A Wicked Gentleman (21 page)

“Compromised? How so?” The minister frowned, his beetle brows meeting above the bridge of his nose. “This is the most comprehensive description of the plans for a meeting between Alexander and Bonaparte ever to fall into our hands. How should it be compromised?”

Harry sighed a little. “As you say, sir, the most comprehensive description ever to fall into our hands. A gift horse you might say?” He raised an eyebrow. “I think we should consider the possibility of a
Trojan
horse.”

There was a short silence. “You're saying this may be misinformation, Harry?” The prime minister sounded incredulous and not for the first time Harry wished he still worked for the formidable brain of William Pitt. But Pitt had died the previous year. The duke of Portland had succeeded him, and in Harry's opinion very much to the detriment of the country.

“I'm almost certain of it, sir,” he said calmly, concealing his irritation.

“But how could that be?” His Grace continued to sound incredulous. “It was brought to us by one of our most credible agents.”

“Even credible agents can be fooled, sir.” Harry picked up the documents and looked around the table. “Gentlemen, I cracked this code in approximately thirty minutes. Now I'm willing to concede that I am rather good at my job, but for a document of this importance to be encrypted in a code I can crack in half an hour defies belief. I suggest that they wanted us to crack it, and crack it quickly. And why would they want that?”

He smiled amiably around the table and let them answer the question themselves.

“To mislead us?” the prime minister said.

“Precisely, sir.” Harry gave him the nod of a schoolmaster congratulating an apt pupil. He glanced again at the clock. It was four in the afternoon, and he hadn't been home in two days. An urgent summons to the War Office to deal with a courier's delivery of encrypted documents had kept him chained to his desk. They had not all been as simple to break as the one presently under discussion.

Now he had better things to do with his time.

“If that's so, what do you suggest we do, Bonham?” one of the other men asked.

“Provide them with some misinformation of our own,” Harry said, as if the answer was obvious, as to him it was. “They're playing games, so we play them too. I'll craft an encoded document describing how we're going to respond to this information.” He tapped the papers in front of him.

“I'll ensure that they can break my code relatively quickly, not quite as fast as I did theirs, however.” His mouth twisted in an ironic grin. “I obviously have more respect for their encrypters than they have for ours.” He flicked disdainfully at the papers. “This was an insult.”

“And they'll believe we took this information at face value?” His Grace was still uncertain.

“Some of them will, sir,” Harry said. “But there'll be someone somewhere who'll see the joke. There always is. At best it'll tie them up for a while, at worst they'll be hopping mad that we saw through them.”

“But what if this information
is
correct?” The prime minister peered at him through his lorgnette. “I don't see how we can afford to take the risk that it isn't.”

“That, sir, is a matter for the War Office,” Harry said, beginning to put his papers together. “If you think it wise to make contingency plans, then it's not my business to stop you. But I do think it would be wise in addition to let me fashion some misinformation of our own.”

“Indeed, Prime Minister, Viscount Bonham's advice has been proved right on many occasions,” the minister said.

The prime minister grimaced at the tabletop, then said decisively, “Very well, Bonham. Make your document, and we'll send it through the usual channels.”

Harry rose to his feet and bowed. “It will be my pleasure, sir. You'll have it in the morning. Gentlemen, I wish you good afternoon.”

He strode to the door and attained the relative peace of the corridor with a sigh of relief. A passing ensign saluted him. Harry made a halfhearted gesture in response and hurried to his own office. The task would take him about two hours using a code that he'd used before, with a few minor changes that might puzzle the French decoders for a short while. But nothing arduous…then he would be free.

Free to plan his next meeting with Nell.

For the first time that he could remember, his utter concentration on his work had been invaded by errant memories. Her scent, the feel of her hair, the softness of her skin, the luscious moist warmth of her sex. The folds of flesh that had opened to his touch, the urgent press of her loins as her climax had neared. The way her eyes took on the depth and glow of sapphires as she held his gaze, drawing his self into hers as she drew his body within her.

He had made love to many women, but he'd never experienced anything like those two hours with Nell.

Anne.
No, there had been only duty there. She had not enjoyed their lovemaking, and so he had not either. Of course he hadn't known about Jeffrey Vibart. Had he known, he might have felt less responsible for his wife's clear lack of enthusiasm for the act of love.

