Once an Innocent (2 page)

He scowled at the paper as a problem presented itself. “If I run home with ten men, that will draw attention. If those same ten men start patrolling, asking after these Frenchmen, that will certainly draw attention. As it is, Bonaparte’s agents can’t know anything for certain. They’re looking, yes? Otherwise, they’d be on my doorstep in an instant. Setting out a guard like this is as good as lighting a beacon for them. It would be better to allay their suspicions. ‘Nothing to see here; move along,’ as it were.”

Castlereagh pressed his hands together in prayer fashion and rested his chin on his fingertips. “How do you propose to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Jordan admitted. “But I’ll think of something.”

“Do whatever you’d like, Freese, but you have to take those men. You’re good, but I’ll not pit you alone against ten Bonapartists.”

Jordan squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. Despite an overwhelming desire to be released from his assignment, he found himself even more tightly bound to it. He’d wanted Robert to relieve him of his burden and give him something more exciting, more compelling to do. Instead, he not only had to hurry home to Lintern Abbey, but he had to concoct a front, something perfectly ordinary and domestic to cover the sudden influx of almost a dozen armed men. Something boring. But, blast it all, this was his job — his duty. And no matter how it rankled, Jordan Atherton, Viscount Freese did his duty.

“At the end of September, I’m leaving for Vienna,” Castlereagh announced. “There’s to be a meeting in November, a congress of the Allies. I want this settled before my departure. Anything untoward that suggests Bonaparte is still wielding power could upset negotiations.”

“It’s already the eighth of August,” Jordan protested. “You want me to carry out a covert manhunt and eliminate all these French agents by the end of next month?”

“Yes, I do,” Castlereagh stated.

“If I do this, if I succeed, will you take me with you to Vienna?” Jordan asked. “I would be useful to you there, Robert, I swear. If you only needed me to act as your page, I would do it.”

“No.” Lord Castlereagh’s mouth held the tight O shape of his refusal for a moment as though making sure his edict was understood. “I know it’s not as thrilling as your old days on the Continent or in Spain, Jordan. But it’s vitally important. You must understand that your work is crucial to the very survival of Europe. If Bonaparte’s agents succeed … If he escapes and returns, and we can’t fight him off again … ” Castlereagh’s mouth pressed in a grim line. “I don’t have to tell you it would be devastating. Political stability
must
be maintained while Europe rebuilds. That’s what you’re guarding at Lintern Abbey. Stability. Peace.”

Well.

When he put it that way, Jordan couldn’t formulate any further argument against his assignment. While stability and peace weren’t his cup of tea personally, he certainly valued them for the world at large.

“You’re in this for the long haul,” Castlereagh concluded. “You might as well resign yourself to it and find some pleasure in living a more domestic lifestyle. Get married, my boy. My Amelia has been a good and constant companion these last twenty years.”

Jordan rose and bowed. “Thank you for your advice, sir. I shall consider it.” He tucked the intelligence report and list of Foreign Office agents into his coat pocket before taking his leave.

As he made his way back downstairs to the auction, Jordan scoffed to himself at Lord Castlereagh’s final words. The last thing he needed — or wanted — was a good and constant companion. A good companion was marvelous for a night or two, but the constant part was right out.

• • •

When he rejoined the party in the salon, Jordan attempted to regain his typical, jovial manner, but the tight pull of his scar told him he still frowned. In Town, he found it very easy to forget about his responsibilities at Lintern Abbey and throw himself into entertainments and the company of his friends. This collision of his worlds was most unwelcome.

What the devil was he going to do? He could not carry out Castlereagh’s orders without amending them. If his home was being watched, an action such as the Secretary desired would bring the Bonapartists down upon his head and ruin four years of careful intrigue. Lintern Abbey itself held little draw for him, but he didn’t want harm befalling those who lived there. Uncle Randell and Enrique would be as helpless as lambs before wolves without Jordan’s protection. Leaving them to face the threat alone was out of the question. But how to go about it?

“I didn’t think anyone could scowl as fiercely as my husband, but you may have bested him.”

