“People are talking, naturally.” Madeline’s mother could regally ignore anyone, even her sister. She had a specific purpose herself, or she wouldn’t have agreed to the visit. “He’s a conspicuous personage in the highest circles. He counts the Duke of Berkeley’s son as one of his best friends, and also Lord Longhaven, who tends to be elusive at best.”
“I am aware of who his friends are.” Madeline sat back against the settee, doing her best to not overreact or become too combative. “I’m getting the impression their notoriety is the point of this conversation. Despite his less than pristine reputation, may I point out Lord Alexander recently married and married well?”
“Good for the Earl of Hathaway’s daughter, but do you think
you
can bring Altea up to scratch?” Ida asked bluntly. “He’s not known for his fondness of perma nence. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
It took a great deal of restraint to not point out that she was twenty six years old and her life—and what she did with it—was entirely her affair. Part of the purpose of this visit was concern, no doubt, but part of it was just plain interference. She’d known what it would be like the very instant she dashed out the door the evening Luke so restively abandoned the dinner party, so this wasn’t a surprise precisely; it was just irritating.
But she did have a family, not to mention a child, and though her own happiness should count for some thing, she did have a certain responsibility to them all. “Have you considered I might not
wish
to bring him up to scratch? All he’s done is escort me to one social event, and as you pointed out, he’s not exactly known for his monkish habits. I was happily married once. I don’t know I am convinced Lord Altea would make an admirable husband.”
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you appeared in public on his arm.”
“I did,” she said calmly.
Her mother and aunt exchanged outraged glances, but the arrival of a maid with the tea trolley halted the conversation. After she’d poured, Madeline deliber ately steered the topic in another direction and sent for Trevor, who was delighted to get out of his lessons, as lemon tarts were infinitely preferable to mathematics. He was well behaved for a seven year old boy, but his exuberant antics were still distracting enough to quell further interrogation.
When her mother and aunt left, she was relieved and introspective, her cup of tepid tea forgotten on the ta ble. To her surprise, she was just relieved the discussion was over. While she wasn’t indifferent to their opinion or the gossip, neither bothered her as much as she had expected.
“Aren’t you going to open it, Mama?”
“Open what, darling?”
“That.” With a small child’s fascination for shiny, wrapped boxes, her son pointed to the small package on the table beside the settee where she sat.
Madeline had all but forgotten it, preoccupied with her conflicted feelings and the first true repercussions of her relationship with the notorious Viscount Altea. “I suppose I should.” She smiled and let him hand her the box with a small flourish, his expression intensely curious.
The card was written in an unfamiliar hand, the im personal message only announcing the identity of the sender, yet her pulse quickened predictably. Pulling the ribbon free, she slipped off the paper and found a jew elers box, the stamped insignia of the exclusive shop making her raise her brows. Inside, against white vel vet, the amber stones took her breath away. And when she lifted one of the earrings, the exquisite gold work of the setting and uniqueness of the piece brought a soft smile that had nothing to do with the undoubted value of the gift, but the thoughtfulness that had gone into the selection.
Luke Daudet was many things. Resourceful, confi dent, undeniably dangerous, with a touch of arrogant male, emotionally distant but utterly charming when he chose to be . . . and, apparently, he had a thoughtful side she had yet to glimpse before this moment.
The gift was . . .
perfect
. Baubles didn’t impress her in particular. She had jewelry. This was different and pleased her very much.
And he’d bothered. She knew Luke well enough to recognize that the act itself was out of character for a man of his supreme detachment.
“Pretty,” Trevor said, touching the dangling stone with a fingertip, and lost interest. “May I please have another cake?”
He shouldn’t, of course. As it was, she doubted he would eat his dinner.
“Just one,” she said with a smile, because happiness should be shared and she was unreasonably, foolishly happy at the moment.
The vindictive Lord Fitch be damned.
Chapter Seventeen
“I
hope he knows what he’s doing.” Alex St. James sat on the terrace of the stately home a Duke of Berkeley had built six centuries ago, his gaze on the smooth expanse of the green park, a pond shimmering in the distance. A pair of swans floated on the surface, serene in the afternoon sunshine.
Michael contemplated the question. After a moment, he sighed and turned his face into the breeze, relishing the clean scent of grass and water after weeks in the city. “Luke wants to protect her, and I think the way he is going about it would be a good tactic, except for two very salient points.”
“And those are?” Alex’s eyes held concern. His dark hair was ruffled, his attire the epitome of country gentleman. In a white, full-sleeved shirt and dark breeches, his boots well-worn, he looked deceptively relaxed.
There were times when Michael wondered if any of them would truly recover from the war. Though he could speak only for himself, contentment was a capricious illusion and emotional involvement like a match to gun-powder. Even Alex, happily married, with fatherhood looming in the not so distant future, held his guarded edge.
“It’s clear to an observant eye—and believe me, all of society is agog—that he is spending time with the beau teous Lady Brewer, not just in public, but in her bed as well. I am sure he justifies it by saying it will dissuade Fitch from bothering the lady, but as far as I can tell he has lost sight of the initial problem.”
“And that is?”
“How the devil did the blackguard get the journal of a titled gentleman who has been dead nearly five years anyway? A friend of mine relieved Lord Fitch of the pilfered property and gave it back to Lady Brewer, but I have been asking myself ever since then . . . how did Fitch come by it in the first place? He’s an amoral ro dent, but hardly a canny thief.”
Alex leveled a look his way. “I know you well enough to realize you never speculate this way. Did you actu ally come out to the country to tell me Luke is squiring around a lady that might have finally thawed his fro zen stance on marriage? It is unusual, I admit, but then again, I’m not sure why you’d rush over to tell me. You tend to keep secrets, not reveal them.”
