The Duke's Messenger (4 page)

Her wits scattered down the wind. “Head? Surely you cannot mean Tom?” She had for so long not considered Tom seriously that it required a swift mental readjustment. “Of course, Tom.”

She loved her older brother dearly, but she was fully aware that he failed in many ways to behave in a satisfactory manner. For instance, just now, of all times! She did not know precisely where he was.

This was not an extraordinary circumstance. More often than not, she did not know his whereabouts, nor when he would reappear with an insouciant smile and a regrettable lack of explanation.

“But Tom has nothing to say to the purpose,” she said, just short of a wail. “It is my aunt —”

“Of course,” said Lord Foxhall, gently chiding. “But we must do all in the most proper way, don’t you know. I should not like to chance your good opinion of me by speaking to you prematurely. I am persuaded that any impetuosity on my part would lower me in your estimation.”

She could not find words to protest. It is doubtful whether he would have heeded her, for he bored ahead. “I should not wish you to consider me as prone to follow my own wishes to the detriment of the respect I shall hope you have for me. If I
am
to prove worthy of the great privilege I dare to aspire to — at the proper time, of course — I must convince you that I am worthy of your regard.” He smiled gently and added, “I am sure I do not have to tell you that I must speak to your brother. When may I call upon him?”

“B-but I don’t know where he is!”

A flicker of an undefined emotion could be discerned on Lord Foxhall’s features. Probably, thought Nell with a sinking feeling, it was disapproval of such havey-cavey management of family affairs.

“Oh,” said the diplomatist. “I regret that his absence must of necessity postpone any formal offer on my part, for I must depart for Vienna at once. Tomorrow, in point of fact. But I am sure you are aware of my deep regard for you, and we must trust that my position may be regularized as soon
as
possible.”

“
Your
position?” echoed Nell. “Soon?”

She wished that her voice had not given her the appearance of pleading with him.

“As soon as I return from Vienna. That should not be above two months. We must get Europe settled, you know,” he added with kindly condescension, “before we can pursue our own happiness.”

He bestowed one of his more brilliant smiles on her, kissed her fingers, and was gone. She watched his elegant figure
as
far
as his carriage standing before the door.

Only then did she allow the pent-up strain of the last hours to overwhelm her, and she collapsed into a chair and abandoned herself to the racking sobs of disappointment.

Her aunt, rushing into the salon almost before the outer door closed on Foxhall’s back, was stunned. “You didn’t refuse him, Nell? He did offer, didn’t he? Nell, what happened?”

Finally, Nell recovered sufficiently to speak, not entirely coherently. “No, Aunt, I didn’t refuse. In truth, he didn’t precisely offer.”

“He didn’t? But he told me —”

“He told me too. He said — he said I was sure of his regard. He said that his position would be regularized when he got back from — from Vienna! But he didn’t offer because he didn’t have Tom’s permission!”

“He’s been too long in the Foreign Office. I vow they wrap themselves in red tape before they go to bed.”

“He is so entirely proper, you know.”

Lady Sanford struggled with disbelief. “Tom?”

“Of course not. Rowland. He does not wish to lose my regard.”

Lady Sanford thought that she could detect the slightest hint of irritation in Nell’s voice, with reason. It would be most unsettling to have one’s expectations raised to the highest pitch and then see them thwarted over a trivial point of civility.

“Where is Tom?” wondered his aunt. “We must send for him at once!”

Nell could not agree more strongly.

Where, when she needed him most, was Tom?

Chapter Four

On that same rainy forenoon, John Darcy, Duke of Whern, stood at a window overlooking the miniscule back garden of his town house on Duke Street. The house had not been opened since his grandfather’s day, not even when the present duke made his unobtrusive return from the Peninsular Wars at least three months ago.

Whernwas a stranger to London society. He had not always been so, but what was correctly rumored as a broken romance, five years before, had driven him into the army, where Wellington found him an invaluable member of his staff, particularly in connection with ascertaining, by means that no one questioned, the intentions of the enemy.

At first, he had plunged into battle in the forefront of his regiment, expecting, even hoping to be killed. Daily he summoned to his mind’s eye the features of the faithless belle who gave him every encouragement until a suitor more eligible came upon the scene.

Clearly, the prospect of an earldom once removed was more enticing to her than a thrice-removed dukedom.

Wellington had plucked him from the line to form a badly needed intelligence service. It
was
at that time that he learned of the unexpected demise of the two kinfolk standing between him and the dukedom, followed swiftly by the death of the duke himself.

Upon thoughtful consideration of whether he should by letter renew his suit of the lady in his dreams, he found he no longer experienced the slightest feeling for her. In fact, where his love and bitterness had mingled
in
him, there was left only an echoing emptiness.

Grateful for an exacting job, he plunged into the world of intelligence — also called spying — with renewed diligence.

