Though it was said by the third day any man would reveal his secrets, by all accounts, Michael hadn’t fol lowed that rule. He’d had so many broken bones, how ever, the surgeons expected he’d be maimed for life, but one wouldn’t know it now, looking at the well dressed, urbane man so easily sitting his horse.
Needless to say, Lord Wellington had been extremely pleased his most valuable operative had been success fully retrieved at the time, but Luke had thought all of that intrigue behind them.
Not so, it seemed.
The tall figure that materialized from the misty afternoon rain turned out to be a young man in plain tradesman’s garb, his slight slouch an affectation, at a guess. He pulled at the brim of his hat in exaggerated acknowledgment. “Milord.”
“Don’t be so deliberately obsequious, Lawrence,” Michael said in greeting.
The new arrival straightened and gave a mocking bow. He had strong features, dark hair that curled beneath the hat, and an interesting jagged scar down half his face, starting above one brow. Lucky for him, the blade had somehow missed his eye. “I thought that’s what you grand toffs wanted from us lesser folk.”
Michael slid off his horse in a single lithe move. “Very amusing. Drop the cockney accent, if you will. What do you have?”
The businesslike tone of the conversation made Luke also dismount. Michael had invited him along for a purpose. The grass squished under his booted feet and his jacket grew more damp by the second, but this conversation was obviously worth a good soaking, at least to Michael and his colleague. The man called Lawrence eyed Luke, but then nodded briskly. “Lord Brewer apparently liquidated some funds before his death.”
“Do we know why?” Michael didn’t look surprised at all, seemingly oblivious to the sheen of moisture on his hair and the dripping trees.
“
We
can only guess. Nothing can be traced.”
“Everything can be traced.”
Luke followed the rapid exchange in some bemusement, not certain if he should be outraged on Madeline’s behalf that Lord Brewer’s financial records had somehow been investigated without her knowledge. “What does this have to with Madeline?”
“Her husband’s cousin is a person of interest to me at this time.”
“And you think Brewer gave the man money for il legal purposes?”
“Who said,” Michael murmured, “that Lord Brewer’s cousin was a man?”
Luke took a moment to digest this, moisture trickling down his neck. “You are investigating a woman?”
“Don’t look so surprised. Do you think betrayal and political intrigue are limited by gender? You, of all peo ple, know better.”
How true that is
, he thought grimly.
“No, of course not,” Luke muttered. “I’m just having trouble ascertaining how this all ties together.”
Lawrence lifted his puckered brow. “The lady might be the minnow that snags us the bigger fish. She’s slip pery enough on her own, though. Even the arrange ments to watch her house haven’t helped much. She must know we’re there.”
More mystified than ever, Luke looked at Michael.
“I asked Alex to arrange that his brother John very tactfully ask one of his former paramours, who happens to have the town house next to our quarry, if she would hire a footman on his recommendation with no ques tions asked. Disappointingly, so far our suspect is cir cumspect and observes every propriety. I didn’t really expect Alice Stewart to be so careless, but one never knows.”
Luke recognized the name of the dark haired lady who’d been seated in the box at the opera the other night. She’d made a hasty exit, upon the conclusion of the performance, but it could have just been a desire to avoid the resulting crush of carriages waiting to depart. “Alice Stewart? I’ve seen her recently, conversing with Madeline.”
“Not so surprising, since they are related by mar riage.” But Michael had subtly tensed, his gaze apprais ing. “Are they good friends? My informants say no.”
Of course Michael had
informants
. “I have no idea. Shall I ask?”
“If you can be discreet and trust Lady Brewer to be the same.”
He could, he realized. Absolutely. Madeline had the utmost discretion for a woman. Actually, males were just as bad when it came to gossip as women, so maybe he should qualify his trust and not attach it to her sex. “Yes.” He smiled wryly, “better than most men I know, probably.”
“Maybe you should introduce us,” Lawrence murmured. “Beautiful
and
discreet?”
Luke eyed the man’s shabby clothes, but readjusted his thinking. This was no minion. From his speech and demeanor, he was one of Michael’s colleagues, and if not on equal footing, very close. He said curtly, “Sorry. She’s unavailable.”
“Pity.” Lawrence looked at Michael, and his mouth twisted in the parody of a smile. “Since the topic has arisen, congratulations, my lord, on your betrothal. If you have new instructions, you know where to find me.”
What?
Even as Luke absorbed the word, Michael nodded once in dismissal and Lawrence disappeared into the misty rain.
It took a moment, but Luke said incredulously, “Betrothal?”
“What?” Michael glanced over from apparently studying the spot where his associate had decamped into the middle of the park, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. “Oh, yes. I suppose the announcement will be in the paper in a day or two.”
“You’re engaged?” Had someone informed him he’d just been named successor to the throne of England, Luke could not have been more surprised.
Michael? Engaged to be married
?
His friend’s face was shuttered, his eyes unreadable. “My parents wish for me to fulfill the contracted marriage that was supposed to be Harry’s responsibility. As we all know, when my brother died, his duties fell to me.”
Do you wish this?
Luke almost ... almost said it out loud, but managed to not ask the question he knew Michael would never want to answer. His friend didn’t speak of his older brother’s unexpected death often, and it was unlikely he’d start now. Plus, the three of them—Alex, Michael, and him—had not just years of friendship between them but had survived a hellish war by giving each other the ultimate courtesy of staying out of each other’s business.
Only, at this point, it seemed his business and Michael’s had collided.
Luke looped the reins in one hand, preparing to mount. It was raining harder and a bit wet for his tastes, and he had a feeling Michael might want to finish his ride alone. “I’ll talk to Madeline, if you wish.”