Lily Helling, Viscountess Thorburn, regarded Jordan with a bemused expression on her face, full lips twisted in a wry smile. The statuesque female was sheathed in chocolate satin, touched here and there with gold lace and beading — a smashing complement to her own dark hair and eyes.

“If I am scowling fiercely,” he said, his charming smile once more in place, “it is only because you look — ”

“You used that one on me already.” Isabelle joined them and playfully swatted Jordan’s forearm with her fan. “Pen some new material.”

“Save your flirtation for the other ladies, in any event,” Lily said. “Handsome you may be, but I am utterly immune to your charms, my lord.”

The two ladies’ husbands joined the group. Ethan Helling handed a cup of punch to his wife. “Freese, I warn you. If you attempt to flirt with Lily, she will almost certainly skewer you for it. I still must couch remarks in innuendo and entendre.”

Jordan grinned. “I’m well aware of the lady’s formidable parlance. Indeed, I admire Lady Thorburn’s forthright manner.” He nodded to Lily, who blushed and shared a smile with Ethan. Despite his claims of walking softly around her, Jordan knew a woman as strong as Lily could only be matched by an equal force — and any fool could see the Thorburns were as deeply in love as Marshall and Isabelle.

Good God, I’m surrounded by willing prisoners,
he realized with a start. Jordan was the odd man out in the group, the fifth wheel in the midst of couples wallowing in marital felicity. He scanned the other guests for someone else to talk to. How had it happened that everything tonight kept pointing to the subject of marriage, even as he was dunked into a crisis of international security? When he should be thinking of nothing but how he would outsmart Napoleon’s dogs, he found himself forced to reflect upon the distasteful institution of matrimony and all the choking restrictions it entailed.

His restless gaze landed upon Lord and Lady Hollier — married since the beginning of time — who socialized with Lady Thorburn’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Bachman — likewise possessed of a long, seemingly happy union.

A gorgeous vision stepped into the group of older guests and made Jordan suck in his breath. Naomi Lockwood made a polite curtsy to Lord Hollier. She bent her neck, and the light from the chandeliers skimmed across her strawberry-gold hair, which was knotted on top of her head and adorned with a charmingly frivolous blossom. The rose color of her dress brought out the healthy glow of her creamy skin.

Lord Hollier took her hand and patted it fondly. Mr. Bachman bowed when she greeted him. Jordan noted how the faces of all four guests lit with pleasure as Naomi moved gracefully amongst them, sharing a few words with each. She leaned over to put an arm around the seated Mrs. Bachman’s shoulders, giving Jordan a view of the gentle swell of her breasts, filling out the low, square neckline of her gown.

An unexpected tightening in his groin startled him. This was Naomi — Marshall’s little sister, for God’s sake! He’d known her since she was a schoolroom miss in braids. And while he’d always been aware — academically speaking — that she was a lovely female, it had been the awareness of an older sibling-esque personage toward a younger quasi-sisterly individual, a reason to help look over her since she’d made her debut last year.

And yet he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

She flagged down a footman to bring punch for Mrs. Bachman. Then Naomi took her leave of the older group and made her way to other guests, a welcoming smile at the ready for each.

That warm, open way of hers contradicted the rumors Jordan had heard of late. She’d been branded an ice queen, an untouchable. Two Seasons out, and the beautiful, generously dowered, younger sister of an obnoxiously wealthy duke was still unattached. Naomi was
the
catch last year, a diamond of the first water. She should have been snatched up within minutes of making her bow. But for two years she had deftly, delicately rebuffed the advances of every gentleman who had attempted to court her.

The grumbling in the clubs among her thwarted suitors was that she was cold, heartless — made in the same mold as her imperious mother, Caro Lockwood.

Jordan knew that wasn’t a true or fair characterization. Naomi had one of the kindest natures he’d ever encountered. His eyes followed her as she continued to move through the assembly with the ease of a natural-born hostess, helping everyone feel noticed and included, seeing to the comfort of her brother and sister-in-law’s guests.

No, Naomi Lockwood was anything but heartless, Jordan reflected. The conclusion he drew was that she was content with her single status. Marshall would never force his sister to marry against her will, and she would always be amply provided for. Perhaps, he thought with rising admiration, Naomi shared his unfavorable view of matrimony. It would be an unconventional opinion for a female — especially for one as well-bred and raised to convention as Naomi — but that only made it all the more fascinating.

