Читать книгу Miss Fortescue's Protector In Paris - Amanda McCabe, Amanda McCabe - Страница 12

‘And Lord Henry Haite-Withers is getting married! I’m quite sure you remember him, Christopher, he is the son of my dear friend the Marchioness of Barnsworthy,’ Beatrice Blakely said, her voice touched with barely concealed reproach. She gestured to the butler to bring in dinner’s next course as she told Chris of every bit of marital gossip.

Was it only the fish course? Chris could have sworn they should be on the fruit and cheese at least. He felt as if he had been sitting there in the gloomy parental dining room for two days.

It was ever thus with his monthly obligatory family dinners. The dining room was a cavernous space decorated in the dark greens and burgundies of the style of his mother’s youth, back when the Queen was a young mother and not grandmother of an Empire. Every corner was stuffed with tables of bibelots, porcelain figurines, old silver, vases of peacock feathers, and the dining table was laden with gilded bowls of fruit and flowers. It was draped in green damask, lined with rows of gold-rimmed crystal and platters, even when it was only he and his parents dining. It was all dark, airless, lifeless.

Yet the decor was only the outward representation of the unspoken emotions that always hung heavy in the air. His parents had not spoken a word to each other in years, if they could possibly help it, and when they did it was only for his father to send barely veiled barbs at his mother and his mother to ignore them and chatter on to no one in particular about gossip. It had been thus for nearly as long as Chris could remember. Leaving for school, even with its cold baths and canings, had been a blessing.

Matters seemed to have got even worse since Will left for his diplomatic postings abroad and married Diana Martin. Chris adored Di, she was the perfect sister-in-law, and had brought such laughter to his solemn brother’s life. Yet Chris still couldn’t fathom how Will had been able to take the matrimonial plunge in the first place. Not with such an example of connubial disharmony before them every day of their lives.

Chris took a deep gulp of his wine. ‘Is he indeed? Old Harry... Who has he tricked into taking him on, then?’

‘Oh, Christopher...’ His mother sighed. ‘Lord Henry is quite respectable now, running his father’s estate in Devonshire. His fiancée is Miss Golens, a very pretty girl, I think. Perhaps you remember her from last Season? Mrs Golens, her mother, is very charming and she and I had rather hoped you might hit it off with her yourself. She really is very sweet.’ She sighed again and picked at her trout amandine. ‘But, alas, I think every good debutante from last Season is now spoken for.’

Chris’s father, who had said barely three words since the wretched meal began, shot his wife a thunderous glance. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Beatrice? Christopher is hopeless. He will never make a respectable marriage, never settle into any useful work at all. You should direct your energies elsewhere.’

‘Oh, one must never give up hope,’ Beatrice murmured.

Chris, ever mindful of the careless façade he had to maintain, gave his mother a wide grin and drained his wineglass. He gestured to the footman for a refill. ‘I’ve been working ever so hard, Father. I go to the office for, oh, at least three hours every afternoon. It gets terribly in the way of what’s really important.’

His father’s face darkened. ‘Your brother got you that job and you should be grateful to him! He has better things to worry about than his ne’er-do-well sibling, with his postings in Vienna and now Paris, a wife to take care of...’

‘And I’m sure a nursery to set up soon,’ his wife said hopefully, but her husband ignored her.

‘You should try to make William proud, not embarrass him—embarrass all of us—at every turn. If you botch up this position, it could ruin his chances for advancement,’ Chris’s father went on. He brought his fist down on the table, rattling the copious silver and china, making Chris’s mother cringe. ‘What other pursuits could be so important as bringing honour to your family name?’

‘Oh, you know,’ Chris said with an airy wave of his hand. It was always thus when he was with his family. They could know nothing of what his work was like, so they always disapproved of him. Always thought he would never fit in. ‘There was a prize fought on Hampstead Heath last week. Couldn’t miss that, could I? It was Big Jim Barnes, I won a mint. And the races. Ascot is coming up, isn’t it?’

His mother gasped and his father turned purple behind his silver beard. ‘I will hear no more of such things in my house! And how can you afford such nonsense anyway? After that Nixson investment business last year...’

‘I didn’t lose a farthing in that business,’ Chris said and indeed he hadn’t. The Nixson business had all been a set-up through his work to catch a spy, but his parents couldn’t know that. To them he was just their disappointing son.

‘Only because your brother saved you yet again.’ His father turned away with a huff of disgust and silence reigned in the dining room again.

Chris finished his fresh glass of wine, secretly pouring most of it into a potted fern, and thought of his brother with a sharp pang of jealousy that Will was far away in Vienna. He had letters from him and Di every week, as they had to keep in touch for work as well as affection, and Chris couldn’t help but be a bit envious of how happy they were together. How seldom they had to see the elder Blakelys.

