Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) (16 page)

Grey watched as the Director of Covert Affairs sat back in his chair. He was looking older, more run down. The job was draining him. He was a man of action, but he was too old for the action now, and watching the young men fight and fall around him was eating him alive. Maybe that was why he hadn’t seen it.

“Maybe Mr. Smith got greedy,” Grey supplied.

Matthews’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

Grey absently tapped his knuckles on the edge of the desk as the pieces began to shift and fit together. “Maybe he figured out who hired him and decided he could afford a larger fee.”

“Grey, I am in no mood for riddles,” Matthews huffed.

“What if someone paid Smith to give up the location of the meeting beforehand? A few weeks go by and he decides the paltry sum he settled for wasn’t enough to keep his mouth shut anymore, or maybe the fool developed a conscience. Perhaps they wanted to be sure that he hadn’t already told someone of their dealings. Or Smith could have simply been a loose end, and our fiend enjoys inflicting pain.” Grey’s lips drew into a thin line as the darkness welled up inside him. “Smith may have gotten off easy if this is true,” he muttered.

“It has a ring to it,” Matthews mused. “But who would want Kathryn dead?”

Someone who could afford a mercenary. That mercenary must be responsible for the highwaymen. In that case, it was just one man Grey was after.

“Bexley.” The name fell from his lips like a foul curse, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Bexley?” Matthews’s face screwed up. “That little milksop?”

“She rejected him,” Grey said. “He was having her followed.” He should have killed the little bastard at the Garson’s. “He has the means. He has the motive.”

“That’s a whole lot of nothing, Grey.” The older man downed half a glass of amber liquid that miraculously appeared from the mound of papers. “It’s not enough to place him in that alley or giving the orders or hiring and killing Smith, any one of which would suffice.”

Grey paused, reining himself in. Matthews was right. He needed more proof.

“It’s suspicious enough to keep him watched at the very least,” Grey said, already formulating a strategy as he rose from his chair. “I think we ought to put a detail on him.”

“I wish I had the men for it,” Matthews said. “With the Manchester Patriotic Union vowing to overthrow Parliament, we have every man we can spare on them.” Matthews’s face creased with worry. “I am sorry, lad. If I had the men—”

Grey lifted his hand. “I know. The economic crisis has everyone on edge.” After a pause, he added, “I have my own men and my own means.”

Matthews frowned. “You mean to make this a private investigation?”

“Yes.” Grey studied Matthews, turning over a decision in his mind, wondering at how easy it was for him. “I am retiring.”

Matthews recoiled as if slapped. “
Retiring?
You are thirty… thirty—”

“Thirty-two.”

“You are in the middle of a mission!” Matthews exclaimed. “You can’t just go off the grid, take control, go rogue!”

Grey raised a brow. “You don’t have the men. I do.”

“This is tampering with a high security investigation!”

He pointed a thumb at the door over his shoulder. “Do you plan on having your secretary keep an eye on my wife for me?”

His old eyes shifted back and forth from Grey to the door several times before he fell back into his chair, a rush of air escaping his lungs. “I hope you know what you are doing, lad.”

“I believe I do.” One side of Grey’s mouth pulled into a smile. “I shall handle it as I have all the others. When it’s done, you will have a bagged body and a satisfied council.”

Matthews nodded soberly and watched as Grey walked out of his office. Then he pulled out a clean sheet of paper and a fresh pen. After a quick dip in the inkwell, he addressed the missive to Lord Pembridge in Mayfair.

T
he day
after they arrived in London, Pembridge called as promised, looking every bit as dashing as he did on every occasion. His light hair was styled to perfection, his golden waistcoat embroidered fashionably, his shirt points exactly right, and his cravat tied simply, but it boasted a sapphire that paired with his blue coat to bring out the color of his eyes.

Kathryn had taken extra pains with her own attire this evening. Lace and lavender silk hung from her slender form, and diamonds specked her ears and neck.

“A true vision,” Pembridge beamed, his genuine smile enhancing his already handsome features. “It’s a shame I was too doltish to beat Grey to the altar. Here I was, trotting off to war and setting up as a rake when I could have been married to a Venus.”

Kathryn’s brows lifted in surprise.

He chuckled as he tucked her hand in his arm to lead her out to the carriage. The cool evening was filled with the sound of other carriages rumbling along the cobblestones, and soft lanterns lit the streets as they rode past.

She knew Pembridge tried to keep her mind off the fact that Grey wasn’t the one sitting in the carriage with her. As hard as she tried to hide it, he seemed to sense that it bothered her. He kept her laughing and engaged in silly conversation the whole way to the crush, and she was grateful.

When they stepped into the Rothwell’s tastefully decorated ballroom, she felt rather than heard the hush fall over the crowd. Both furtive and not so furtive glances were sent her way. Others spoke in hushed tones behind their fans. Her grip involuntarily tightened on Pembridge’s arm, which he answered with an encouraging smile. The man was not worried at all. She wished she had his confidence.

