Gilded Lily (3 page)

“Lieutenant Smith-Grenville was an unreliable operative. You have clearance to know this officially, now. Your younger brother worked for me, as I'm sure you already know from his own mouth, and was meant to be in deep cover to infiltrate a ring of opium smugglers. Instead he fell victim to the poppy himself and disappeared into the western Dominions. Weak character. But my good friends Baron and Baroness Hardison assure me you're made of sterner stuff.”

Barnabas was shocked to hear that Phineas had been working for Murcheson as a spy, but it was clear Murcheson thought Phineas had revealed his assignment to his brother. Ultimately, though, it seemed important parts of the story were confirmed, that whatever he'd been doing previously, Phineas had subsequently disappeared into the world of opium addiction. Barnabas covered his startled stammer with a feigned cough, giving him a moment to regain his composure.

“I like to think my actions speak for my character, sir.”

“I'd like to think so too, but I've little confidence. Your last major action was taking a spectacular and costly loss in a race your family had invested in. You seem set to waste their time and money. Still, here you are, and I suppose I must make use of you. Incidentally, you'll find a trunk full of your brother's effects in your room. He'd left it in the keeping of his landlady, but it seemed fitting that you should have it. Perhaps you can deliver it to your family when you return to the Dominions, which I suspect will be sooner rather than later. If you actually last a fortnight, I'll see to finding a house for you to let. For now, you'll bunk here. Cheaper that way.”

Murcheson's attitude was more than disheartening. The Hardisons had seemed so much more enthusiastic when they recruited Barnabas to their cause. The timing was perfect—his desire to search for Phineas in London, their European colleague's need for a fresh operative there with an upper-class background. They had assured him that just as their own blue-blood heritage had served them well in forming a cover story for espionage, Barnabas's social credentials made him ideal to pose as a young industrial dilettante abroad. A feckless fop of a son, perhaps, foisted off on the Makesmith Baron to train some sense into him. The story could be that the Baron had assigned Barnabas the ridiculously easy but lucrative sinecure of finalizing some negotiations that had obviously been conducted months prior between the Baron himself and Rutherford Murcheson. Then Murcheson could instruct Barnabas as he saw fit. And compensate him, a necessity as Barnabas's father had refused to fund any further searching for Phineas following the rally debacle.

Barnabas had pointed out to his spymaster instructors—who included Charlotte, Lady Hardison, and her father Viscount Darmont, much to his surprise—that he knew people in London. He couldn't appear
too
feckless. He was his father's heir, after all, current disagreement notwithstanding. Nor could he play the fop when he'd been notoriously uninterested in things sartorial at Oxford.

“Ineffectual, then?” Charlotte had suggested. She'd been holding her daughter Penelope, gently bouncing and rocking her as she walked about the room. She seemed disinclined ever to give the infant over to her nursemaid's keeping.

“Can't I just be myself?”

They all looked at him as if he'd gone mad. Then Charlotte tilted her head, running her gaze up and down Barnabas as if seeing him in a new light. “It might work. No, let's consider this,” she insisted when her colleagues raised their voices to object. “Who
is
Lord Barnabas Smith-Grenville? Look at him. He's cheerful, generally well liked. He's quite earnest but doesn't completely lack a sense of humor. Well enough connected but hardly from a powerful family. Not a fashion plate or a Greek god, by any stretch. Meaning no offense, Barnabas.”

“None taken, madam.” But he found himself adjusting the shoulders of his coat and trying to recall when he'd last had his hair cut.

“None of those things are bad, none of them are particularly good. There's nothing on the surface that's—”

“Remarkable,” the Viscount finished for his daughter, earning a glare from her. “I see it now. Or rather I don't, and neither will anybody else. He doesn't need a show to divert attention, because nobody's attention will be drawn to him in the first place.”

“I'm not sure I'd go so far as to—” Barnabas attempted.

“Women will not swoon, captains of industry will not bow down, that sort of thing,” the Viscount continued. “Just a perfectly nice chap, nothing more. Penny a pound.”

“Precisely,” Charlotte agreed, favoring Barnabas with a smile. “It's perfect.”

“My boy, don't look so downtrodden,” her father explained, leaning in and beaming at Barnabas. “We're not insulting you. On the contrary, we're paying you the highest compliment. In this business, unremarkable is the best thing you can possibly be.”

Charlotte nodded. “Nobody will ever suspect you of derring-do, not in a million years. Which makes you the perfect spy.”