He slammed the door to his office behind him as he went in. It was a cramped space befitting a man whose work was basically unacknowledged. It was war work that carried no honor, no grandeur, no martyrdom, and as such was regarded as a dirty necessity, one that didn't have to be openly designated.

He sat at his scratched desk, sharpened a quill, and began work.

It was dark when he'd finished. He folded the parchment and opened the door to the corridor. “Stewart?”

“Yes, Lord Bonham.” A young man appeared instantly from a door opposite, his hair tousled, his myopic eyes blinking behind spectacles, his black coat seemingly coated with a fine layer of dust. “Is it finished, sir?”

“Finished,” Harry affirmed, handing him the document. “Check it through thoroughly in case I've made a mistake.”

“You never make mistakes, sir,” the young man said with a degree of reverence.

Harry smiled wearily. “There's always a first time, Stewart. You know the code, make sure there are no slips, and then send it down the usual channels.”

“At once, my lord. You'll be at home if I need to check anything with you?”

“I'll be asleep, Stewart, so be absolutely certain your questions are necessary before you wake me,” Harry warned. He was smiling, but his assistant was in no doubt as to the seriousness of the warning.

“Yes, sir.” He disappeared into his own cubbyhole.

Harry stretched, hearing his shoulders crack. He needed fresh air and exercise before he could sleep. And he needed sleep before he could see Nell.

 

Nigel stared down at his hand of cards, trying to remember what card the banker had laid down last. His head seemed full of fluff. He couldn't think straight. He was aware of the soft voices of the groom porters calling the odds, the sibilant swish of cards being dealt, the brilliant illumination of the candelabra throwing light across the baize tables, the slightly raised voices as players gestured with an empty glass to a servant hovering with a decanter.

He had never played in a gaming hell before. Mac had told him that Pickering Place was the most exclusive hell. Everyone who was anyone played here. But Nigel had not seen at the tables Viscount Bonham, or any of the gentlemen who seemed the viscount's especial friends.

His head ached. He laid down the queen of hearts and watched the banker cover it with the king. He had no idea how much he'd lost as he scrawled yet another IOU. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the face of a man he hadn't seen before.

“A word with you, Mr. Dagenham,” the man said courteously, but the hand was tight on his shoulder, and Nigel saw that he was flanked by two other dark-clad gentlemen.

Nigel was aware his smile was feeble as he said with an appearance of composure, “Of course. What can I do for you?” He rose from the table, twitching the hand from his shoulder, and taking out his snuffbox.

“Perhaps we could talk in private,” the man said, waiting while Nigel took a pinch of snuff that he didn't want. “If you'd be so kind as to follow me.” He gestured to a door at the side of the room.

Nigel followed him, numbed by the sense of inevitability. He followed the three men into a small inner chamber, and the man who had spoken to him said pleasantly, “May I offer you a glass of cognac, Mr. Dagenham?”

“Thank you,” Nigel said, hearing his voice as if it came from somewhere outside himself. He took the glass offered to him and declined the seat also offered.

His interlocutor smiled, but it was not the nicest smile. “We seem to have a little problem, Mr. Dagenham. These, I believe, are all yours.”

Nigel saw with a shock that the man held a stack of IOUs. “Not tonight,” he stammered. “It's not possible I ran those up tonight.”

“No, of course not,” the other said in soothing tones as he riffled the papers as if they were a pack of cards. “Not tonight, no. But…uh…over the last few weeks, shall we say?”

Nigel swallowed, his mind trying to grasp the fact that this man appeared to be holding all his IOUs garnered at the tables in every gaming club in Mayfair. “How…how did you get those?” he managed at last.

The man smiled and laid them down on the desk. “Don't worry about that, Mr. Dagenham. Let's concern ourselves more with how you intend to pay them.”

Nigel glanced around the room. There seemed to be no way out apart from the door behind him, and the two other men stood on either side of that door. There were no windows, and the lamp on the desk threw an uncertain light.

“What business is it of yours?” he demanded, finding strength in desperation. “I understand that my debts in this place might be of interest to you, but those…” He flung a hand in a gesture that he hoped was carelessly dismissive. “Those can have nothing to do with you.”