Now, back in London, his devious habits of secrecy, acquired under stress, held him captive. He could not contemplate with anything approaching equanimity a return to what he considered a frivolous way of life. After all, when one frequently faces the strong probability of being blown apart in the next moment by Napoleonic grapeshot, one discovers
a
wonderfully altered philosophy of what is important.

On his return to London, therefore, he had not even called on the Duchess of Netwick. He knew where his duty lay, but he was reluctant to face his godmother’s ungentle quizzing. Perhaps, when he finished this last chore handed him by his government, he would make his way to Gloucester Place, with the news that he was leaving the intelligence service and retiring to his Cumberland estate.

But not quite yet. There was the parcel on the table behind him to be dealt with first.

As he looked out at the silver rain slanting down on the gray and brown of the dead winter garden the duke appeared to be an unremarkable man. His stature was not above the average, nor was his figure unusually graceful. In fact, an observer might call him stocky and even recognize the great strength that lay in him.

His hair was light brown, his nose somewhat out of the straight thanks to a mischancy rifle blow somewhere near Salamanca. His eyes were his best feature. Humor lurked in their hazel depths more often than not.

This day, the first of November, his thoughts were as leaden as the sky. His hearing was acute, and his reflexes extraordinarily swift. The slight sound behind him caused him to whirl and drop his hand to his hip, glaring at the man who had just entered. Then, recognizing him, the duke visibly relaxed.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Arthur, not to steal in like that? Had I had my pistol…” He forced a laugh. “You are perfectly safe, you know. I do not intend to carry a pistol again no matter what the provocation.”

Arthur Haveney, the duke’s aide and friend, murmured shakily, “I suppose you’ll never need to arm yourself again, now that the little emperor of the French is safely away on Elba. Although I must say I would rather see
you
armed to the teeth than take my chances with our county militia.” He shuddered. “I understand from my father that Wolcott had the men from your estate marching up and down the green, shouldering their pikes and scythes in a most belligerent manner. I vow they would be more menace than Bony himself.”

Whern laughed. “Just the same, they would have done the French a good deal of mischief, had it come to invasion.”

Arthur Haveney looked at the other with concealed affection. Whern had saved his life, more than once, and Arthur had pulled him away from the battle lines when the duke was bleeding from nose and mouth and had lost his senses. But those events were the result, rather than the cause, of the bond that secured the two. Brought up together on the Whern estate, Haveney, the son of the vicar, and the heir to the dukedom took their studies together, and their pleasures as well.

Arthur, close as a shadow, had gone with John Darcy to the peninsula as though following his leader to a self-imposed exile. Their thoughts now running, as often they did, along the same road, Whern said, “Arthur, do you feel as sadly dislodged from society as I do?”

“I never was a member of the
ton
, you know.”

“More fool the
ton
. But I meant civilization as a whole. Do you think we can ever fit in again?”

“We must, John, or remove ourselves to one of Captain Cook’s islands.”

“I believe they are quite attractive,” mused the duke.

It was unthinkable, thought Haveney, that he would ever feel in the least censorious of John Darcy, who was closer than a brother to him. But just now it did cross his mind that his friend’s exalted title meant duties that must not be shirked.

As though Whern read his mind, he said, “How much am I worth, Arthur?”

“W-worth?”

“I mean in income, idiot. Enough to snare some lady willing to wed me?”

“I should think so,” said Arthur stoutly, mentally adding that any woman who did not leap at the duke’s offer was more than a little pea-witted.

Whern turned from the window. His speaking eyes held a light that his friend deplored. Apparently the defection five years before of Miss Penelope Freeland had left a mark that would never be erased.

Arthur, standing by helplessly at that time, had all but sickened of worry over his friend’s rejection. If Miss Freeland had known that the two hitherto husky males who stood squarely between Lord John Darcy and the dukedom would succumb, one after the other, perhaps she would not have turned his offer down. Arthur would not be at all surprised if the lady tried her hand with the duke again.

“There you are, Arthur. Title and wealth — that’s what it takes. Do you suppose that…” He was clearly going to utter that certain name, but altered his direction in midsentence. “That any society miss would fetch water and powder to the guns?”

“The way they did at Valladolid?”

Silence fell, while both contemplated the subject of women. The duke in his cynical way allowed his lip to curl, while Arthur, remembering a smiling pair of liquid brown eyes in the face of a volunteer gun server, smiled in reminiscence.

Whern shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, well, not likely that a duchess will find much reason to slog powder to the guns in Cumberland, eh, Arthur? Enough of this at any rate. We’ve got to do this one last errand for the cause of freedom, and then we can retire to Cumberland.”

“Retire, John? And then?”

“Don’t tell me you will miss this — this hole in the corner of London?” He waved his hand, indicating the confined quarters that had been, in the ordinary way, merely a sitting room for his grandfather’s servants.

“No, I shan’t.” Arthur chose his words carefully. “Shall you be content to settle down and breed Herdwick sheep on the fells?”

