A Heartless Design (8 page)

Sebastien bit his tongue. The facade he had to keep up in front of his family was by far the worst part of his role for the Zodiac. Of course they knew nothing of his work as an agent, and his best screen to fool everyone was to pretend that he hadn’t changed much from his callow youth—that he remained an inveterate drinker and gambler. It worked, but it wasn’t without consequences.

“I was being responsible,” he said, now trying to think of a way to soothe her. He took a sip of coffee from the next cup to give him a moment to come up with something.

“Oh, indeed. How exactly?”

Inspiration struck. “I was auditioning young ladies for the part of countess.”

Her expression softened a bit. “And did you find any to your liking this time?”

“One,” he said honestly, and smiled, remembering the kiss.

“Well, well. Who is she?” His mother looked delighted now.

“Sadly, I didn’t get her name.”

“What? You were not introduced? How do you know that she would be suitable?”

He remembered her figure as being perfectly suitable, not that he could tell his mother that. “The sight of her across the room was enough to get my interest. Fate dictated that I wasn’t to get her name last night. But she intrigued me, Mother. Trust me…I’m going to find out more about her.” Such as her name, where she lived, and if she was a spy.

Unaware of the particular direction of his interest, she said, “Well, I suppose that’s the best I can hope for. You know, Sebastien, that the continuation of the line meant so much to your father. Knowing that you were settled would be a great comfort to me in my final days.”

“Final days? You’re at the peak of health!”

“We thought the same of your father, remember. And his heart gave out with no warning. And Fate took your brother too. You must promise me that you will pursue a proper marriage, dear.”

“Don’t rush me, Mother. I’m still getting used to the title. It weighs more than you’d expect.”

“You miss George. So do I.” She bent her head. Sebastien knew she was fighting off tears.

In a proper world, his older brother George would have been the one to carry on the glory of the Thorne line. And in fact, he had, for too brief a time. He had been the one with the training and the attitude to be a proper heir.

But only a short while after he became earl, he didn’t come back from a ride. The household was sent out to look for him; they found him on a disused track, his back broken and his horse gone. He died within days.

So Sebastien, once the carefree younger son, found himself elevated to the lesser title of viscount with the death of his father, and then, all too soon, to earl after George’s passing.

He looked at the woman across from him, her face fragile in the morning light. “I know I disappointed you.”

“No, Sebastien. Don’t ever think that. You worried me, you enraged me. But you never disappointed me. You were a wild young man, and I should have begged your father to take you in hand long before events took over. The army did seem to help you. I know you would have liked to stay. But you are needed here. I’m only sorry it took the death of your brother to bring you back home.”

He reached over and took her hand. “At least I am back home.” Giving his mother a reassuring smile, he added, “And I’ll try to live up to your expectations.”

After placating his mother, Sebastien went to his office to dispatch some legitimate business for a few hours. The running of the family estate was not really burdensome, since the family’s retainers were all old hands who were thoroughly competent. But Sebastien knew familiarity was key if he was ever to truly step into the role his brother left. He also wanted to make sure that the men running the estates didn’t get too enthusiastic. The finances of the Thorne family had been troubled until very recently. His father’s gambling habit had not been as rampant as his second son’s, but he had debts too.

In the short time that George had been at the head of the family, he wisely spent money on restoring the Cheshire estate, Thorne Hall. He had planned to make it his permanent home after finding a wife. Though necessary, renovations had not been cheap. Unfortunately, George’s death meant that the estate was still underused. His mother and little sister Adele would go there after the Season ended.

The accounts were newly fattened from a few seasons of good management, but Sebastien planned to spend the money slowly. The last thing he needed was to alert society that the Thorne fortunes were restored. Oddly enough, he wondered if the gold-gowned temptress would care about his income.

The larger plan was for Sebastien to marry and take his wife back to Thorne Hall so they could raise the next generation. But he had another commitment, to the Zodiac…which his family knew nothing of. He considered the safety of the nation to be far more important than his own marriage, at least while the war continued. But he couldn’t tell his family that without compromising himself and his fellow agents.

