Authors: Samantha Saxon
However, Gilbert knew better than to be fooled by the mundane facade. Eyes the color of warm brandy held the sharpness of keen intelligence, although Gilbert had seen them deliberately dulled on more than one occasion. The men were both members of the club in which they now sat, waiting to begin their meeting.
"Evening, Glenbroke, haven’t seen you here in quite some time. Must be that stunning wife of yours that keeps you at home at night, what?" He said a bit loudly, adding a wink as two gentlemen passed their secluded corner of the great room.
When the men had moved out of hearing range, the old man’s jovial tone changed to an authoritative tenor accustomed to making decisions. "What is this about, Your Grace? I am not fond of meetings, as you know."
"Quite. However, it cannot be avoided. The prime minister would like a report on your progress in identifying our traitor. Perceval was not pleased with the loss of
The Minerva
. As you know, the supplies she was carrying were sorely needed on the peninsula."
"Yes, Your Grace. I am well aware of the urgency of the situation." The old man nodded then continued, "We know that the traitor is going by the name of Lion. He has sold information to the French, information that cost us dearly at Corunna and Saragossa. My assistant, Lord Cunningham, has recently intercepted a missive with the Lion’s seal. The information contained in the document was only available to five men holding sensitive committee positions within Whitehall. Lords Reynolds, Cantor, Elkin, Ferrell and Hambury."
"A peer?" Gilbert could not hide his shock.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"How do you intend to prove which of these men is a traitor?"
The old man stared and then smiled politely. "You may assure the prime minister that the matter is being addressed."
Gilbert smiled, knowing that he would get no more details of the operation. "Excellent. Now, if I may impose on you concerning another matter?"
"Certainly, Your Grace."
"The Earl of Wessex has just informed me of the presence of a French intelligence officer on British soil."
The man’s left brow lifted with skepticism and a touch of conceit. "Indeed? An operative that I am unaware of?"
"Lady Rivenhall, blonde, blue green eyes, five foot six, twenty or so years of age? The lady was searching Lord Reynolds’s bedchamber when she was discovered by Wessex."
The man showed no emotion. "How did Wessex happen to find her in Lord Reynolds’s bedchamber?"
"He recognized her in the ballroom and followed her upstairs."
"How did he recognize her?" The old man inquired evenly.
"Do you recall his escape after having been captured at Albuera? Lady Rivenhall was the woman from whose troops he escaped."
The duke waited patiently, knowing the old man would speak when ready. Gilbert lifted his scotch to his lips and lingered several more minutes before the old man decided to talk.
"If you will forgive me, Your Grace, but your brother-in-law was injured at Albuera, was he not?"
"Yes, he suffered many injuries at Albuera."
"But the most severe was a blow to the head?"
"Yes, however--"
"Often times," the old man ignored him. "War affects men…afterward."
"Are you suggesting, sir, that my brother-in-law is delusional."
"Of course not, Your Grace, merely mistaken. You see, Lady Rivenhall has already been thoroughly investigated by my office, as her mother was a French noblewoman."
"And the results of your investigation."
"Lady Rivenhall is exactly what she seems, an English Lady displaced, like so many others, by the French revolution."
Gilbert took air into his lungs as he tried to take the information into his mind. "But Wessex was quite certain--"
"Your brother-in-law was mistaken, Your Grace." The old man met his eye before saying, "Lady Rivenhall has been in London for well over a year. It could not have been she who interrogated the Earl of Wessex on the peninsula. I am sorry."
Gilbert sat back, dazed. He stared into his glass and was surprised when the old man’s voice, which had been so grave mere moments before, now became buoyant.
"And the twins? I believe they are nearing one year, are they not?"
The duke glanced up in time to nod at Lord Ferth as he passed. "Yes, the dowager duchess intends to invite the entire ton to the celebration; however, my wife is standing firm in favor of a small gathering."
"Quite sensible," the old man said, but Gilbert scarcely heard him, so troubled was he by the information he had just been given and now must conceal from his wife.
Saturday evening finally arrived.
Not that Aidan wanted to meet Sarah’s selection for bride, but he had arranged to speak with Glenbroke after they dined.
He bounded up the stairs of his sister’s home looking every inch the English gentleman, just as Sarah had ordered, and was admitted into the drawing room with the other guests. He nodded a greeting to Christian St. John who stood on the opposite side of the room with cousins Lady Pervill and Lady Appleton, then gave his sister an armful of roses as he kissed her dutifully on the cheek.
"Well, when is my future bride arriving, and by the way,
who
is she," he teased, glancing down at her as her lips pinched with annoyance.
Her green eyes were mere slits when she glared at her husband who stood blissfully unaware of her ire as he poured himself a sherry from an exquisite crystal decanter.
"I am going to throttle Gilbert."
"Only right the duke should warn me of your deceitful intentions." Aidan grinned, revealing his dimples. Sarah smiled as well and then turned to face him, making him exceedingly uncomfortable.
"It will just be the six of us for dinner, Aidan."
His brows furrowed as his head whipped around to view the two cousins conversing with Christian St. John and the Duke of Glenbroke.
