The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series) (9 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

“D
EVIL TAKE IT
, Blackshire!” Sir Winston pounded on his desk and shoved at his blotter. “If I cannot trust The Blue Devil to keep a fifteen-year-old girl safe, how can I trust him with the safety of King and country?”

Nigel smiled insolently at his superior. “The same way you have always trusted me, sir.”

“Indeed—reluctantly!” The gray-haired man pounded the desk again.

As architect and master of the English Army’s covert operations, Sir Winston was one of the most respected—and feared—men in Europe. But he had formed an almost paternal bond with Nigel, who had begun his service to Sir Winston at a relatively tender age. The old man always professed to have no confidence in Nigel. It was his way of reminding him not to become overconfident, and whatever abuse he heaped on Nigel always came in proportion to the danger or importance of Nigel’s current mission.

“Lady Jane is in no danger, Sir. If I do uncover any evidence that Lady Marchman is involved in espionage, as you say she is, I shall pull my ward from the school immediately.”

According to Sir Winston, one of Nigel’s counterparts, another covert operative, had heard, completely by chance, Lady Agnes Marchman spewing some startling intelligence during a round of shopping: a string of English code words uttered as the lady recited for the draper a snippet of an odd French poem she’d learned “from an acquaintance.” Immediately, she’d been placed on watch, and then, at a milliner’s shop a week later, another poem, this time embedded with two known French military passwords and the place-names of important English objectives on the Peninsula.

Nigel didn’t see how it could have been anything but coincidence.

“Sir, I have come to know many spies in the course of my service, and I am certain Lady Marchman is not one of them.”

In fact, Nigel wondered why his particular talents were being wasted on a case such as this one. He was accustomed to a more . . . vigorous sort of mission, and spending his time idling about a girls’ school chafed his impatience.

“I am aware of your doubts, Blackshire. I know you think your assignment to this case is absurd. That is precisely why I summoned you here today.”

Nigel looked past Sir Winston through the third-story window. Beyond, the Thames sparkled in the slanting afternoon sun, gilding Westminster Bridge and the barges passing beneath the span. Nigel extracted his pocket watch from his close-fitting azure coat. It was almost time to take Jane to Hyde Park as he’d promised, but Sir Winston, his mouth pressed in a tight line, only continued to pace behind his ironically unimposing desk. Perhaps his rheumatism was plaguing him today, Nigel thought, for the old man knew as well as Nigel that the Marchman surveillance was not worth his current level of agitation. Nigel cleared his throat to jar Sir Winston from his agitated stupor. He hoped to end this interview quickly, for Jane would be vexed if he missed their drive altogether. A vexed Jane was a most unpleasant prospect—and Nigel was already in a foul mood as it was.

Why his late cousin Harold had chosen him to be Jane’s guardian was beyond Nigel’s understanding. Nigel was not exactly known for his good humor. Just the opposite, in fact. And he had little tolerance and even less patience. Unfortunately, Jane delighted in taxing both. Nigel was constantly threatening to lock her up in the dungeon of his Northumberland estate.

Half the time he was serious.

He waited patiently for his chief’s next insult to his cunning, his intuitiveness, but it never came. Instead, Sir Winston stopped pacing, sat down tiredly, and ran his fingers through his white hair.

“Nigel, I wish you would have got my approval before you involved your ward in this.”

At the chief’s uncharacteristic use of his first name, Nigel lifted his brow. “The next time, I will ask you before I proceed.”

“You are lying.” Sir Winston narrowed one eye. “I hope.”

Nigel inclined his head a fraction of an inch, but his easy smile vanished. Something in Sir Winston’s demeanor had changed. “This mission is more vital than you told me, isn’t it?” It was a statement, not a question.

“It is more serious than any of us knew,” Sir Winston said and carefully before sitting down and steepled his fingers. “The English Army is poised to strike in France. Of that matter I cannot say more, even to you,” he said almost apologetically.

Nigel nodded, and his superior went on.

“It has taken many months of preparation to bring us to this point. We have moved slowly, so as not to forewarn our enemy. Because of our careful preparations, England’s position is now very strong. Victory is nearly in our grasp. But a great part of our strength lies in Napoleon’s ignorance. We have deliberately given him the impression that England is a lamb. A lamb that has strayed into the lion’s den. The coming offensive should be the pivotal moment that brings us our realization of triumph. But if Bonaparte learns the truth before we strike, if we falter now...” He let his words trail off and rubbed his fingers beneath his hard-set lower jaw. His eyes grew steely and his voice took on a hard edge to match. “Intelligence has informed us that plans for the English offensive are en route to the enemy as we speak.”