It was with the greatest of relief that he could finally escape at the end of the meal, like a man walking out of the gates of Holloway after a long sentence. His mother followed him to the hall, where she stood silently beside him as they waited for the butler to fetch his hat.

‘You know, Christopher,’ she whispered, laying a birdlike hand on his arm. ‘I do think Miss Golens has a younger sister. Not quite as pretty, perhaps, but still...’

‘Mother,’ he said. ‘No respectable lady would have me. You know that. My reputation is irredeemably rackety, I’m afraid.’ And that was exactly what had come to nag at his own mind lately, seeing how happy Will and Di were, knowing that could not be his. But that was his world and he would work with it. He just couldn’t tell that to his mother.

‘No man is truly irredeemable,’ she said. Then her face clouded, as if she remembered her husband. ‘Usually. You are so handsome and with your new place at the Foreign Office—I am sure if you worked hard...’

‘Go off to India like Will, you mean? Then come back to astonish society with my newfound sobriety?’

‘It wouldn’t hurt. Many fortunes are made in India,’ she said hopefully.

The butler came back with Chris’s coat and hat, and Chris gave his mother a quick kiss on her cheek. ‘Don’t worry about me, Mother, please. Just take care of yourself. I’ll see you soon.’

To his surprise, she caught his arm as he turned to leave. ‘Where are you off to now, Christopher?’

He was going back to the office to face a new mountain of paperwork, but he couldn’t tell her that, of course. No chink could ever show in his carefully constructed mask. He gave her a bright grin. ‘Now, a chap should never say such things to his mother.’

He gave her one more kiss and set off into the night. It was the hour most of London was bent on merriment—or mischief. He saw carriages flashing past, pale faces and bright jewels in their windows as the riders set off to the theatre or a ball. A group of men, already staggering and laughing, moved in a blur just down the street. But, despite what he wanted everyone to believe, Chris was intent on neither. He found a hansom and directed the driver to a near-deserted office building in a respectable, but not terribly elegant, part of town.

During the day, it bustled with business, crowds of men in their black bowler hats and carrying furled umbrellas hurrying on terribly important errands. At night, it was silent.

The foyer of the building was empty, the reception desk dark, but chinks of light flashed under a few doorways. Chris made his way up the stairs to his own room on the top floor and lit the lamp. The glow fell on a couple of chairs, a cabinet, a large desk covered with neat piles of papers.

He hung up his coat and hat, and only when he sat down and reached for the folder on top of the stack did he let his mask drop. He had to pay attention now and get his work finished. He had to be sombre, responsible Chris now.

Suddenly an image flashed through his mind. Emily Fortescue’s face, the French sun shining on her chestnut hair, her lips pink from their kiss. A kiss he should never have stolen, but the temptation had been overwhelming as he saw her laughing there, running lost through the maze. The intoxicating sweetness of her taste, the way she’d felt in his arms. The way he’d never wanted to let her go.

No other woman in his life had ever been able to make him feel quite like Emily did, as if he was driven half-mad by her.

Then he remembered the terrible disappointment on her face as they parted that day in Paris. The sense that something had ended before its time and he didn’t know how to fix it. Chris had become accustomed to such looks on people’s faces—he had seen them all his life. But the glimpse of that same look on Emily’s face had pierced him like an arrow and he had never quite been able to forget it. It drove him forward even more in his work, even though she would never know about it.

Chris sucked in a deep breath and pushed the memory of Emily away. She could never be his and it was no use remembering her now. He took out a sheaf of papers and started reading. Soon he was lost entirely in the work.

* * *

As the clock down the corridor tolled one, a knock sounded at his door. Chris was startled. No one ever disturbed anyone else’s work at such an hour. Worried it might be an emergency, he pushed his papers back into their folder and called, ‘Yes, come in.’

To his surprise, it was Lord Ellersmere, head of the office. ‘Ah, Mr Blakely. I’m glad to see you’re here this evening. Something has come up today and I think you might be just the man for the job.’

‘Me, Lord Ellersmere?’ Chris said, puzzled. He hadn’t been sent on a foreign assignment since the Nixson business in France and he wondered what was happening now.

‘Oh, yes.’ Ellersmere sat down across from the desk, looking immaculate in a dark suit despite the late hour. He had been working for the Foreign Office for many years and nothing ever seemed to ruffle him. ‘After your excellent work on the Eastern Star and then the Nixson business, you do seem to be just the one we need.’