“Do you mind,” rumbled a dangerously low voice against his ear, “extricating your eyes from my sister, Freese?”

Marshall stood beside him, matching every one Jordan’s six feet and four inches, glowering and tight-lipped. A quick glance around the group confirmed the others all had fallen silent and had been engaged, for some indeterminate length of time, watching Jordan watch Naomi.

Bollocks.

Jordan flashed his annoyed friend a smile. “If you don’t want her admired, Marsh, you’d best put a sack over her head. Otherwise, I fear it’s hopeless. Besides,” he said, glancing back to where Naomi stood, quickly appraising the people around her, and snagging on the first likely suspect his eyes found, “Augustus Gladstone has been dogging her heels all night. I’m surprised you didn’t notice,” he added with a hint of rebuke. Marshall’s head snapped to where Naomi was, in fact, exchanging words with the pup Gladstone, who was known to be trying to prove his manhood by making his way through all the bawdy houses in London.

Marshall frowned. “I’m sorry, Jordan. I didn’t realize — ”

Jordan clapped his friend on the arm. “It’s all right, I know your mind is elsewhere.” He nodded toward Isabelle. “I just thought someone should keep an eye on things.”

The duke’s jaw tightened, and Jordan still wasn’t certain his friend wouldn’t call him to account for so publicly ogling his sister. Isabelle intervened with a hand on her husband’s arm.

“We’re blessed to have a good friend who shares our concern for Naomi’s welfare, aren’t we, my love?” She steered Marshall away to go converse with the Bachmans.

Jordan impulsively glanced back to where he’d last seen Naomi, but she was no longer there. Frowning, he scanned the salon but couldn’t locate her anywhere among the guests.

A few minutes later, the musician on the pianoforte stopped playing, and Marshall’s voice rang out over the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll please take your seats, the auction will begin.”

As Jordan filed along with the others to the several rows of padded chairs standing at one end of the room, he saw Naomi slip in. She stopped just inside the salon with her back to the wall, and even from this distance, Jordan noticed the high color staining her cheeks.

Another group wandered in, several young bucks and a lady. They passed Naomi, and she reached a hand out to stay one of the gentlemen, Wayland Hayward. The flaxen-haired young man turned and leaned while Naomi spoke to him, her fingers twisted together at her waist. Hayward straightened, a light smile touching his lips. Then he glanced around, and — apparently supposing them unnoticed — grasped Naomi’s hand and pulled her out into the corridor.

Jordan frowned. “What’s that about?” he muttered to himself. A sharp prod in his back pulled his attention away from Naomi’s peculiar behavior.

“Lord Freese, sit down!”

He glanced at the seat behind his. The Lockwood siblings’ spinster aunt, Lady Janine, cast a look of sharp disapproval at him. Jordan saw that everyone else had settled into their chairs. He pressed a hand to his chest and bowed briefly by way of apology and took his seat at the end of the row.

Lady Thorburn stood at the front of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” she began. “And a special thanks to Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Monthwaite for hosting this benefit. I would like to take just a moment before we start the auction to tell you all about the purpose and vision behind King’s Cross Vocational School for Young Ladies — ”

Jordan maintained a look of polite interest while his mind wandered back to his conversation with Lord Castlereagh. How was he ever to solve this problem? What could he do, quickly, to cover an armed patrol of his property?

Lily nodded and everyone clapped. Jordan joined in, having not heard another word of her speech. Then Marshall stood and presented the first item up for auction, a sitting with the portraitist, Lawrence. The bidding opened at a hundred pounds and quickly rose. Lord Cunnington won with a bid of seven hundred fifty pounds.

While the guests applauded Cunnington’s generosity, Jordan glanced at the door. Naomi was still gone. And he still had a mess of international security to sort through, by Jove! Why the devil was he even thinking about Naomi’s whereabouts, much less obsessing over them?

Two more items came and went. Jordan’s feet tapped restlessly against the immaculately polished floor. Another poke to his back had him turning in his seat.

“You haven’t bid on anything,” Lady Janine said in a stage whisper.