He led her right up to where Lord and Lady Rothwell were speaking with Lady Jersey and several other ladies. As soon as Kathryn realized his intent, she tried to steer him aside, but he seemed not to notice.

She was being tossed right into the lion’s den.

Pembridge smiled, introducing Kathryn as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Pembridge had a reputation as a rake, the same as Grey, yet there wasn’t a single male present who didn’t greet him warmly or a female who didn’t make doe eyes at him. It was no wonder he was so confident. The man could seduce an entire convent twice and still be the Pope’s favorite dinner guest. Within minutes, the entire room was acting as though the scandal had never happened.

After an hour, he lightly touched her elbow.

“Lady Ainsley, I do believe that is your mother by the punch bowl. Shall we?” He offered his arm, and Kathryn took it, aching to speak with her mother.

Music drifted over them as couples glided across the middle of the ballroom floor, and they slowly made their way to where Lady Grenville stood, watching the merriment.

“Kathryn, dear,” Lady Grenville greeted warmly as they approached. “And Pembridge. It’s always a pleasure to see your face.”

“Lady Grenville, I do believe you grow more elegant each year.” The earl’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Lud, Pembridge,” Lady Grenville said, shaking her head. “I am far too old to fall for such a poetic farce.”

“Ah, but I have the gift of complete honesty when it comes to beautiful women, my lady. That is not why I am here, however. I have delivered your daughter to you. I am sure you have much to discuss.”

“Indeed, we have,” Lady Grenville agreed, taking Kathryn’s hand in hers. “Off to your cards or what have you. She’s safe with me.”

“A pleasure as always.” Pembridge bowed over Lady Grenville’s free hand before turning to Kathryn. “I shall be in the card room. Don’t hesitate to send for me if you need me.” He smiled. “I am at your beck and call. I can bring you punch or a cucumber sandwich perhaps. I can inadvertently spill bourbon on a disagreeable gentleman’s trousers or accidentally stand on a certain lady’s dress so that it tears, look incredibly contrite, and chivalrously escort her away. Whatever you wish.”

Kathryn laughed. “Off to your cards, you scoundrel!”

He winked, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the multitude of silk and elaborate coiffures.

If Kathryn had wanted to speak with her mother, she should have locked them both away in the library, because it took less than ten minutes for her dance card to fill once Pembridge left her side. She was able to leave a few spots empty: the waltzes, a few she didn’t know, and the last three steps of the night. One thing she was certain of was that her legs would not hold her through four hours of straight dancing, and she wasn’t about to end such a successful night with her falling flat on her back from exhaustion on Lady Rothwell’s ballroom floor.

Pembridge appeared seconds before the waltz began, taking her hand with a warm smile. Not one of the men clamoring after her argued when he stepped around them to whisk her away, though their faces told her they had wanted to.

Pembridge danced with the same grace and elegance with which he did everything else. They spoke of the evening, and how well everything was going, and he made her laugh. When the dance finished, he deposited her right back where she had been before—amidst the wolves—bowed, and returned to the card room.

A dance Kathryn didn’t recognize gave her a reprieve from the constant shuffling, and her flock of curious gentlemen dispersed to find partners. Her legs were tired, and her feet were feeling tender in her dance slippers, but she was even more tired of that flock, which would reappear as soon as the dance was through.

She found a large, potted plant in a corner and settled in the chair beside it, giving her legs a much-needed rest. She also happened to make certain she wasn’t easily viewable.

“Lady Ainsley.”

A smooth, masculine voice wafted from around the plant, and she closed her eyes, swallowing an unladylike curse. She opened them to find a tall gentleman with light brown hair and brown eyes staring down at her.

“You managed to find a place to sit in this mad crush,” he said. “That’s quite a feat.”

She forced a smile. “I am afraid I don’t recall your name.”
Mr. Intrusive
?
Mr. Plague,
perhaps?
He must have been on the other side of this blasted plant the whole time.

“Robert Wheeling.” He smiled as he bowed over her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I have seen you so often about town, but I have never had the opportunity to introduce myself.”

“Is that so?” she said, feigning interest. How unfortunate she had practically served it to him on a silver platter.

“Yes,” Wheeling said. “Ainsley is a lucky fellow.”

“Thank you,” she muttered. That
lucky fellow
might disagree.

“Pembridge, too,” he added, looking out at the crowd. “You should have seen the faces of those brokenhearted lads when he stole you away for the waltz.”

“Brokenhearted?” she echoed.

“Tragically,” he confirmed.

“That’s ridiculous. I am married,” she reminded him tersely. Exhaustion and something that felt suspiciously like heartache were running her patience remarkably thin. She was in no mood to pretend to be civil to this intrusive plague of a man.

“I meant no offense,” he said. “Simply that there isn’t a man in this room who wouldn’t hang his solicitor before he forwent a chance to act as your escort.”

Kathryn raised a brow. She didn’t remember ever being considered terribly attractive. Perhaps she ought to pay closer attention to what was being whispered in people’s ears. Or perhaps she ought to avoid whatever everyone was drinking. It sounded like something was in the punch.