The man looked a little sorrowful. “Ah, well I have to inform you, Mr. Dagenham, that you are unfortunately mistaken. I acquired these debts of honor.” He raised the papers and waved them in a gesture rather similar to Nigel's own. “And I am now your creditor.” His eyes narrowed suddenly. “And I ask you, again, how you intend to settle your debts, sir.”

Nigel licked his lips. Nothing here made any sense. He had gambled in all the clubs of the ton. In White's and Watier's and Brookes's. The most elite members of society held his notes. So how had those notes ended up in a hell on Pickering Place in the hands of a man who was not, most definitely
not,
a gentleman?

“I don't understand,” he said. “Give me my notes!”

The man tucked them away in a drawer in the desk. “I can't do that, sir. These belong to me.” He gave Nigel a flickering smile. “You should be grateful, sir. Your debts of honor are all paid, as, indeed, is your debt to Havant and Green. Your credit is good…except here.”

Nigel struggled to grasp the fact that all his debts had been cleared. It explained why when he'd ventured into White's the previous day he had not been ostracized, something he'd been terrified of. “Why?” he demanded. “Why would you settle my debts?”

“Ah, well someone else can explain that to you, sir.” The man smiled his flickering smile and turned a key in the drawer where he'd placed Nigel's IOUs. “If you'd wait here, sir, he'll join you immediately.”

H
ARRY DISMOUNTED AND HANDED
the reins of his horse to Eric. “Take him home, I'll walk back,” he instructed before ascending the stairs to the front door of the house on Cavendish Square. He raised the knocker and let it fall, then stepped back, waiting. It was always interesting to see who would open this door. One of the women, or the taciturn and disapproving Morecombe.

He was kept waiting for long enough to know that it would be the retainer, eventually. Nell and her friends tended to be much swifter in their responses. The door creaked open, and, as he'd expected, Morecombe peered at him through the narrow aperture.

“Aye?” he demanded.

“Is Lady Dagenham within, Morecombe?” Harry asked, pushing the door wide and stepping inside past the retainer. He took off his hat and tossed it onto the bench.

“She could be,” Morecombe said. “Haven't seen her go out.”

“Then perhaps you'd announce me.” Harry offered a genial smile as he shrugged out of his greatcoat. “Viscount Bonham, Morecombe,” he reminded gently when the man stood seemingly irresolute, gazing blankly at him.

“Oh, aye.” Morecombe nodded. “The ladies are in the kitchen.” He shuffled off to the nether regions of the house, leaving Harry standing in the hall.

Harry shook his head in resignation and looked around, noting the polish and the wax and the luster of the chandelier. Matters had improved considerably on Cavendish Square. He took a look in the salon and nodded his approval. He was about to investigate the dining room on the far side of the hall when he heard the step he'd been waiting for.

Cornelia emerged from the gloom of the corridor behind the stairs that led to the kitchen. She paused for an instant before stepping into the full light of the hall, gathering herself. Then she came forward, hand outstretched.

“Lord Bonham, we've missed you the last few days.” Her voice was socially polite, her smile the same, but her eyes told a different story.

“Ma'am.” He took her hand and kissed it, his gaze holding hers for an instant. “If it had been possible, I would not have been absent so long.”

“Ah?” She tilted her head to one side and regarded him with a quizzical smile. He was as always a vision of understated elegance in fawn buckskin riding britches and a dark green coat. “Business, sir?”

“Unfortunately,” he agreed, still holding her hand. He could feel the tremor in her fingers, and his own closed more tightly over hers. “A nuisance, but unavoidable.”

“I see. How unusual, my lord. Most gentlemen about town manage to avoid unavoidable business.”

A smile licked his lips. “And what makes you think, my lady, that I fall into that idle category?”

“A foolish error, forgive me,” she returned, a tinge of color blossoming on her high cheekbones. “Experience should have taught me better.”

“I would think so,” he said solemnly. “Did you receive the list of names I sent you?”

“Yes, and we're most grateful,” she said, finally taking back her hand. “Come into the parlor. May I offer you a glass of sherry?”

“Thank you.” He followed her into the shabby informality of the parlor. The tension in the air was a palpable force, a wicked energy that flowed between them, made all the more exciting by this game of ignorance. “Where are Lady Farnham and Lady Livia?”