“En route?”

“Intercepted under our noses. Right here in London. We believe the plans are in the hands of a courier. We believe he is still on English soil.”

“He’ll find it damned difficult to get to France.”

“Indeed—now that we discovered a weak link in our chain of security.”

“What weak link? What bastard—”

Sir Winston held up his hand, and his expression grew grim. “The weakness has been culled. That is not our concern.” Anger swept across his features. Anger and sorrow, but the old man mastered the emotions instantly and continued. “As I said, our intelligence believes the plans have not yet crossed the Channel. Every operative I have at my disposal is on alert and in place. If we do not intercept those plans before he reaches the Continent, we may well find ourselves fighting our battles on English soil before year’s end. We expect the courier to pass the plans to another person in his chain in the course of the next two months—probably soon. They must be stopped.”

Nigel raised an ironical eyebrow. “And you suspect dotty old Lady Marchman to be capable of engendering Bonaparte’s trust in such an important mission? Surely the French have other, more reliable fines of communication.”

Sir Winston closed his eyes. “You are unaware of certain facts. Do not dismiss Agnes Marchman so blithely. She is cunning and quick, and a known conduit.”

“A known conduit? Sir, I thought I was assigned to this case to investigate the possibility that Lady Marchman is a French sympathizer.”

“You were—at first. But,” he said, tossing a thick sheaf of papers onto Nigel’s lap, “Hargraves just finished his investigation of Lady Marchman this morning and sent this up to me.”

Nigel opened the file. It contained the standard background check, which he’d already seen. Nigel flipped through to the end. A few new sheets had been added. Financial records. Nigel studied them. Seconds stretched into minutes. “Payments,” he said at last. “Regular, large payments from an unknown person or persons.” He looked up.

Sir Winston nodded. “The payments were always made in English banknotes, usually from a different bank each time. The origin of the payments were obviously meant to remain a secret, but we were able to trace at least three to France . . . and check the date of the first.”

Nigel did. “Are you sure? This says the first payment was made—”

“Over forty years ago. Yes. It is correct.”

Nigel closed his eyes. He hated to imagine the damage those forty years of undetected activity had done. Cunning and quick? She’d be cunning and dead, if Nigel proved she was a spy. Old woman or no, he would see her swinging from the gallows. He was passionate about his beloved country, and he had no sympathy for those who would betray England.

“Blackshire, normally I do not care how the Blue Devil gets things done, as long as they are done,” Sir Winston said acerbically. “I have at times thought you take unnecessary risks, and, while it would be a great shame to lose you, England would survive. There are others who would take your place. You are expendable,” he said, “but Lady Jane is not.”

Nigel nodded. “No, sir, she is not. And had I known about this”—he rapped the papers in frustration against the edge of the desk—”I would have found another method of infiltration.” He tapped the ocean blue sapphire nestled in his cravat. “I will remove Jane to the country with a sudden case of the ague or some such. There is a young schoolmistress, and if I can get inside her—”

He was about to say “defenses,” but his chief interrupted him, holding up his hand.

“I don’t care to know whom you will be getting inside of, Blackshire,” he said humorlessly. “Just do what you must and get your ward out of there.” He stilled suddenly. “No. There is no time for that now. The plans could pass at any time. Today. Tonight. If they are passed, she shall be in much more danger than she is now. War on one’s home soil is not kind. I am afraid that Lady Jane must remain at the school until the mission’s conclusion.” He stood and resumed his pacing, sparing no glance in Nigel’s direction. “Shouldn’t you be taking tea with Lady Marchman rather than wasting time here in my office?”

The meeting was over. Nigel left. Today, Lady Marchman was leading her students on an educational expedition through the Egyptian exhibits at the British Museum, “the clutches of boredom,” as Jane had called it. He decided to liberate her before the end of the field trip and take her driving in Hyde Park early. If the plans were to pass through Lady Marchman’s fingers, she would not choose so public a place as the museum to move them forward along the chain, so Nigel and Jane would still go for their drive. Besides, there was no other place for Nigel to debrief his unwitting accomplice. He was counting on the detailed reports his loquacious ward was certain to give him.