After dispatching with family business, he turned his mind to the work of the mission. Energized now, Thorne started to make notes, detailing all he knew so far and all the items yet to be discovered. He wrote his notes in a sort of coded shorthand, so no secrets could be revealed by accident.

He knew the work would be difficult, but he already had a short list of things to find out as soon as possible. The first was to learn who lived in the house Bailey broke into. He had to know if the owner was to be trusted or not. He also had to find the man who hired Bailey, this Jerrod Helm. Fortunately, Bailey had told him where Helm would be found. Thorne knew Helm was only a middleman. But he would lead to the next level, where things might get interesting. The third thing he had to find out, and quickly, was what precisely the Andraste plans were for. But learning either of the first two items would help him with the last.

The first was easy. A few inquiries among the various social directories his mother kept, and Thorne learned who the inhabitants of 42 Quince were: the head of the house, a Miss Cordelia Bering, daughter of the late Alfred Bering, and also a Mrs Walter Wharton.

Sebastien laughed out loud when he realized that he had a family connection to the elderly Mrs Wharton. He had met her when he was much younger. He thought it wouldn’t be too difficult to beg a renewal of acquaintance. Searching his memory, he summoned an image of a very kind woman. Leona Wharton had taken a more than cursory interest in the young Thorne boys. Sebastien realized now that it was probably because she had no children of her own. He hoped keenly that she was not involved in the problem of the papers. It seemed unlikely, considering who and what she was.

Of course, the ladies who lived there might not even know what was in the house. Perhaps they were innocent, and didn’t realize what they had lost. Yes, that possibility made far more sense. Perhaps the late Mr Bering had left something behind, and that’s what the thieves were after. Thorne decided this only made his job more important. He had to get those papers before anyone else did…and before either woman could do something foolish.

That same afternoon, Cordelia was
hard at work in her study. The windows had been opened to allow the fresh air in, and the result was a constant, soft rustling of papers on the large desk.

Cordelia still worried about the theft, but she tried to dismiss the issue until she could take some action. Less easy to banish was the memory of the man in the gardens at Gough’s party. The rationality of daytime made Cordelia doubt what she thought she’d seen through her window. She was probably imagining that the same gentleman had somehow appeared on her lawn later. It was an absurd notion. She had been so entranced by his kiss that she kept seeing him, and simply mistook a dream for reality.

The memory was seductive enough to make her lose concentration for a while. She stared outside at nothing in particular while she savored the memory of his mouth on hers, and the way his fingers teased her skin so lightly…

She flushed, suddenly realizing that her muscles had grown warm and languid, and that she was unconsciously wetting her lips. What was wrong with her? She must forget that it happened.

There were other problems at hand, ones that she was actually able to solve. Shuffling through a small stack of recent correspondence, she selected one letter, her eyes scanning the enclosure with a thoroughly professional air.

“Cannot adjust capacity of intake in new design,” she murmured aloud. “May have omitted element in early version. Please review enclosed sketch. Can you offer any advice, Mr Lear?”

She smiled to herself. “Yes, I think I can, sir.” She reviewed the sketch for a few moments, and the issue became obvious. She began to draw an altered plan that would work properly. Her worries of the past few days fell away as she worked.

Cordelia knew that, as a woman, she would never be taken seriously as an engineer. Her father was respected because he was intelligent; but also because, as a man, he could meet with other colleagues, prove his worth, and earn their trust. She could not. While he was alive, she did not mind using her father’s name on her own work. She owed him everything, after all, and they privately laughed at their secret: that many of Alfred Bering’s later ideas were not his at all, but those of his daughter.

But after her father’s death, she could no longer hide behind his name. However, that didn’t prevent her from inventing someone
else
to hide behind. Thus, Mr Lear was born. Cordelia dreamed up the eccentric professor and gave him a personality. He was precise and neat, and lived in London after being exiled from his native village following a private disagreement, an
affaire du coeur
that threatened to end in a duel. (Cordelia had been considerably more romantic when she was younger.) Shy in the big city, Lear never went out. He hired a secretary to record his works. His mail went to an address in a quiet neighborhood of London, and eventually ended up at the residence of his sole confidante, the now late Alfred Bering.  