* * *

N
ick watched
as Wheeling approached Kathryn. He wasn’t the man one would normally choose to occupy Kathryn’s time, but he would have to do. Nick was sure the rake’s tricks wouldn’t work on Kathryn. If anything, it would be half an hour before he realized he wasn’t getting anywhere with her, and Nick only needed a guaranteed ten minutes.

He scanned the ballroom, not catching any sign of the sneak he was meeting. The man shouldn’t even be here. He couldn’t have been invited. Not to mention, if anyone saw the two of them together, there might be talk. The man knew better than to arrange meetings at a bloody soiree!

Nick no longer worked in covert intelligence, but it wouldn’t do to risk exposure, damn him. If Nick’s name got out, he would have to leave England and create a new identity.

He moved swiftly through the guests, some talking in groups, some meandering between rooms. Finally, he spotted a familiar back disappearing from the main drawing room into a hallway. His jaw set firmly, but he forced a light expression as he nodded to friends along the way to the hall.

The hallway was empty, but Nick followed it to the end casually. Then he glanced around, making sure no one had happened to follow him, before ducking into the last room.

Cold, blue eyes immediately fastened on the room’s only occupant. Nick’s mentor of the last twelve years was settled in a plush chair by the hearth.

“Matthews,” Nick said coolly. “I thought I made it clear I no longer work for you.”

Matthews took a puff from his cheroot. “Yes, you did. Last month, I think.”

“Yes,” Nick confirmed, eyeing the older man suspiciously.

Matthews was too focused. He was up to something.

“This is rather risky, don’t you think?” Nick added. “With all the servants about, each and every one of them with their ear to the ground for any careless prattle that might sound interesting?”

Matthews studied Nick soberly. “I need you to do something for me, Pembridge, and you
will
do it.”

Nick smiled, folding his arms across his chest. “Is that so? Well, you may be waiting quite an age to see that come to fruition, my devious fellow.”

The older man scowled as he crushed the cheroot into a crystal tray. “I don’t think so, not if you want to keep your secrets just that.”

“Are you threatening me, Matthews?” Nick’s smile never faded, but the cold light in his eyes held neither humor nor his normal, carefree air.

The question was left ignored. “You wouldn’t want to see your family’s skeletons cast out for all of your precious society to see, would you?”

“Would I?” he asked carelessly.

“You have done a fine job restoring your title, Nick. A fine job. And to think, no one had a clue you were as destitute as a church mouse.”

A muscle ticked in Nick’s jaw.

Matthews went on, heedless of the warning. “Not to mention how well you kept the rest of your father’s secrets. Tell me, did you have to kill the physician to keep him quiet? Or were you able to scrounge up enough coin for him to write consumption on the death certificate
and
to keep his mouth shut about it?” Matthews sighed deeply with raised brows. “That bullet hole in your father’s head would be a strange symptom to explain to the church, but oh, there was a private burial, wasn’t there? A family cemetery on the grounds, no doubt. I suppose that saved you from having to pay off a vicar, as well.”

“That smacks of blackmail, Matthews.”

Matthews’s eyes were dull with age yet unrelenting, nonetheless. He was a strategist, after all. He knew when he had the advantage, and he knew how to employ it.

“I don’t want to do this to you, boy,” Matthews said, “but I need you to do one last thing for me. If the truth about your father gets out, it could ruin you. Don’t let that happen.”

Nick had no aces up his sleeves this time, and he knew it. “Gad, Matthews, get Lawson or Ferris, any one of the others. You don’t need me.”

“I’m afraid I do.” Matthews sounded distressed as he leaned back in his chair.

“What for?”

“It’s Grey. This last assignment was too much for him.”

Nick regarded Matthews with a pitying look. “You
can’t
be serious. You are saying that, after fighting Boney and his armies, countless spies, murderers, thieves, and traitors, Grey can’t handle his own
wife?
” He shook his head. “I know Kathryn is a handful, but I think you are overreacting.”

“If he keeps going like he is, he will get himself and Kathryn both killed.” Matthews shook his head. “He turned it into a private investigation, but the Home Office needs to be in control. Grey can be a bit unpredictable. I just need you to keep him in check. Yank the reins a bit to keep him on the right path.”

“And you know the right path?” he asked, not at all convinced.

“I have a clear head. He doesn’t.”

What Matthews was suggesting sounded like a rational request—to keep Grey from going off the deep end, as he was known to do, and to keep this mission in the hands of the Home Office, as usual. Regardless, something felt wrong about it all. His gut was telling him to leave it, to throw Matthews’s threats back in his face and storm out of the room. But he also knew the threats to be genuine; Matthews was not one to toy with.

Grey was the closest thing to family Nick had. If Matthews were telling the truth, Grey might end up actually killed this time.

His stomach turned, and his mouth felt wired shut, but he forced out the words, “What do I have to do?”

“Good lad!”