“Actually, I don’t believe his stance on marriage has been thawed at all. But I did come here to discuss that aspect of the matter.”
“You never interfere unless asked, or unless there is an alarm raised. Clarification would be welcome.”
Friends who knew you well could be advantageous allies or be annoyingly astute. Michael smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What if I told you Lady Brewer’s husband was related to someone the Crown suspects of collaboration with the French for most of the war?”
There was a pause. His friend gazed at him across the table with an open air of consternation. “I’d say,” Alex said finally, “you have, as usual, more trickery in your right pocket than the average conjuror. Who is it?”
“Lord Brewer’s cousin.”
“I . . . see. When did you learn this?”
“Two years ago. At the time we were all in Spain and it meant little more to me than a name on a piece of pa per. Now it takes on a singular significance.”
“Two years ago? Does Luke know?”
“I haven’t mentioned it yet because I have no idea if it means anything.” Michael abstractly watched a but terfly land on a small, decorative bush with tiny yellow flowers. “My theory is the journal must have been stolen in case there was some damning mention of Brewer’s cousin in the text. Maybe a visit that would put our sus pect in the wrong place and ruin an alibi, or show this person had access to certain information. Any number of scenarios could apply.”
“Do you suspect Lord Brewer of being party to trea sonous activity?”
He didn’t. Michael had sat and thought about it and come to the conclusion that Colin May had been an un witting accomplice, if he were one at all. He shook his head. “No. There’s nothing in the journal whatsoever that is suspicious. I read it carefully. I even wondered if there might be an embedded code, but as far as I could tell it was just ramblings of a man with an ordinary life, and a contented man, at that.”
“You
read
the nefarious journal?”
“Of course.”
Alex stared at him, laughed, and then shook his head. “I forget sometimes the very definition of what you do means you know things that perhaps you shouldn’t. Go on.”
“Take my word. I passed over the details of his amo rous encounters with his beautiful wife. I gather intelli gence, but I am not a voyeur.” Michael crossed his booted feet negligently at the ankle. He had a conscience; he just reserved its admonishments for the important moments in life. He had only invaded Lady Brewer’s intimate world in his quest to decipher questionable possibilities in her husband’s journal—and he wouldn’t have unless it was his duty to do so. He wasn’t Fitch. The journal had been interesting, but not on a salacious level.
He went on with a wry smile, “Besides, I’ve known how the sexual act is done for quite some time, and as we both know, participation is much more satisfying than reading about it. Lord Brewer’s ill advised, de tailed descriptions of how much he enjoyed his wife’s bountiful charms aside, I found nothing incriminating in the journal. Neither did whoever took it, for the culprit gave it away or sold it to Fitch or maybe even passed it to a third party we don’t know about yet. At some point the lascivious earl came into possession of it, but he isn’t the catalyst, or even truly involved, if I had to take a stand on the matter. The journal itself isn’t the issue. This is about motive.”
A frown furrowed Alex’s brow. “I suppose you are right. I see now your dilemma. Why was the journal sto len so recently?”
“We don’t know when precisely it was taken. From what Luke told me, Lady Brewer didn’t even look for it until some of Fitch’s comments were so detailed, she wondered where he could possibly be getting his infor mation. That was when she found the item in question was gone from a locked drawer. So you are right. It’s more a puzzle of why has it resurfaced so recently.”
“Why not just ask Fitch how the devil he got a hold of it?”
Michael shook his head. “Once a soldier, always a soldier, apparently. March straight on the most direct course. My approach is somewhat more oblique. Be sides, I am confident his lordship will simply deny he ever had it, and I dislike the idea of him making a con nection between the disappearance of the journal and me. Not that I mind him knowing I was responsible for the burglary of his home—he had stolen property and was using it for blackmail, and therefore forfeited his right to privacy—but there are a few loose ends for the Crown to clean up, even with Bonaparte disposed.” He paused, and then murmured, “There was espionage on both sides, naturally. In a war, there are always secrets being traded. England has its share of traitors we haven’t caught yet. It rankles to think of them walking free.”
“Is that your capacity for the king at the moment? Unearthing elusive, disloyal spies?”
The butterfly flitted off on a flutter of brilliant wings. Michael said nothing, and just lounged in his chair.
His friend gave a wry laugh. “I don’t know why I even asked. Dismiss the question. Now, then, what is it you want from me? God knows I owe you. Your special skills, as it were, helped me immensely in clearing up that little matter between my family and Amelia’s.”
“It was my pleasure.” And it
was
a pleasure to see Alex so deeply in love with his beautiful young wife. Michael’s role in helping to settle the dispute between their quarreling families had been a reward unto itself. “And it seems to me the debt at the time was mine. You did haul me out of that French prison.”
St. James waved that feat away with a casual lift of a long-fingered hand. “That was war. I was doing my duty.”
It
had
been war, but it had also been an example of the depth of their friendship. Michael knew full well if both Luke and Alex hadn’t insisted on a push for action to mobilize a rescue, he would be dead. Spies operating miles behind French lines were considered expendable when captured. Alex’s tenacity and Luke’s influence with Wellington were the reason he was still alive.
What was odd was that though he remembered the capture—there had been a double operative in their midst, and to this day he still didn’t know which of his comrades had betrayed him—he recalled very little of the torture, though the scars were a very real reminder. What he remembered most was the cold, gray day and the thin sunlight as Alex carried him outside, the icy wind penetrating through the shredded layers of his bloody shirt, and Alex staggering under the burden of his weight. Michael had lost consciousness, but when he woke in the tent with the surgeon hovering over him, he’d known that despite the pain, he was alive due to the perseverance of his friends.