“Liv is walking the dogs, and Ellie is making junket for Franny,” Cornelia said, pouring two glasses of sherry. The mundane statement brought them both down to earth, but even so did little to dissipate the tension. She handed him a glass and raised her own to her lips.

“How is the dressmaking going?” Harry inquired. Cornelia was wearing one of her usual plain round gowns, her hair twisted into a heavy chignon on her nape, nothing about her indicating a smidgen of interest in fashion.

She was abruptly aware of her unmodish appearance. “Oh, rather well,” she said airily. “You wouldn't believe it to see us now, but we all three have magnificent outfits. We simply await the opportunity to burst upon the town in all our finery.”

He laughed a little. He wanted to reach for her, pull her to him, run his hands over her body, reminding himself of its indentations and curves. He could catch her scent, lavender and rosewater, and beneath just the hint of female arousal.

“Nell,” he said softly, his eyes narrowed. “Nell?”

“No.” She put out her hands as if to ward him off. “Don't speak in that tone, Harry. It's hard enough to hold myself together without that. And anyone could walk in.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I will come to you tonight.”

“No,” she said, but without conviction.

Before he could question her denial, the door opened. Aurelia came in holding a jelly mold. “Nell, would you believe…oh, Lord Bonham. We were wondering where you'd been hiding.”

“Nowhere, Lady Farnham,” he said, raising her free hand to his lips. He glanced interrogatively at what she held in her other hand.

“It's a jelly mold,” Aurelia said. “I thought it was in the shape of a rabbit, but—” She began to laugh. “It's too absurd, but what on earth was Aunt Sophia doing with
this
in her kitchen?” She held up the mold.

Cornelia peered at it, then took it from her. “Dear God,” she murmured. “Is that what I think it is?”

Aurelia nodded, her laughter getting the better of her.

Harry took the object from Cornelia and held it up. “Hell and the devil,” he said with some awe. “This was in the house of a reclusive old lady?”

“Apparently,” Aurelia said through her laughter. “Morecombe became very dignified and reticent when I asked him about it, but I think Aunt Sophia lived a rather daring existence at some point.”

“Did you make the junket?” Cornelia asked, taking back the mold and examining it closely. It was in the shape of a naked woman, a very uninhibitedly naked woman.

“I thought it was a rabbit, until I unmolded it,” Aurelia protested, then collapsed on the chaise with a renewed surge of laughter. “I had to throw it in the sink before Franny realized what it was.”

Cornelia dropped into a chair with a shout of laughter, and Harry watched them both for a moment or two, enjoying their amusement. They might give the superficial impression of country mice, but these women had the most deliciously mature and unconventional senses of humor. Apart from the fact that he didn't know any woman of their class who would spend an afternoon in the kitchen making junket for a child, he certainly didn't know any women who would find the risqué mold as hilarious as these two did.

He felt as if he was bathing in a refreshing stream. No artifice, no simpering, no display of maidenly dismay. Just straightforward reactions.

Aurelia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “So what brings you to our door, Lord Bonham?”

“A social call,” he replied. “But with an underlying purpose. I was wondering if you were ready to receive visitors as yet?”

“We already receive
you,
” Cornelia pointed out, bringing the decanter over to his glass.

“Oddly, I don't consider myself a mere social visitor, Lady Dagenham,” he responded aridly. “It cuts me to the quick that you should.”

“We don't,” Aurelia protested. “Nell's just teasing.”

He glanced at Cornelia, raising his eyebrows in a question that was only half-amused. She raised one hand a little, inclining her head as if in acknowledgment of a hit. “Maybe I don't,” she said. “But to answer your question, I believe we are ready. What do you think, Ellie?”

“Certainly,” her sister-in-law affirmed. “We intend to start paying calls ourselves as soon as we've sorted something out about a carriage. We were hoping to employ Nigel on the task, but we haven't seen him either in days. We were about to send him a message at the marquess of Coltrain's house, where he's staying.”

“Or
was
staying,” Cornelia interjected. “Maybe he's found lodgings of his own.” She shrugged. “He'll turn up, he always does.”

