Charming a Spy (3 page)

“I know I should be excited. But between the sweaty palms and constant feet-trampling, I daresay I could do without dancing,” Kat said, trying to make her excuses convincing.

“Mr. Jepson doesn’t have sweaty palms. When he took my hands at the Musgrave’s soiree, I thought I would melt. Do you think he will ask me for another dance, Kat?”

“I’m sure of it. And if he does not, well then he is by far the biggest fool in the room. In all of England. In Christendom, for that matter.”

“Oh, Kat, you are ridiculous, but I love you,” Maribel said.

“There’s nothing ridiculous about saying any man who doesn’t fall in love with you is the biggest fool in Christendom. It’s true.”

“I know I am no man’s first choice. How could I be when you are on the marriage mart? Your beauty and talent far exceed mine,” Maribel said in her usual modest way. Kat wished her friend would realize how rare and wonderful she was. When the rest of her so-called friends had abandoned Kat when she stopped attending society functions, Maribel still came calling every Tuesday and Thursday morning like clockwork.

“Nonsense. I don’t ever want to hear you say so. You are a prize for any man who is smart enough to catch you. You are beautiful, intelligent, and more kind-hearted than any person I know. As soon as you realize it, then dolts like Jepson will realize it too.”

“I do wish you would come with me, Katherine. Of course, being the best friend of London’s only recluse does lend me an air of notoriety. But it would be more fun with you there. After all, whom will I whisper to about Jessica Grier’s scandalous dress if not you?”

“You’ll manage,” Kat said, giggling. “Although there promises to be a lot to remark on. I’m sure the eligible beauties will parade around like peacocks for His Grace. I will be surprised if they don’t come to blows to get the duke on their dance card.”

“They say he is a god,” Maribel said.

“I suppose he’s handsome,” Kat said, in abject nonchalance. Well, very handsome if she were honest. Okay, he was positively Duke-ly. Maybe it was the jet black hair falling in a perfect wave over his brow… or his eyes, which were almost otherworldly, blue bordering on turquoise and violet at the same time. She didn’t know why their color annoyed her so much.

“Excuse me,” Maribel practically screamed.

“Shh… do you want my aunt to come in here? She’ll force us to go play cards with her and her dithering old friends if you’re not careful. Hush,” Kat protested.

“Am I to understand,” Maribel said in a loud whisper, “you met the duke and didn’t say anything? You’re too awful.”

“I didn’t think it warranted a mention,” Kat responded.

“Well, I never! I bought a new hair ribbon and I sent you a letter about it. You meet the blasted Duke of Stamwell and you don’t think it warrants a mention!”

Kat laughed. Maybe she could be a bit more forthcoming as long as she was careful to edit the story about their meeting. She didn’t dare to tell even Maribel the bits about the attempted botched robbery and unchaste kiss. While she’d never kept anything from Maribel before, this was criminal activity, after all. “He came to my house last week to deliver the invitation for the ball.”

“He delivered it himself? Like a footman?” Maribel was shouting now. It wasn’t exactly a proper question, but the best part of their friendship was being past polite.

“He said he wanted to make sure we attended.”

“Do you know what this means?” Maribel said, grabbing Kat’s hand and bouncing, practically jumping up and down. “You are on his list.”

“What list?” Kat asked. “What sort of list?”

“The list of women he’s considering for marriage. Why else would he come to your house? He must have heard about your beauty and came to inspect you firsthand.”

“Inspect me firsthand? You’re too crass, Maribel. You make me sound like a horse he’s interested in breeding,” Kat said utterly offended at the suggestion.

“Not a horse. A wife,” Maribel corrected. “I can’t believe my best friend is going to be the Duchess of Stamwell.”

“Slow down,” Kat said. “No one is getting married.” Truthfully she didn’t know why he’d hand-delivered the invitation. The whole interaction was far too strange. Her first thought was that he would arrest her for thieving, and then the conversation had turned into a verbal spar with him about the nature of hermits.

There she was… having a perfectly normal morning when the Duke of Stamwell came practically waltzing into her drawing room with his good looks and regal manners, demanding attendance at his stupid ball. He was too conceited, too polished. Did he expect her to fall immediately in love with him and worship at his feet? If so, he had entirely the wrong girl in mind.

She couldn’t deny that tiny explosions wracked her body from head to feet when he kissed the inside of her hand, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be his wife. Come to think of it, why did he kiss the inside of her hand? Any duke worth his salt should know such behavior was entirely improper. Shouldn’t he have kissed the top of her hand? Somehow, she sensed that
entirely improper
might be this duke’s specialty. He was obviously a scoundrel, and what’s worse, he seemed proud of it. Stamwell obviously thought he was the
crème de la crème
because he was a duke and a military officer.

A military officer at the battle of Corunna.

Bollocks! Kat was so riled up by his presence that she didn’t even catch the one thing he said which mattered. He was at Corunna. For the past two years, she’d been looking for a soldier who’d survived Corunna. When she found one, she didn’t even realize it.

Stamwell was also in the office the night she broke in, which meant he had access to information… the kind of information she wanted. He was the exact person she needed to talk to in order to find out what really happened during the battle. Even if he didn’t know her brother, maybe he could do some research and find information she’d never be privy to. Stamwell was a duke, after all. He’d probably dined with the Prince Regent himself on a regular basis.

Now if she could only figure out how to make him help her find Luke. He did not seem like the type of man who was likely to help out of the goodness of his heart. Too self-assured. Too cocky. She would have to extract information from him another way.

If she were a character in a detective novel, she would blackmail him. If only she had anything to hold over his head. Something personal. An embarrassing incident. Something he would want to protect from public knowledge.