Whern laughed in genuine amusement. “As well as you, my friend. And it’s time, you know, to put away this skulking business. While Wellington was carrying on, it was worthwhile. Our information saved the lives of our men many times over. And the opportunities for travel, Arthur! Although the next time I venture into France and Germany it will not be, God willing, in the guise of a skulking rogue following the Emperor’s armies.”

“Yet,” Arthur retorted, “I cannot see you descending in lordly fashion at exclusive hostelries. Handing one’s gloves and cloak to your downtrodden valet…”

Whern roared. “I shall fix mine host with a supercilious air and demand that the inn be cleared of all rabble lest they affront my sensibilities.” Suddenly he turned sober. “But I confess stealth does not suit in a civilian life.”

Arthur nodded. “And yet the peace is vital to us.”

“That’s why we shall see that this parcel gets to its destination.”

He pointed to the small parcel, a hand span in width and perhaps three inches high, lying on the rough surface of the deal table. He regarded it without pleasure.

“This is the — the object?” Arthur inquired.

“This is it. Why on earth they don’t send it across Europe on a velvet cushion, in the charge of a platoon of Household Guards preceded by silver trumpets, I don’t know.”

“It does look impressive, doesn’t it?” Arthur mused.

“And disgustingly official,” Whern pointed out. “I wish I had the authority to unwrap it and provide it with a disguise.”

Haveney lifted his eyebrows. He was a slender man, with ash-blond hair, long nose, and thin features, appearing more aristocratic than his superior. His aspect was coldly forbidding, until, on rare occasions, he smiled.

Just now, his lips twisted in amusement. “Authority, my lord duke? When did it become necessary for you to seek permission to do whatever it struck your fancy to do?”

“
My
lord
duke
, Arthur? I trust this does not mean you are displeased with me? Nevertheless, I am convinced that we can make this into an entirely innocuous parcel. The question is how, innocuously as well, can we get it to Vienna?”

“By diplomatic courier? Castlereagh has arranged for a regular messenger service.”

“Upon no account. This — this grenade, so to speak, would not have come to us to deal with had it been an ordinary message. Don’t, I beg of you, look at me in such a fashion. I have no secrets from you. This little bundle, looking as harmless as a spinster’s love letters — a spinster, that is, inordinately fond of red sealing wax — carries in it a load of explosives.”

“Something to frighten the allies? Men who faced down
Napoleon
?” Arthur regarded the object with awe and shook his head. “I cannot fathom what could be in it. Secret treaties?”

Whern shook his head. “I should judge the parcel not large enough. We are not told the nature of the contents, only that it must be delivered swiftly and in dead secrecy to Castlereagh.” He added drily, “I did not ask why.”

Arthur nodded. In their line of work it was best to know nothing, if possible, for then no form of questioning could elicit details better kept private. He prodded the object with a slender forefinger. “Not pliant, at least. Wrapped in wash leather?”

“Doubtless. But I can tell you this, Arthur. Castlereagh is in Vienna to settle the map of Europe. Britain wishes certain boundaries to be drawn, certain allies to be rewarded, and — ahem — certain other allies to be, if not punished, at least thwarted in what are after all excessively greedy, even, so to speak, covetous, demands and expectations.”

Arthur smiled. “You sound like our esteemed foreign minister.”

“Indeed, I was quoting him. But,” Whern continued, reverting to his normal brusque tone, “it is a prime belief — based upon whatever facts I don’t know — that Castlereagh, and therefore England, will have a decisive and vital negotiating edge if this very parcel reaches his hands by December.”

“It is clear then,” said Arthur deliberately, “that this parcel may be valued by what we may call the other side?”

“Excessively so,” Whern agreed drily. “Cherished, I should say.”

“How shall we get it there safely, then?”

“I don’t suppose you — no, no,” Whern interrupted himself, “that’s not possible. Every undercover agent in Europe may know you by sight. No, we must seek another way.”

Arthur looked up in a kind of horror. “Not you, John? If this errand is dangerous for me, it is much more so for you. Your face as well is known in certain circles, you remember.”

“No, not I,” said the duke, reassuringly. “I’m getting a little old to caper in disguise across half of Europe. Besides,” he added whimsically, “I haven’t time to grow a concealing beard. No, Arthur, I’ve done my last derring-do. And I’m not sorry. We’ve both stretched our luck too far.”

Arthur could only agree. He thought for a moment. “Why can’t this parcel, after we disguise it, of course, travel with Foxhall?”

Whern shook his head. “That idiot couldn’t find his way out of a rain barrel. Nor do we know anyone in his party whom we could trust. Besides, he is leaving at noon. We would hardly have time to make the necessary arrangements.”

Haveney was in two minds. He wondered whether John knew that Miss Freeland was still unwed but had her trap set for Foxhall. Alternately, he speculated as to the advisability of informing John that Foxhall, according to Arthur’s informative sources, was on the verge of offering — if indeed he had not already done so — for Tom Aspinall’s sister, and therefore it was to be supposed that Miss Freeland might well be casting her eyes once more in the direction of John Darcy, now so much more desirable a
parts’
than Foxhall.