“Well, in his absence, perhaps I can be of assistance,” Harry offered. “As it happens I acquired a second coachman some weeks ago, and I really don't have enough work for him. I'd be happy to lend him to you whenever you need. As for the carriage, I have a barouche that I almost never use…I keep it for my sisters and their children when they visit. I'd be happy to put it at your disposal.”

“We couldn't possibly accept such generosity, my lord,” Cornelia said instantly and with a vehemence that was almost impolite. “It's very kind of you, but indeed we will manage for ourselves.”

His offer would have been unimpeachable coming from a relative, or even a very old and close family friend, but from a mere acquaintance it was surely quite inappropriate. It made her think of mistresses and kept women, and she wouldn't be the only person to catch a whiff of impropriety in the offer, however innocent it might be. The earl could well see in it an opportunity to bring their London sojourn to an end should it come to his ears.

Harry frowned a little at her vehemence, but he bowed his acquiescence. “If you insist, ma'am. But the offer remains should you change your mind.”

“We won't,” she said firmly.

“But we're very grateful for the offer, sir,” Aurelia said, trying with a warm smile to make up for Cornelia's trenchant refusal.

“Well, I trust you won't refuse my next offer,” he said, leaning back in his chair, crossing booted ankles with an air of relaxation. “If you have no objection, I would like to bring my great-aunt, the duchess of Gracechurch, to visit you. She's in town for a few days, and she knows everyone.” He paused, choosing his words carefully, reluctant to sound in the least patronizing to these fiercely independent ladies. “Her approval will guarantee all the social openings you might wish for.”

“Then that is an offer we'll accept with the utmost pleasure,” Cornelia said swiftly. “When will you bring her?”

“Tomorrow, if that's not too soon.”

Aurelia shook her head. “Not in the least. The drawing room is finished, and our afternoon gowns are ready.”

“Then I'll see you tomorrow afternoon.” He rose to take his leave. “If I run into your cousin, Lady Dagenham, I'll tell him you'd like to see him.” He extended his hand first to Aurelia. “Good day, Lady Farnham.”

“Lord Bonham.” She shook his hand warmly. “You've been very kind.”

He smiled and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “My pleasure entirely, ma'am.” He released her hand and turned to Cornelia. “See me out, Lady Dagenham.”

Cornelia heard an unmistakable proprietorial note in the demand. It was accompanied by a smile that, while it took the peremptory edge off it, somehow seemed to imply an even greater intimacy.

She stiffened, wondering if Aurelia had heard it. It was certainly a peculiar tone to use among mere acquaintances. She preceded him to the door coolly enough however, remarking with a light laugh, “You have the measure of our household, Viscount. As you so rightly assume, Morecombe is bound to be otherwise engaged.”

Harry followed her into the hall. She opened the door, and the afternoon sunlight, pale and cool, sent a delicate stream of light across the parquet. “You've done wonders in such a short time,” he said, looking up at the sparkling chandelier.

“Thank you.” Cornelia offered him a social smile that masked the surge of desire curling her toes in her silk-slippered feet.

There was nothing social about his response. His green eyes were narrowed, and his pupils were small and black as chips of agate as he looked at her unsmiling. “Leave your window open,” he instructed in an undertone. “And for God's sake make sure that damned cat is elsewhere.”

Then he stepped through the door, pausing on the top step to say over his shoulder, “And those ridiculous dogs too.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode down to the street and walked away without a backward glance.

“Arrogant so-and-so,”
Cornelia muttered to herself, aware of her own most powerful arousal. It would serve him right if she locked and bolted her window and slept with the cat and both dogs on her feet.

Except of course that she wouldn't.
And the damned man knew it.

“Why are you standing there with the door open, Nell?”

Cornelia hastily closed the door at Aurelia's voice behind her. “Just enjoying the sunshine,” she said casually.

“That was a very kind offer the viscount made,” Aurelia said, looking thoughtfully at her sister-in-law, who still stood unmoving by the door. “Couldn't we have accepted it?”

“Of course we couldn't, Ellie.” Cornelia sounded almost angry. “The man's a stranger…or, at least, only a bare acquaintance. What would it look like, to accept such a gift?”

Aurelia shrugged. “I think of him rather as a friend these days.” She turned back to the parlor. “He certainly doesn't stand on ceremony with us.”