“Maybe Miss Prendregast will fill the bill.”
“No.”
“No?” A lock of tawny hair dropped over Duncan’s brow as he scrutinized his friend. “It’s been three years since Mary’s passed on.”
“Since Mary was killed,” William corrected.
As gently as he could, Duncan said, “Aye, but it wasn’t your fault.”
Of course it was William’s fault. “A wife’s safety is her husband’s responsibility.”
“We were off on a mission for the regiment. How could you know Mary would answer a call for help and step into a Russian ambush set for us?”
Guilt haunted William. “I should have sent her home. I should have sent them all home. We knew of the danger, so close to the mountains.”
Duncan stood and put his hand on William’s shoulder. “I know you loved Mary and your heart’s broken, but—”
William shrugged him off, strode to the window, and looked out at the park. That was the problem. He had loved Mary, but . . . she’d proven something he’d suspected for years. No woman was as interesting as a military campaign. No woman was as exhilarating as a ride across the moors. No woman could possibly capture his heart, for he was a cold man, given to hot passions, but never to love.
That was part of the reason why he was so determined to catch the traitors responsible for Mary’s death. She had loved him so much, and he had never loved her back with all the fervor she deserved.
It was remorse that drove him, but he could hardly tell Duncan that, or any of the romantics who imagined him haunted by his lost love. “We will have justice.”
“We’re achieving justice.” Duncan subsided back into his chair. “But you should find a woman. A man’s got needs.”
“You would know.” William faced Duncan. He didn’t envy Duncan’s freewheeling reputation in the district. “You’re fulfilling yours often enough.”
“And I tell you that goes a long way to soothe a broken heart.” Certainly Duncan had had success up the length and breadth of India among the officers’ daughters, until he’d been fool enough to fall for Lord Barret-Derwin’s girl. His lordship had not been amused to have a Scottish ne’er-do-well courting his eldest, and the girl had been returned to England in a hurry. Duncan had resigned, but he’d arrived in London only to hear of his beloved’s marriage to the earl of Colyer. He had reacted with rage and recklessness—a boon for William, who needed a compatriot for his mission.
“Miss Prendregast brought me a letter.” William dug Lady Bucknell’s letter out of his jacket and tossed it at Duncan. “Ostensibly a letter of recommendation.”
Duncan picked it up. “Ostensibly?”
“Read it.”
Duncan scanned the first paragraph. “ ‘Miss Prendregast is well-trained, intelligent, resourceful . . . ‘ That’s wonderful, Will, but—”
William saw when Duncan reached the pertinent information.
Duncan stiffened. Without looking up, he groped for the desk and set down his glass. “Lady Bucknell sent you this? Lady Bucknell works for the Home Office? For Throckmorton? Lady Bucknell is a spy for England?”
“I believe Lady Bucknell serves Throckmorton when she can. To call her a spy might be an exaggeration.”
Duncan read quickly. “ ‘Throckmorton says . . . the Lake District is the center because . . . ‘ “ He dropped his hands, with the letter, into his lap. “Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh? That harmless old couple have been directing a spy network that covers England and most of the world? Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh?”
“I’ve never known Throckmorton to make a mistake. He certainly would never make a mistake about anything as important as this.”
“I’m not really questioning his information, but . . .” Duncan shook his head. “How?”
William had had a few more minutes to consider the matter. “They’re welcome in every noble home in England. No one suspects them of anything more lethal than gossip. They could be caught with secret papers in their hands and be excused without misgiving.”
“I’m reeling.”
“This explains everything. The constant stream of strangers in the district—foreigners, women traveling alone.”
“Yes, and the Featherstonebaugh estate stretches clear to the coast. There’s a harbor there. They’ve got an escape route.” Duncan read the letter again. “Throckmorton is herding Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh toward us. He wants us to secure as much information from them as possible before he moves in to arrest them. How are we going to do that?”