But evidently the perfect spy was only fit for a job of personal busywork, more suited to an underling or footman in Barnabas's opinion. Spying on the boss's daughter, using his social graces to charm her into a false sense of security. He was to spend all his waking hours monitoring her. When he found out Frédérique Murcheson was his first assignment, Barnabas felt like he'd been had.

Murcheson claimed she was a security breach in the making and needed a tail. But now it seemed Murcheson didn't even trust him with following an errant twenty-one-year-old girl. All because Phineas had let himself become addicted to opium. What was more, if Barnabas was to be on constant call to watch the girl, he would have difficulty spending time in the docklands trying to find a lead on Phin's location.

“I'm not my brother, Mr. Murcheson.” Barnabas fell into the plummy, snooty tones of his upbringing. He was no misbehaving lieutenant, he was the eldest son and heir of an earl. Not a particularly important or powerful earl, true. But he still outranked a commoner in trade, at least in terms of social standing, and he had no compunction about reminding this man of that fact by his demeanor. “I was invited into Lady Hardison and Lord Darmont's confidence because they believed me capable of working well for the Crown. If you're not of the same opinion, I can simply—”

“Stop there, lad. Enough huffiness. You do the public school patter quite well, I'll give you that. If you want my good opinion, prove yourself. Everywhere my daughter goes, everyone she speaks to, you will know and report to me. But she mustn't suspect you. You must play the part of the fervent, well-intentioned suitor, do you understand? No matter how difficult you find that, once you meet Frédérique.”

“Understood.” What more could he say? It was clear any further reassurances from Barnabas would fall on uncaring ears. There was nothing left but to prove himself by outwitting and fooling this young woman into believing he was smitten enough to hound her every move, which ought to be simple enough though potentially a trifle unnerving for the lady. But perhaps not; wasn't forming such an attachment the primary concern of most young ladies during the social season, after all? Even the heiresses whose blood wasn't remotely blue. Except that this heiress was sounding less and less like the typical model.

“I suppose you ought to go attire yourself appropriately,” Murcheson sniffed. “It is a birthday ball for a prince, after all.”

Barnabas went, accompanied by a creeping sense of dread. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

G
ASLIGHTS. CANDLES. GLOSSY
silks and polished silver. Everything sparkled and glowed in the ballroom, as befitted a royal birthday ball. The Queen's appearance had been blessedly brief, but her youngest son seemed bent on dancing the night away with as many besotted ladies as possible. At twenty-eight, it was high time he made a choice and settled down with one of them, Freddie thought. With three healthy brothers and two boisterous nephews, he was far enough down in the line of succession that he could suit himself when it came to a bride.

She had plenty of time to think these matters over from the sidelines of the ballroom floor, where she habitually sat alone for the duration of these events.

Things hadn't always been this way, of course. Freddie had started her first Season as the incomparable, a half-French mystery girl with a hint of her mother's legendary looks and a delightful fortune to add to her allure. Her easy manner and wit had charmed potential suitors at the beginning. But as the weeks wore on and Freddie continued to be herself, all but the gold diggers slipped away. She'd considered an offer from one of them, a young man who didn't seem so bad compared to some of the others. But after he was seen leaving a tryst with Honoria Weatherfield during a house party, Freddie rejected him publicly and loudly at the next event in town. She had turned down another three proposals over the course of that summer and the next.

She hadn't had an offer since. During the current Season—which was admittedly just beginning—she hadn't even been asked to dance. She'd become the quintessence of wallflowers, shunned even by the other set-asides. None of which was the real problem.

No, the real problem was that sitting on the edge of the ballroom not talking to anyone was boring. Freddie loathed being bored. So naturally, as she always did, she looked for entertainment of her own. Tonight, however, that option seemed to have been quashed by her father and his meddling. He'd apparently found her a new suitor, some business associate from the Dominions who was to be staying with them in London for a time. After a brief introduction the young man had attached himself to her like a barnacle while her father vacated himself to the punch bowl.

Freddie suppressed a snicker at her unintentional mental wordplay.
Barnabas, the barnacle.
Lord Barnabas Smith-Grenville seemed glued to her side for the evening, indeed. Fortunately for her, he didn't look like a creature from the ocean's depths. He didn't look like much of anything. He was a man of averages, she thought. Average looks, average manner, average taste in clothes. Bland and pleasant as pudding.