He turned his phaeton toward St. James’s. A bonnet in a shop window had caught Jane’s fancy last week—a bonnet he’d refused to buy for her, pointing out that she owned thrice as many bonnets as any sensible girl needed. But Sir Winston’s words echoed in his mind. War was not kind. The old man hadn’t had to remind Nigel of that. Nigel had fought on the Continent when he was not much older than Jane. As he’d trooped across Spain, he’d seen firsthand what war had done. The bloody image of one young girl haunted him now.

Jane could never have too many bonnets.

“OH LOOK, NIGEL,” Lady Jane said, sitting next to him on the soft brown leather seat of his crane-neck phaeton an hour later. “There is Lord Bankham. He is an acquaintance of yours, is he not? Do let us stop. I desire an introduction.”

Nigel eyed his ward. She was harder to keep in check than an untried pair in a king’s parade. He put out his hand and imprisoned her fingers, just in time to stop her from wiggling them at that rakehell, Bankham.

“Nigel, you are hurting me.”

“If you stop trying to twist free, my grasp will not hurt.”

“Oh, you beast! Do not let this opportunity pass. I am wearing Lord Bankham’s favorite color. I promise to be cordial.”

Nigel shot a frown down at his ward. “That, my dear, is what I am worried about.” Jane was becomingly dressed in a bottle-green gown. “And how do you know Bankham’s favorite color?”

Jane glared right back at him, but Nigel could see a ghost of a smile floating in her deep brown eyes. Her hand stilled in his, and he allowed her to withdraw her white-gloved, slender fingers.

“I think I shall lock you in my dungeon after all.”

“Either that, or introduce me to Bankham.” She dimpled and looked wistfully over her shoulder at Bankham’s smart high-perch phaeton as it rolled past on an adjacent pathway some twenty yards to their left. “Why do you not drive a high-perch? It is more stylish. It is the Prince Regent’s favorite, you know.”

“A flash high-perch phaeton such as Bankham’s is lighter and more prone to tipping than this carriage, and it is therefore better—”

“—for keeping me safe,” Jane finished for him in a singsong voice. “I’d rather be fashionable than safe. And, speaking of fashionable, Nigel, it would serve you well to pay more attention in that regard. The color blue certainly looks well on you, but you wear it every day.” She pulled at the fine camlet cloth of his coat. “Too much of a good thing. People might think you eccentric.”

Nigel knew what people thought, and he bloody well did not care. Wearing the color blue had nothing to do with fashion. Neither did it have anything to do with his code name, Blue Devil. In fact, he’d got his code name because he wore blue, and not the other way around. He always wore something blue. He had never explained his reasons to anyone, and he never would, so he pretended to ignore Jane’s remark about his hallmark color.

“My crane-neck phaeton will turn more tightly than a high-perch will.”

“To better avoid handsome young bachelors and deprive me of any hope of wedded bliss, I suppose.” Jane ran her slippered toe over the polished silver moldings which edged the low, curving doors. “And something else I do not know is why we never drive that path.” She nudged Nigel. “That is the one Bankham prefers.”

“Precisely.”

“Ah. This ride has been very educational, Nigel. Much more so than that musty old mausoleum.”

“Museum,” Nigel corrected.

“Same difference!”

Nigel smiled. He had discovered many things to admire in Jane since his cousin died and left her in Nigel’s care. She was a beautiful, spirited, intelligent girl, and she was going to make someone a wonderful wife. She was also going to lead whomever she lured into the parson’s mousetrap a merry chase for the rest of his days. He rather thought she’d even be able to keep that rakehell, Bankham, in line. If truth be told, it was Bankham who needed protection from Jane and not the other way around.

“Why are you smiling?” Jane demanded.

“Must I have a reason to smile at you?”

“Yes,” she countered, suspicion coloring the tenor of her words.

“So . . .” He ignored her. “How do you find the accommodations at Lady Marchman’s?”

“They are adequate. Quite comfortable, actually, if a bit . . . small.”

“Are you given enough food?” Nigel asked, remembering his days at Eton, where, as at every other exclusive boys’ boarding school in England, the food was so unappealing that the meager portions rarely caused a complaint from the boys. “If you find yourself hungry, send a message right away to—”

“Oh, no,” Jane said. “The food is abundant and delicious. Cook is French and as plump as they come. She cannot resist her own creations.”

Cook was French? Nigel filed the information away.

“Except for today’s tour of the mausoleum, I am actually enjoying the school very much—though I must still question your judgment at placing me there—especially during the Season.”

“I told you: I am often away from home while in London, and it is not appropriate for a young lady to stay in a house alone.”