“I have a plan.” But it was only his first, spur-of-the-moment plan. Surely he could do better.
Duncan rubbed his hands in glee. “Will we torture them? Break into their manor? Ride them down like the murderous dogs they are?”
“No.” William grimaced. “I’m giving a party.”
Taken aback, Duncan repeated, “A party?”
“A house party. Think, man! It’s what Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh do. They visit the best homes in England. Lord Featherstonebaugh tries to kiss the debutantes. Lady Featherstonebaugh gossips. And apparently, all the while, they’re eavesdropping. They’re stealing information they can sell to the Russians. We would lure them here with promises of information, then catch them as they try to send it off.”
“A house party. It is brilliant.” Duncan sighed. “I suppose. But you don’t give parties. Whatever made you think of this?”
“The governess.”
“Little Miss Prendregast?”
“She says I’m scion of one of the premiere families in the district, and I’m neglecting my daughters’ social education.”
“I’ve been saying that for years. Why do you listen to her and not to me?”
“Because I’m doing it to catch Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh in the act of spying.”
“Oh. That’s right.” Duncan raised his glass to William.
William knew what he thought. Duncan thought that William would take his first steps to re-enter society, a female of unimaginable virtue would catch his interest, and he would marry again. That was what Duncan hoped, for Duncan disapproved of William’s lack of joie de vivre.
Duncan lolled in his chair. “But how . . . pardon me, my friend, but you have no experience in planning a party, nor has your staff, and Throckmorton hopes to have Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh here by the first of September. How will you get ready in time?”
“I’ll write the countess of Marchant and ask her to help me.” William waited.
Duncan froze, then produced a crooked grin. “Dreadful Lady Marchant. Must we?”
William had never understood Duncan’s antipathy, nor did he have much patience with it. “Teresa was a friend of Mary’s. Lord Marchant was a friend of mine. And Teresa has repeatedly offered her assistance in anything I desire.”
Duncan’s restraint failed. “I’ll wager she has. B’God, William, anyone but her! Don’t you know what she hopes?”
“No.” Of course he did. “What?”
“That you’ll fall desperately in love with her and she’ll have snared another rich, handsome husband who’ll make her the envy of all the ton.”
“You think I’m handsome?”
“I think you’re—” Duncan leaped up and smacked William on the shoulder. “I think you’re a jackass.”
William cackled. “I’m trying to think of another plan. Anything would be better than . . .”
Duncan grinned. “Than her? Aye, so I would suppose.”
“I was going to say a party.” William leaned an arm against the mantel and studied Duncan. “You might as well know. I believe I’ll let Teresa snare me.”
Duncan looked stunned. “No! Why?”
“I need a wife.” William despised men who brooded over lost loves and moaned over opportunities lost. But the passing of Mary had scarred his children. The realization that he had failed her had marked him. So he coped in the best way he knew—with military discipline and exacting standards.
Somehow, in the past year, he’d seen discipline vanish and standards slip. Half the time he didn’t know what was happening in his own house. The girls were growing up, and he didn’t know what to do, how to handle them. “Although Miss Prendregast looks promising, the governesses have been nothing but a trial.”
Duncan leered. “She looks very promising.”
“But no governess can take the place of a mother in the girls’ lives. They need stability, so I’ll take a wife.” He walked to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper. “I made a list of my requirements.”
“A list of your requirements?” Duncan fought a grin. “What would they be?”
“Most are obvious. My wife must be of my social class. She must have a pristine reputation. She should be accomplished in the ways that will advance my family—she should organize parties and help my daughters prepare for their debut.”
“Sensible.”
“She should also be pleasant to look upon, with a well-modulated voice.”
“Of course. For your sake.”
“Yes.” William knew Duncan would comprehend that requirement. “Teresa fills the demands of the list.”
“Plus, you wouldn’t have to put forth the effort to court her. She’s coming to you.”
“Precisely.”
Deadpan, Duncan said, “You silly romantic. You’ll sweep a woman off her feet using love words like that.”