"You’re not serious?"
"Deadly."
"Which one have you claimed as my bride?"
Sarah’s laughter rang out, causing the others to turn toward the siblings. "Come now, Aidan, you could no more handle Juliet than catch a fly."
"So Felicity is more
manageable
?" he asked with irritation.
"Think of it as compatible. Felicity is a stunning, charming, intelligent lady and would make you a splendid wife. I have thought you perfect for one another for quite some time."
Aidan was reeling. "Have you spoken to her about the possibility?"
"Of course not, what sort of sister do you take me for? Besides," she grinned. "Felicity would be mortified and would most probably not speak to me for a month. Juliet and I thought it best to just let you handle the matter."
"Juliet!" he hissed through clenched teeth.
"She approached the subject several weeks ago. I think she is concerned about Felicity nearing her twenty-second year with no husband in sight."
Aidan chuckled. "Come now, it is not as though Lady Appleton is a wall flower. The girl has refused six offers for her hand already."
"Seven." Sarah sighed. "I know. She says she is not in love with her suitors, but I was certain she would accept Lord Summers. The man is an absolute pleasure to look at."
"Sarah." The word held his disapproval.
"Therefore, brother dear, if appearance is not a primary concern for Felicity, you might just have a chance," she said, adding an impish grin.
Aidan rolled his eyes at his sister just as dinner was announced.
The Duke of Glenbroke escorted his irritating wife. Lady Pervill wrapped her arm firmly around Christian’s, which, very cleverly, left him to offer his to the elegant Lady Appleton.
He hated to admit when his sister was correct, but he had considered Lady Appleton before he left for the peninsula. She was exceedingly beautiful and by far the most gentle creature he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Any man would be lucky to take her for wife.
Dinner was excellent, and his observation of Lady Appleton distracting enough that Aidan very nearly forgot why he had come. Then the ladies were excusing themselves, leaving the three men to their port.
Glenbroke turned to him the moment the doors had closed, asking, "So, what do you think of your bride?"
Aidan grinned with amusement and Christian’s fair brows furrowed. "What bride?"
The duke’s silvery eyes met the Nordic blue of the befuddled Lord St. John. "It would seem my wife has decided that Aidan should offer for Lady Appleton."
Christian’s face registered shock. "Lady Appleton? You jest?"
Aidan was mildly insulted. "And what, pray tell, Christian, is so amusing about my paying court to Lady Appleton."
Lord St. John looked from the duke to Aidan and back to the duke then he rushed headlong into the hole he had dung for himself, "Well…well, nothing, old boy, I just never imagined…you and Lady Appleton?"
The duke roared with laughter and Aidan’s scowled, irritated. "Damn it man, the venture was only proposed an hour ago. Lady Appleton would make any man an excellent wife."
"Yes, she would, but
not
for the likes of you."
"The
likes
of me!"
"You must admit you are a bit of a lecher."
"A lecher!"
"Well, perhaps not a lecher, but most assuredly a rake."
"As are you," Aidan pointed out.
Christian grinned. "That I am, but I am not offering for Lady Appleton."
"Who said anything about an offer?"
"Well, I certainly hope you are not paying court in order to seduce Lady Appleton, because Gilbert and I would be forced--"
"Seduce her!" Aidan’s voice was beginning to rise and the duke’s laughter increased with it. "Are you mad, Christian, or merely feverish?"
"Well, then what
are
your intention toward the girl? It is not as though you need time to become acquainted with her. Either you want to marry the woman, or you don’t."
Aidan just stared at Christian’s audacity, saying, "Glenbroke, would you kindly ask this meddlesome bastard to join the ladies, because he is most assuredly behaving like one?"
Christian smiled as he rose. "No need to toss me out, Glenbroke. I can only assume that you gentlemen have no objection to a stunning male specimen, such as myself, spending time
alone
with your women?"
The duke nodded his consent while Aidan vehemently objected. "Felicity is not
my
woman."
"Felicity?" Both of Lord St. John’s brows lifted, and he met the duke’s laughing eyes. "Such familiarity. Can a ceremony be far behind?"
"Sod off, Christian," Aidan tossed over his shoulder as Lord St. John reach for the brass doorknob.
"And to you, Lord Wessex."
And then he was gone, leaving an irritated Aidan alone with the very amused Duke of Glenbroke.
Aidan rubbed his temples when he felt the twinge of a headache coming on. He reached for his port and took a substantial portion in his mouth before turning to his brother-in-law.
"Well, have you located Lady Rivenhall?"
The duke sighed with regret, sitting up and leaning his muscular forearms on the polished mahogany table.
"Aidan, are you sure that Lady Rivenhall is the woman who interrogated you in France."
"What do you mean? Of course I am sure. It is hardly something a man would forget."
Gilbert raised both brows and with great reluctance said, "The Foreign Office has already investigated Lady Rivenhall." Aidan waited. "She has been living in London for over a year, Aidan. She could not be the same woman."
"She drugged me!"
"Perhaps she was waiting for Lord Reynolds, and you frightened her? Did you accuse her of being a French spy?"