This lack of interesting features on his part made her instantly suspicious. He was
too
unremarkable, as though he'd been artificially compiled from a list of criteria for young, attractive, eligible gentlemen. All of which led her to believe that this unremarkable man was no mere friend of her father's but one of his employees. He obviously was who he said he was—his father's title was one she knew, and he'd been greeted by a few others in the room in passing, men he appeared to know from school days—but Freddie suspected he was something else as well. Not one of her father's legitimate business associates, as they'd claimed, but somebody from that
other
line of work. The one she was desperate to learn more about.

“How do you know my father, again?” she finally asked, deciding that the straightforward approach was the best counter to subterfuge. The suspiciously bland man had a ready answer, however, and gave no sign of lying.

“Through Baron Hardison in the Dominions. My people are there for the most part, but as I went to school in England and have some connections here, Lord Hardison thought I'd make a good business liaison between him and your father. They've dealt together on a number of projects.”

“It surprises me that Your Lordship would take such an interest in trade.”

“My father is the Lordship. I have not yet inherited the title, so you may address me as simply ‘my lord.'”

She glanced at his face and saw the tail end of a smirk as it vanished and was replaced with an expression of smooth courtesy. Just because she could—and because she wanted to misdirect at least a little of her anger at her father toward this convenient stranger—Freddie dropped into the rough accent of her tinker role. “You're taking the mickey out o' me, my lord.”

That got his attention for a moment, earning her a startled blink. “A bit, yes. You were doing it first, though, calling me Lordship. You know I'm no one in particular.”

“No one in particular. I'll try to remember that. Although as you're not very memorable, perhaps I'll forget you altogether once you're gone.”

Lord Smith-Grenville almost smiled. It was there in the corners of his eyes, at the edges of his mouth, followed by tension across his fine brow as he formulated a careful response. “Ah, but I won't be gone. I'm quite smitten with you, Miss Murcheson. And as I've your father's tacit approval to court you, you won't be rid of me so easily. It will take far more than a few backhanded jabs to dislodge me now.”

He hadn't been convincing
at all
. Freddie stifled a groan, foreseeing a very long Season indeed. She would have to find some subtle means of revenge against her father for saddling her with this pudding-man. For saddling her with this series of watchmen. For putting these unnecessary obstacles in the way of the unconventional life she'd rather be living. “You're smitten? You don't even know me, sir.”

“And if I did come to know you?” He turned his shoulders, ignoring the dancers and facing her more directly, placing one hand over his heart in a horrifyingly trite way. “Imagine how enchanted I'd be then, Miss Murcheson. You'd have me in your thrall.”

“Disappointing. Very disappointing, my lord. You're trying far too hard.” Somebody should have taught him that the ability to fake earnestness was the one critical skill for those who sought to be underhanded. Freddie felt exhausted, deep in her soul, and something like defeated.
This
was what she warranted? She was out of patience for playing her father's game against yet another unworthy pawn. She'd had enough. “I've heard that speech or something like it so many times before. And I've heard it better, frankly. Tell me straight, has my father tasked you with me? You wouldn't be the first. He always thinks I don't know when he sets employees to watch me, but I always do.”

He cocked his head, appraising her seriously for the first time. “You shouldn't know about that.”

“But aren't you one of his spies?” There. She'd said it. Let the cards fall where they might.

The young lord coughed into his hand, glancing around them almost frantically. No one was close enough to overhear. “What? No! Don't say that word!”

She was right. She'd been right all along. He really was hiring men to follow her in the guise of suitors. “What, then? Agents? Operatives? At least tell me he's working for the Crown and not the other side, I've yet to reassure myself on that count.”

“Good God, no wonder he wants you monitored! Yes, for the Crown. But you aren't supposed to know any of this!”

“Thank you.” And she meant it. It was a relief, to know at last what she'd only been able to speculate about. She felt an odd wash of gratitude toward Lord Barnabas Smith-Grenville.

“You're welcome. I . . . oh, dear heavens, I think I've just committed treason.”

Freddie shrugged, amused at his polite expression of horror and his terrible espionage skills. “Your secret is safe with me, sir. I'm sure you've no reason to believe that, but it is. We can be honest with one another. I like you, Lord Smith-Grenville. You're much more amusing than the usual types my father foists on me. They're always so dour.” Perhaps the Season wouldn't be so bad, after all, if she could spend it tweaking Smith-Grenville's tail to make him squeak. And if he was this bad a spy on first meeting, he should be easy enough to shake when she wanted to go somewhere without the benefit of an escort. Had they trained the man at all?