“Among other things, I imagine.” Michael grinned, but he didn’t quite pull off the lighthearted expression. “In the throes of passion, perhaps the beauteous Lady Brewer will reveal all her secrets.”
Or maybe Luke would reveal his. It was a sobering realization.
“If she has anything to say I feel is significant, I’ll send word.”
“Luke.” Michael hesitated. “Four years ago we knew there was an Englishwoman with ties to the aristocracy who was acting as a courier and spy for the French. Our intelligence here suspected Alice Stewart because she was seen more than once in the company of other known agents, but it was always in a social context, so it was difficult to find solid evidence, especially given her family connections. One of our men following her ended up dead. It looked to be an accident, but I don’t believe in accidents when one is trailing a spy who would be hanged if caught.”
Luke didn’t either. He ground out, “I thought the damned war was over.”
“Wars are never over.” It was just a flash, but Michael looked weary for a moment. “I think she’s dangerous. I saw nothing in the journal, but obviously she worried there might be. If she realizes we have someone watch ing her house, she could decide her cousin possibly confided in his wife. Trust me—when you are in a risky occupation, you do not take chances.”
“Madeline is in danger?”
“It’s possible.”
Luke set his heel to his horse and galloped off.
Luke was entirely wrong about Lord Fitch. He’d struck again.
Or at least she was fairly sure it was him.
Who else could it be?
Madeline gazed at the drawing and wondered how something used as a calculating weapon to disturb could be so hauntingly beautiful. The background was a vague, shadowy setting of moonlit draperies and walls. The only truly clear object, except the single figure in the fore ground, was an open window, the illusion of the curtains lifted by the breeze perfectly captured with simple el egance that was probably not simple at all to execute.
A woman. Still, half turned away, her graceful, nude silhouette executed with such skill it took the breath away. The slight lift of the subject’s face bore a curiously dignified and serene opposition to the fact that the out line of breast and hip and every other curve exposed by the created iridescent lighting was both shocking and—Madeline had to admit—ethereally striking in an artistic way. It was not a nude in the style of the old masters, but different. Erotic. Modern and evocative.
The woman in the drawing had long, pale hair.
The woman in the drawing was
her
.
“There is a lady here to see you, madam.” Hubert, solemn and staid, stood in the doorway. “She refuses to give her name or a card because she says”—he stopped, obviously pained—“the British aristocracy is stifled by archaic social customs that might indicate too much inbreeding.”
She stared at him for a moment, not at all sure how to respond, but his expression was so comical—maybe the burst of laughter was genuine mirth, maybe it was a reaction to nervous tension, but Madeline clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the potential outburst. Hubert had said
lady
. If the caller in question didn’t qualify, he would have said
person
. “I’m sorry. I suppose you should show her into the blue drawing room,” she murmured. “I’m curious, if nothing else.”
“Very well, madam.” His response was a little stiff.
Carefully, she turned the drawing upside down on Colin’s desk so no one else could see it. She reached up to straighten her hair, decided that any visitor who announced herself in such a way probably wouldn’t care about the state of her hostess’s coiffure, and rose to go greet her mysterious guest.
Two steps into the drawing room, she stopped, arrested, her gaze fastened on a tall woman with hair an interesting shade between chestnut and auburn, scrutinizing the portrait above the mantel, which happened to be of Colin’s great-grandfather, complete with a cavalier’s plume in his hand and a rakish smile on his face.
Hesitantly, because her visitor seemed familiar but she couldn’t come up with the name, Madeline said, “Good afternoon.”
“The face is good,” the woman said by way of greeting, still studying the picture, “but the body all wrong. Do you see how his neck is too elongated despite the ruff, and the way his hand sits on his sword is awkward?”
“I’ve never thought about it,” Madeline told her truthfully.
That made her guest turn around, and with a small shock, she realized though they’d never met, it was easy enough to know why the woman was so recognizable. The distinct features of high cheekbones and straight nose aside, those silver eyes were unmistakable. Maybe they were shaded by dark, feminine lashes, but those were Luke’s eyes, and whoever she was, they were very closely related. She wasn’t in the first bloom of youth, but still very beautiful.
“I’m Regina. And you are Madeline.”
Informal to say the least. Madeline cleared her throat and then managed to say evenly, “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Did you get my gift?” Elegant and interestingly attired in half boots and a watered silk gown in a shade of dark green that complemented her hair, the woman smiled.
“Gift?” Madeline had to admit to being off balance.
Without being asked, Regina chose a settee and sank down in a graceful, feline movement. “The sketch. I thought it quite good. You have lovely bones. Up close, I now think I did you justice even though I merely studied you from some distance.”
“Studied me?”
“Opera glasses have their uses.”
This was by far the most bizarre conversation ever had in this drawing room. Madeline, however, was so relieved to realize Fitch hadn’t sent the drawing, she smiled. “You drew it?”
“Of course. I’m an artist.”
“Yes, indeed, you are, if you sketched that picture. It’s . . . remarkable.” Madeline took an opposite chair and gazed at her unusual caller. “Thank you. I’m just not sure how you ...”
“Imagined you nude?” Regina laughed, her gray eyes full of humor. “I saw you with Luke at the opera. Clothes are just trappings.”
Luke.
Said so easily. If it wasn’t for the remarkable resemblance, Madeline would be jealous.
“You should have joined us.”
“I don’t think so.” Regina’s mouth twitched. “Your mother might have fainted. I am not received, usually. It’s more by choice than birth, but that is part of it, of course. Do you know who I am?”