Chris smiled wryly at the memory of those jobs, both in France. They had both required a great deal of subtlety, of subterfuge, and he had enjoyed them rather a lot. But his smile faded when he remembered Emily’s contempt when she’d found him on the street, ‘drunk’ and flat broke, during the Star operation. ‘The man to play the buffoon?’

Ellersmere chuckled. ‘We are very lucky you decided to work for us instead of going onstage at the Lyceum. Your skills are invaluable, and rare among our sort. But I’m not sure buffoonery is needed so much this time, though one never knows in this line of work.’

Chris was intrigued. ‘What is it?’

Ellersmere sighed. ‘Trouble with the Germans again, I fear. Have you ever heard of a man called Herr Friedland, or maybe a Madame Renard?’

Chris mentally scanned through all the case paperwork he had just been reading. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, Friedland may not be his real name, we aren’t quite sure yet. One of our people in Berlin, someone quite high up with the Crown Princess, has got word of some strange new scheme among some of the—wilder sort there.’

Chris sat back in his chair, fascinated. There was always trouble with the Germans, of course, the elderly Bismarck, the bellicose Kaiser and Queen Victoria’s liberal-minded daughter Princess Vicky always creating a stir. ‘Involving a Madame Renard?’

‘A French radical, yes, and a friend of a woman called Mrs Hurst. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? She’s a regular at the Pankhursts’ At Homes. They’re always involved in all manner of doings there.’

‘Oh, yes. I believe she is president of something called the Women’s Franchise League. Makes a nuisance of herself at Hyde Park Corner sometimes, but I don’t remember hearing of anything really nefarious there.’

‘Neither do we, though certainly radical elements like that always bear watching.’ Ellersmere chuckled. ‘Whatever would happen next if women got the vote? Female M.P.s? Preposterous.’

Chris wasn’t so sure about that. Women often seemed to him rather more sensible than most men. Laura Smythe-Tomas was one of their best agents; Emily ran her father’s business; Diana wrote articles. ‘Some women can already vote locally, of course, and sit on school boards. It seems to go rather well.’

Ellersmere frowned. ‘That is quite a different matter to what this Mrs Hurst and her ilk seem to want. We’ve heard she is setting up meetings with Madame Renard and Herr Friedland in Paris. What on earth could they be scheming about with the Germans? Our contact in Berlin thinks it is a fraud of some sort, one which could come to involve the Crown Princess. We cannot allow that to happen. We have enough to do diverting the scandals of the Prince of Wales, we don’t need one with his elder sister, as well. Not that the Princess has ever given us a moment’s trouble in herself.’

‘And how can I help? I hardly think I could infiltrate the League. I’m a good actor, as you said, but not good enough to pass as a Mrs Blakely.’ Nor was there likely to be a real Mrs Blakely by his side any time soon.

‘We just need you to go to Paris and make friends with this Friedland person. Make him think you are sympathetic to German interests and want to promote their friendship with Britain. Maybe romance Madame Renard a little. You know the sort of thing. Whatever it takes to find out what they’re up to.’

Chris seemed haunted by Paris tonight, by old memories there. By the magic of Emily herself in Paris. ‘You want me to go to France?’

‘Yes.’ Ellersmere sat back, a confiding expression on his face. ‘You know, Blakely, we have been very impressed indeed lately by your work. You have uncovered information that was invaluable. A position is soon to be open in St Petersburg which will need a—lighter touch.’

‘St Petersburg?’ Chris said, astonished. It usually took years for a man to gain a posting at such an important court. And it was a notorious tangle of complications. ‘You need a jester in Russia?’

Ellersmere laughed. ‘Hardly. It is an important post, private secretary to the Vice Ambassador, with much room for advancement if all goes well. You know, Blakely, when I was young, before I met Lady Ellersmere, I often took on tasks similar to yours. It was all most exciting. But we all grow older; we all must move forward, make changes when the time is right. A fascinating place, Russia, most challenging. You might enjoy it, even if the duties might seem a bit duller than your current work at first.’ His smile faded into sternness. ‘Provided this Paris operation goes off well.’

‘Indeed,’ Chris murmured, his thoughts racing. A real position, a high secretarial post? For him? One where he could be himself again at long last, find out what he could become once the mask was off. It sounded fascinating. It sounded like work he could grow into, now that weariness had set in at his rakish role. Could it be possible?

Ellersmere sat forward, his hands clasped. ‘I know I need not tell you, of all people, the great need for secrecy in this matter, Blakely. Paris needs a frivolous touch right now, shall we say.’

Chris nodded. He did, indeed, know how to be frivolous. He thought of Emily again, that disappointed look on her face, and a surge of energy for this new job filled him. ‘Then, yes. I think I am exactly your man.’