“Your father only has your safety in mind, you know.”

She shook her head. “He has his own safety in mind. If he were concerned for me, he would pay enough attention to find out what I do with my time himself. He's just worried somebody will try to use me to get to him. And while we're being honest with one another, I'll be honest enough to tell you that I don't trust you. You're his man, ergo you're not a man I can trust. And you're a truly terrible spy, which also doesn't speak well for you.”

“It's my first assignment,” Barnabas admitted, clearly disappointed in himself. “I had all sorts of things prepared to say if anybody suspected, or if I was tortured. I never expected anyone to just ask me directly, in the course of polite conversation. Least of all you. I thought this would be the simplest job possible. Damn. I'm going to hang for this, and it's only my first day.”

“Oh, cheer up. You're not going to hang. I told you, I always know. Although it was more clever of Father than usual to try somebody from the peerage, and with decent conversation for once. If you'd affected ignorance I'd have probably believed you, and just assumed you were a gold digger. You're a very unlikely spy.”

“That was the idea. You really won't tell him you've found me out already?”

“No,” she reassured him. “Easier to let him go on thinking we've simply hit it off. Are you going to ask for bribes?”

He drew himself up, puffing like a pigeon. “I should certainly think
not
.”

Freddie nodded and smiled. “Excellent, then. We shall pretend to court, you'll report to my father that I'm innocent as a lamb without a suspicion in the world, I won't tattle on you, and otherwise I'll continue to do exactly as I like. Agreed?”

Barnabas hesitated. “I can't agree to that, Miss Murcheson. I'm ordered to know your whereabouts at all times, I'm afraid.”

“Catch me if you can, my lord.”

He sighed. “This is not turning out at all as I'd imagined.”

They stared out at the dancers, each lost in their own thoughts for a moment, before Barnabas gathered himself and offered his arm.

“Would you care to dance?”

Freddie eyed his arm but didn't take it. “Oh, you shouldn't dance with me. It'll stain you indelibly.”

“Are you socially unfit in some way?”

“Quite ruined, I'm afraid. Not in
that
way, mind you,” Freddie reassured him, though she wasn't sure why it suddenly mattered to her. Lord Barnabas Smith-Grenville's opinion of her, good or otherwise, was irrelevant. “But I'm hopelessly odd, you see. I used to do quite well on the marriage mart. There were proposals and so forth, and though I never accepted, that only heightened my allure. Then at the end of last Season I made a critical mistake and let boredom overcome me at one of these things. I don't do well with boredom.”

“You fell asleep?”

“I was caught in the host's study, fondling his big inclinometer.”

Barnabas coughed into his hand, a charming blush spreading up his cheeks. Or rather, she observed, a red mottling spread there. It was objectively unattractive, regardless of how she might view it subjectively. A grown man blushing like a schoolboy shouldn't charm one.

“I . . . I'm afraid I don't see.”

“A mariner's astrolabe. And I wasn't so much fondling it as reassembling it.”

“Ah. Which suggests that at some point prior you had—”

“Disassembled it, yes. Because it was broken. It had a clever display function, a set of powered number wheels to show the latitude and longitude findings, with translucent glass number panels so they could be backlit for use in the dark. On a submersible, say. But the connections on those things are fiddly and tend to jostle loose when the inclinometer is running. I found the thing on his desk with a note to his man of business attached, saying, ‘Bin this rubbish and refuse the bill.' But it wasn't rubbish; I could clearly see the problem was just a question of tightening a few things up. My real mistake was deciding to replace the copper wire to the bulb fixture with silver. Too time-consuming.”

He seemed to consider this for several moments, then asked a question she wasn't expecting. “You happened to have silver wire about your person at a ball? Just in case you ran across a piece of broken equipment , or . . . ?”

Freddie reached up, touching the blossom-strewn curl that draped down upon her shoulder. “I happened to have silver wire in my hair. It spiraled from the crown of my head down around the loose curls, and between the strands were crystal flowers. It was lovely. Until I cut it out, of course, to use in the inclinometer.”

“Of course. I see.”

“Now you see.”

His lips tightened in what she supposed might be sympathy but was likely either disapproval or another suppressed smirk. “One mistake, and you paid for it with your reputation. Clearly not fit to marry, the sort of girl who takes her hair down and strips a man's inclinometer to its parts the minute her chaperone's back is turned.”