Aidan’s brows furrowed as he thought back to Albuera. He had been half dead, confused. He felt a moment of uncertainty as he remembered the note.
Last room on the left
. Perhaps, it had been a lover’s note. Perhaps her reaction was due to fear for her reputation?
And then he remembered her knife, the way she used it? He remembered the recognition in her stunning eyes, the physical attraction between them. He was not wrong.
He knew it, felt it.
"She is the same woman, Gilbert, and every day the woman is allowed to operate without detection is a day she could be passing information to the French. I cannot allow it."
The duke looked at him with alarm. "The Foreign Office has already investigated her, Aidan. There is nothing else you can do."
"I beg to differ, Your Grace. I intend to unmask this traitor and turn her over to Whitehall." Aidan rose and bowed to the superior man. "If you would relay my regrets to my sister."
"Where are you going?"
Aidan flashed his teeth in a fierce grin. "Hunting."
***
London, England
June 30
th
, 1811
Lady Rivenhall sat in a private box at Vauxhall gardens. A black and white mask twisted in her hands as she awaited the arrival of her English operative, Falcon.
He had not been pleased to be contacted, but she saw no alternative. The problem of the Earl of Wessex would have to be resolved, and quickly.
"How are you, my dear?" The elderly man asked as he entered their private dining area. The orchestra became muffled as the heavy velvet flap fell into place and the old man settled with a heavy sigh into the seat opposite her.
"Very well, thus far, my lord."
The old man laughed with approval. "You never were one to beat about the bush, Celeste. I had hoped we could enjoy a meal before conducting our business." He lifted a trembling tray of fruit and cheese toward her. She declined with a shake of her head. "Very well." He set the tray on the black silk tablecloth. "I know of your meeting with the Earl of Wessex at Lord Reynolds’s ball."
Her blue green eyes opened wide. "How could you possibly--"
The question was interrupted with a wave of the old man’s hand. "It is of no importance. However, I have just received information that changes your assignment considerably." His brandy colored eyes locked with hers.
"Lord Wellesley plans to launch a campaign against Napoleon in one month’s time. Ships transporting soldiers as well as supplies will arrive on the southeastern coast of Portugal in hopes of trapping the Emperor’s troops between the Pyrenees and Wellesley. You realize, of course, what this means?"
Celeste nodded.
"You always were a clever girl, Celeste, but let me be clear. You must unearth this traitor before Wellesley sets sail or Napoleon will be awaiting his arrival." Falcon paused, holding her eyes until he was satisfied she understood the seriousness of the situation. "You found nothing to implicate Lord Reynolds?"
"No, I have searched his home and he seems a bit---"
"Incapable." Falcon chuckled. "The man is a complete buffoon. Always thought him highly unlikely. No, our Lion is a very clever fellow. You might never find any documents to prove his guilt."
"Then how am I--"
"His seal. With an intercepted communiqué, Lion has provided in wax the proof we need to hang him. It is his arrogance that will betray him. He might very well leave his Lion’s seal with his others."
"Why in heaven’s name would he be so careless?"
A smile spread across Falcon’s weathered features. "You are very young, Celeste. To Lion it is not carelessness, it is a game. Half the men I employ have been recruited because they enjoy the thrill of the hunt, because they enjoy deceiving people to prove to themselves that they can."
"And the other half?"
"The other half…" He placed his hand on hers. "Are patriots, serving their country despite their fears, despite the danger." Her eyes met his and she was thankful when the old man sat back, saying, "Find the Lion’s seal. You have four weeks in which to prove one of these four men a traitor."
"All of four weeks?" Celeste laughed, placing the mangled mask on the table.
Falcon smiled, revealing teeth yellowed by age. "I have seen you bring an entire roomful of men to their knees in one evening, my dear. Four men in four weeks is child’s play for your considerable skills."
"It is not the four gentlemen I am concerned with, it is the one." She fought to conceal her apprehension as she held the old man’s eyes, saying, "Wessex will not stop until he has denounced me as a spy."
Or killed her outright
.
Falcon eased himself against the plush cushions and ate strawberries for a good five minutes before answering. "Then you will have to give him a reason to wait until your assignment is complete."
Celeste’s brows furrowed in disbelief. "You are not suggesting--"
"Seduce him."
Her heart stopped, and she shook her head, sending her diamond ear bobs swinging. "You do not understand, my lord. The Earl of Wessex is not the sort of man to be satisfied with a stolen kiss in a darkened garden. He will want. . ."
"I know, my dear," the old man said regretfully. "But I see no alternative. Wellesley is relying upon us to plug this leak, and you are the only person capable of doing so."
Celeste blinked, trying to rid herself of her lightheadedness. Falcon put a scotch in her right hand, and she downed the contents in one gulp.
Her breathing began to slow when the old man added, "I am sorry, Celeste. I have told the Duke of Glenbroke that you have been in London for over a year. Suggesting, even, that the earl’s injury had confused his memory. All you need do is nurture Wessex’s doubt with your charms." He paused. "It is, of course, entirely your decision."