from exhausted, burdened mother to exhausted, burdened daughter.

“We do. Lady Braithwaite was my burden for a few moments. My thanks for waving off his lordship.”

Miss James brightened. “I considered letting him have at you, then I recalled His Grace’s comments.”

Drat the damned luck. Morgan James’s interest in a very private conversation could well be that of a woman plotting mischief against the Crown.

“How and why were you privy to that comment?” Archer still grasped her wrist, and she made no move to withdraw. Either she had the steady composure and regular pulse of a practiced spy, or she had nothing about which to be anxious.

“I saw what His Grace said. He is well known to me, so I can make out most of his words. I could not follow you as easily.”

“You
saw
what he said?”

“Watch my mouth.” She sat back and slipped her hand from his grasp. “
How
are
you, Mr. Portmaine?
” She did not speak audibly, and yet he knew what words she’d formed.

“I’m well enough for a man who must consider his every private word has not been private at all. The ramifications are… daunting.”

Worse
than daunting, considering the safety of the Crown was at stake.

She patted his knuckles. “You needn’t worry. The ability to read lips is hard won and rare, also an imperfect skill. Every person I’ve known who had the ability was deaf. In my case, I manage much better with people I know, like His Grace.”

“What did you see him say?” Archer held out a slender hope that the lady might be able to see others’ speech, but that her recall would be significantly imperfect.

She knit her brows. “He mentioned relying on the Frogs for intelligence, said the Crown was worried—very worried. He offered to support you in a bid for a pocket borough and suggested you resort to flirting and courting. I could not see the entire exchange, because he raised his glass twice and obscured my view of his mouth.”

“And what of my words, Miss James?”

“Your back was to me for much of the conversation. I saw the word perilous though, and when Lady Braithwaite followed you from the room, I thought I’d best go along in case you needed assistance.”

“You went along to
protect
me?” The notion offended his dignity almost as much as it warmed his heart.

Her chin came up half an inch. “And was successful in this regard.”

“You were. My thanks.” He fed her more ham, mostly to keep her quiet while he tried not to dwell on what might have occurred if Miss James hadn’t come along. When much of the food had been consumed, Archer sat back and indulged in a curiosity lively enough to get him into trouble.

“Tell me more about being deaf.”

Miss James’s mouth quirked, and not with humor. “Deafness isn’t something one often discusses.”

“So you have a rare opportunity to enlighten a curious mind. Was it lonely?”

Her gaze shuttered. She put back the strawberry she’d just picked up.

“Forgive me, Miss James. I did not mean to presume. The line of work I’m in frequently isolates one, particularly when one no longer has a partner.” While she considered her strawberry, he forged on. “I hadn’t made that realization until this very moment. Carrying secrets makes one into a type of mute, I suppose, though nothing like… I’m babbling.”

The smile that rose in her eyes was breathtaking. “You’re also quite correct. I expect any disability leaves one lonely, deafness especially, because it’s so hard to connect your mind and heart to another’s when you dwell in silence.”