How in the world was she going to find something like that? Since she rarely left the house, it was unlikely she’d see him do anything untoward. She was going to have to find his secrets another way. Maybe she could break into his house with her new dandy pin trick and locate a letter or something.

Then it occurred to her. The ball.

It was the perfect opportunity to gain entry to his home… no illegal activity required. Once inside she would find the right moment to slip away and explore the house. She was bound to discover something.

A man as high-ranking and good-looking as Stamwell was bound to have some skeletons in his closet.

‡

G
eoff didn’t plan
to be late to his own ball. He had simply become immersed in war reports and didn’t notice the time. Part of him longed for war again where he could engage a worthy opponent on the battlefield rather than in a ballroom.

It was strange the things one could miss about hell on earth. Sometimes while snuffing the candle before bed, he thought he smelled the acrid smell of gunpowder. Or the sound of the cook banging pots together in the kitchen would remind him of drums before battle. He knew he shouldn’t miss it, the very monster that had swallowed so many of his friends. But he did. He missed being a soldier… missed the sense of duty and of doing something honorable.

In a way, he was still serving his country, but Geoff couldn’t deny seducing chambermaids for secrets was considerably easier and more enjoyable than crouching in trenches with cannonballs overhead. It was too easy. It wasn’t fair that he sipped champagne and ate crumpets while his fellow soldiers lay six feet underground. He was once a solider too.

When William Wickham first approached Geoff about joining his team of spies, he was honored, but also intimidated. At that time, Wickham’s vast network of men had already been well known for planning two successful invasions. Geoff had no espionage experience so he couldn’t imagine why they would want him.

Wickham explained it wasn’t his experience they needed, but instead his title and the
particular way
he had with women. Having a duke on their team would be handy in missions where they needed to infiltrate the gentry. Geoff’s success with ladies would allow them further access to the gentry’s secrets through their wives and paramours’ bedrooms.

What Wickham didn’t know was that Geoff’s title and prowess with the ladies was actually one and the same. Sure, he wasn’t a bad-looking bloke and had a few charms up his sleeves, but Geoff knew all too well the notches on his bedpost had little to do with his looks or charms. They were due to his title alone. No woman could resist a duke.

Geoff was lucky, or so his solicitors told him, that Geoff’s father died when he was an infant because he inherited the title younger than most. Like most of the upper crust, the previous Duke of Stamwell enjoyed his position to the fullest of its advantages by eating, drinking and whoring to excess. He was never certain which of those pastimes finally put his father in the grave, but Geoff was fairly sure he died a fat drunk riddled with syphilis. The perfect role model.

Due to his father’s untimely death, Geoff grew up a child-duke, trained from boyhood to run estates and order servants. It wasn’t the childhood anyone reminisced about with fondness, but it also wasn’t intolerable. Responsibilities came with being a duke, but some very nice benefits outweighed the tasks. In particular, as he grew into a young man, he was delighted to discover the effect wealth and privilege had on ladies.

Soon it became a sport for him, seeing how outrageously a woman would act because he was a bloody peer of the realm. He once took a count’s wife in the theater lobby during the second act and a debutante during her coming-out ball in a topiary maze. He harbored no illusions that those same females would ever be with him if he weren’t the Duke of Stamwell. Luckily, it didn’t matter. He
was
the Duke. Ladies would forever desire a title and he would always want the ladies. The relationship was symbiotic, really. Tonight, Geoff was looking forward to exercising his wealth and privilege again, this time to snare two women at once.

Geoff’s late arrival interrupted the festivities, hushing the chorus of voices and orchestra music. He seemed obliged to say something to return the crowd to their merrymaking, though he was never fond of public speaking. “Friends and new neighbors—your presence here is a very warm welcome. I look forward to making all of your acquaintances. Now, please enjoy the evening,” he said, raising his champagne flute to the crowded ballroom. His words broke the silent spell, and the roar resumed louder than before.

His partner, Pennington, must have set up his wife-searching cover story well, if not too well. Before he could descend the staircase, eager mothers of unmarried daughters swarmed him. He met dozens of women, one after the next, in a seemingly unbroken stream. Ms. Elgin, Ms. Bittle, Ms. Renshaw, Ms. Allen. Certainly no one could keep track of names and faces at this pace. It was too overwhelming. After twenty minutes, he needed a break. Not even the Shah of Persia could handle the whole harem at once.

“Mrs. and Ms. Danbury, it was so enchanting to meet both of you remarkable women. However, you’ll have to excuse me at this moment. I believe I see an old friend in the game room,” Geoff said, pushing past the line of anxious mothers and daughters.

Luckily Pennington was exactly where Geoff predicted he would be, strategically placed between the game room and the ballroom so he could keep an eye on the entire battlefield at once.

“Ah, Pennington. There you are, my good man.”

“Stamwell. Glad to see you made it to your own party.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately, I was detained with some paperwork. However, it seems as though all of these strangers got on perfectly well without me.”

“Did you expect otherwise? A mysterious new neighbor who is reputedly very rich, handsome, and available? The ladies had fodder for hours of gossip and the men took no time finding your stash of whiskey and cards. I don’t think you could have timed your entrance better if you tried.”

The duke smirked a boyish grin.

“You spread a rumor that I was handsome, Pennington?” Geoff teased his comrade.

“Just doing my job,” he grumbled.

“A more loyal sidekick you could not find.” Geoff took two glasses of whiskey from the footman and handed one to Pennington.

“Careful not to get too foxed on this mission,” Pennington warned him. This is why they were great partners. Pennington was his perfect complement in every way. He was staid and careful where Geoff was brash and overconfident. Pennington made plans and Geoff took risks. He was the yin to Geoff’s yang, the moon to his sun, the protective mother of his wild child (he had to remember to tell Pennington that one in the future—it would irk him to no end).