William didn’t understand why, but restlessness seized him. He paced to the window and looked out into the park. “That’s the point. A man doesn’t choose his wife based on romance. He chooses his wife based on her background, on her suitability, on her position in society.”
“The countess is more than just pleasant to look upon. She’s very pretty.” Duncan couldn’t have sounded more bored.
“Yes, I believe she is, but that’s not important.” Nor did William particularly care one way or another about her dark and dramatic good looks or her petite figure. “What’s important is that she’s a model of integrity.”
“Perhaps you’re not as informed about the countess as you suppose.”
Duncan’s muttered comment surprised William. “If you know something I should know—”
“No! No, I just . . .” Duncan waved a negligent hand. “It’s nothing.”
Duncan’s attitude surprised William. “I thought you’d be happy I was considering marriage.”
Duncan slapped his palm on the desk. “That isn’t marriage, it’s a bloodless union. There are times I’m glad I’m not wealthy. I’ll marry for romance, and list be damned.”
Sometimes Duncan alarmed William with his reckless disregard for good sense. “That’s not a wise way to approach a matter of such importance.”
“So it’s not.” With a hasty change of subject, Duncan asked, “You’ll keep me informed about the plans?”
“You’ll be an integral part of any move I make.”
Cocking a thoughtful eyebrow, Duncan asked, “Is your governess one of Throckmorton’s people?”
“No.” Sometimes Duncan annoyed William. “She’s my governess.”
“Did she read this letter?”
“It was sealed.”
“That’s not a deterrent to the skillful.”
Sometimes Duncan really annoyed William. “She didn’t read the letter. Lady Bucknell vouched for her.”
“All right! I was being cautious. You’re cautious.” Duncan took a drink. “And how are you going to sleep when you know there’s a woman who looks like that down the hall?”
Sometimes Duncan deserved to be kicked into next week. William took care not to reveal his annoyance, for if he allowed Duncan one hint of his unwilling interest in Miss Prendregast, Duncan would harass him unmercifully. “There have been more handsome governesses.” Certainly Miss Prendregast seemed to have no awe of him, nor any interest, either, and that was not in the usual run of things.
But good. It was good that she didn’t care for him.
Miss Prendregast guaranteed she would remain here through the year, and he believed her. Yet he wondered—would he survive the torment of having her in the house? She had an air about her . . . defiance, as if she hid a secret. Determination, as if she could deal with every situation. A harshness, as if she’d seen the worst of men and expected no better.
And undermining all that, a sweet astonishment, as if she recognized the attraction she held for him and didn’t know how to handle it. Oh, yes. He’d wanted to stand as they conversed, to intimidate her with his height. Instead he’d had to sit to disguise a rather basic, obvious, primitive reaction to an attractive female.
Duncan watched William as if William had blurted out his thoughts rather than carefully concealing them. “Your other governesses were twittering idiots. I listened at the window. I heard this one giving you hell. She’s going to be tough to resist.”
“I don’t like women who don’t know their place.”
Duncan grinned again, but this time with bitter perception. “Tell yourself that. Keep telling yourself that.”
Chapter Six
BLYTHE MANOR, THE THROCKMORTON HOME
SUFFOLK, ENGLAND
THE SAME DAY
“My gracious, young man, you certainly know how to show an old woman a lively dance.” Valda, the countess of Featherstonebaugh, leaned against the marble column in the Throckmortons’ grand ballroom and fanned herself with her peacock feather fan. “I’ll wager you’re popular with the ladies.”
The ridiculous Lord Heath smirked and handed the countess her cane. “Thank you, ma’am, I like to think I please them in my own way. Could I get you a refreshing ice or a lemonade? After such strenuous exercise, a lady of your advanced age must be exhausted.”
She closed her fan and tapped it on his arm. “You charmer! If you would take one more moment out of your precious time to fetch me a lemonade, I’d be grateful.”