Cordelia had successfully maintained this facade for several years. The work that “Lear” did provided much of Cordelia’s income. “Lear” only corresponded via letter, and he regretfully declined all invitations to conferences and meetings on the basis of his extreme shyness and frequent poor health. Cordelia saw no reason why she couldn’t keep it up indefinitely. It was annoying, but it worked.

A knock at the door broke Cordelia’s concentration. Ivy said, “Mr Jay is here, my lady. Shall I show him in?”

Cordelia blinked. “What time is it?”

“Just after three.”

Visiting hours already? Cordelia hadn’t realized how much time had passed. She put the pen down on the desk. “Well, yes, please show him in.”

Ivy nodded, then paused. “I should ask Mrs Wharton to chaperone, should I not?”

Cordelia sighed. Of course. Despite her age, she was still expected to act like a flighty girl in her coming-out Season. “She is probably in the gardens. Tell her she need not rush inside. After all, Mr Jay is practically family.”

In fact, William Jay was the only person in the world besides Cordelia and her servants who knew that Lear was a complete fabrication. Cordelia had taken him into her confidence before she invented Lear. Jay had been an occasional student of her father’s, and Cordelia knew she could trust him.

The other reason she knew she could trust Jay was simple. He was the younger brother of her beloved Vincent, to whom she had been engaged for such a short time. When he died in battle, Cordelia and William had grieved together. They became friends.

He also served a vital purpose, since he could deliver “Lear’s” work to various conferences and institutions. More importantly, he was a man who could claim that he had met Lear, thus providing a necessary bolster for the otherwise invisible man.

Moments later, Ivy returned with a young man at her heels. William Jay was only twenty-three, and his lanky frame and unselfconscious smile made him appear even more youthful. His clothing was perfectly correct for an English gentleman, a brown broadcloth coat worn over a spotless white shirt and buff pantaloons that were tailored precisely to eliminate the merest possibility of a wrinkle. He kept his light brown hair as short as possible, having found that any longer style just vexed him. He was, above all, a practical young man.

“Miss Bering, how are you this afternoon?” he asked as he entered. He carried a thin leather case with him. At Cordelia’s invitation, he sat in a chair opposite her.

“I am well enough,” she said, smiling at him. “And you?”

“Extremely busy. But I had to visit for a moment to pass on my best wishes to you, and my congratulations to Mr Lear. Sadly, I expect that he is enjoying his afternoon nap right now.” The last part came out with a sly smile and twinkle in his blue eyes.

“The professor has been ill again,” Cordelia replied, keeping a straight face. “But I shall be pleased to pass along any message to him for you.”

“You may tell him that the design created for the Scottish firm worked perfectly.”

“It’s just a matter of seeing what’s there,” she said.

“If it were that simple, the firm would not have paid for outside help. It’s just as well Lear doesn’t care to be social. I suspect that smaller minds probably resent the fact that his work illuminates their own failings.”

“How cynical, Mr Jay. I’m sure they know such aid is never meant to show off or belittle their own efforts.”

Jay shook his head. “You think far too highly of people, Miss Bering. You’d be appalled if you knew what men say about each other.”

“But tell me, what have you been working on?” she asked.

Excited to share, Jay started to explain his latest project, and Cordelia felt the last of her worries about the previous evening slide away. She was in her element, working with a friend who understood her. Everything would sort itself out.

* * * *

Meanwhile, Sebastien continued to work on his mission. Fortunately, this next foray did not require him to dress in carefully fatigued clothes and pretend to be someone else. No, this time he strove to look exactly like what he was, a peer of the realm with every expectation that the world functioned to serve him. He called for his carriage, which was brought round immediately. “42 Quince Street,” he directed. It was time to meet the ladies who called that place home.