“Yes, ma’am. Glad to, ma’am.” He swept her a bow and walked off, a tall, dark, and almost handsome man.
Except for that horrible rash of disgusting pimples that so marred his features. Valda waited until he was out of sight, then she walked off, smiling and nodding as she moved like a she-wolf through the pack of bleating sheep. One of the young ewes wore a feather in her upswept hair and a simper on her dimpled face. Another wore a ball gown of shimmering gold silk which made her complexion sallow. Of course, the male sheep all dressed alike: dark coats, plaid trousers, shiny black leather shoes and snowy white shirts.
In her purple velvet turban with its diamond clip and her purple velvet gown with a pink silk overjacket that buttoned to the waist, Valda looked better than all of them.
She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the many mirrors which ringed the ballroom. Or rather—she would, if she weren’t so old.
In her face and form, she saw the remnants of the beauty that had caught an earl. Tall, charming, elegant—she was still all those.
But old. So old. She hated this business of aging. She fought it, but she was losing, and to a woman of her breeding and intelligence, that was unthinkable. She had spent her whole life overcoming every challenge life offered. She had been genteel and poor. She had married noble and rich. Her husband had lost his money and she’d been exiled on his family’s damned primitive Lake District estate . . . ah, getting out of Maitland Manor had been her greatest success. She had discovered a way to make more money than anyone could imagine, and at the same time she got to outwit the dogs that protected these finely dressed, vapid sheep who danced, laughed, and flirted, all unsuspecting while a she-wolf slunk undetected through their midst.
Valda liked being smarter than everyone else. But she hated the liver spots on her cheeks, the stoop in her back, the cane she had to carry. Most of all, she hated the way the pimple-faced young men condescended to dance with her. Thirty years ago they had begged for the honor. Now they did their duty by her—and dancing made her hip ache.
Featherstonebaugh, the old fool, could still gavotte. She
stopped behind a tall vase filled with magnificent flowers and watched Rupert prance about the floor with young Miss Kaye. He was spry as ever, chasing after girls who weren’t half as pretty as Valda had been. If he could, he would have abandoned her completely, except she tied the purse strings around her arthritic fingers. And lately . . . lately, she thought she made him a little nervous. Perhaps, after all these years, he had begun to realize he had married a she-wolf who could turn on him and rip his throat out.
She rather enjoyed having him afraid of her, but it wouldn’t do—more’s the shame. For if he betrayed his wariness of her, people might start wondering if they really knew her. They would look deeper, and that would be unfortunate. After all, she knew everyone in English society, and they thought they knew her.
No, if she came under suspicion, there would be trouble. In her business, trouble was followed by more trouble, and usually death provided by a bullet between the eyes. She’d ordered that solution often enough herself. So she would have to be nicer to Rupert and stop treasuring thoughts of killing him. A widow didn’t get invited to parties. A widow was expected to mourn, and if Valda couldn’t go to parties, she couldn’t collect the information these nicely dressed sheep provided so freely.
“Lady Featherstonebaugh.”
She jumped at the sound of young Throckmorton’s voice. She hadn’t heard him walk up behind her. She was getting a little deaf—also a liability in her business.
He stepped before her and bowed.
Some women thought him handsome. Valda didn’t see it. He was too tall, too broad, too serious, and his stern gaze could poke holes in a woman’s composure if she wasn’t careful. “Garrick, lad, it’s good to see you. Got any of that important business information about where I should invest my spare coinage?” May I sit in your office, and send you off to get me a drink while I rummage through your desk drawers?
“Not tonight.” He held out his hand, and that gardener’s daughter he’d been dunce enough to marry stepped up and took it. “Celeste and I wanted to thank you for gracing our first party with your presence.”
Valda smiled at them in benign, if false, delight. “My dears, we wouldn’t miss your little celebration.” With hidden maliciousness, she added, “Why, Rupert and I practically united you two lovebirds!”