Читать книгу A Marquess, A Miss And A Mystery - Энни Берроуз, ANNIE BURROWS - Страница 14

Nick walked across the room as though he had some destination in mind, though in truth his mind was reeling too much for him to pay attention to such mundane matters as where he was going, or who he’d just smiled at as he’d brushed past them.

Because her claim of being his codebreaker rang with so much truth it was like a peal of bells. Hadn’t he always marvelled at Herbert’s ability to stay up all night drinking, then roll up with a deciphered message the very next day? There had been no denying Herbert’s charm, or his ability to cosy up to some low-life and ferret out his deepest secrets. But he’d wondered, more than once, if his friend might be using someone else to do the hard graft behind the scenes.

Someone like a sister who was so awkward in social gatherings that she’d rather sit at home poring over tables of ciphers. And who doted on her brother so much that she gladly let him take all the credit.

He’d wandered over to the buffet table. Deciding he might as well make it look as if he’d gone there on purpose, he picked up a fresh wine glass and held it out for the footman to fill. His hand, he noted with consternation, was trembling slightly.

He took a deep draught of the fortifying drink and then strolled to the nearest mirror, as though to examine his reflection. He looked calm, thank goodness. Slightly amused, if anything. Which was a relief. He did not want anyone to know that, after his encounter with Herbert’s sister, his heart was pounding with excitement, his mind racing with possibilities. Because this revelation that his codebreaker, his Portunus, still lived, changed everything. If she really was what she claimed, then he wasn’t finished after all.

‘I’m not surprised you need a stiff drink after that little scene,’ came a bitter voice from just below the level of his left shoulder. The fact that his sister, Lady Twickenham as she now was, had managed to approach him without him noticing warned him that he needed to pull himself together. So what if little Miss Carmichael was his Portunus, had been acting as his codebreaker and opener of the doors to all the secrets England’s enemies were trying to pass on to the French? He wasn’t going to be able to carry on his work if he could allow himself to become this inattentive to all that was going on around him in a room.

‘Yes,’ he drawled, turning from the mirror to give his sister back the kind of sarcastic smile she’d expect. ‘It did all rather escalate.’ Had escalated beyond anything a feather-brained creature like she could imagine. Jane’s life revolved around fashion and status and gossip. And she assumed he was as shallow as she.

He’d taken pains to make sure of it. Although recently, he’d been starting to feel the muscles in his face creating smiles that held far more disdain than amusement. And when he checked those smiles in a mirror, more often than not he appeared cynical. Jaded. The way Jane looked all the time.

‘I only wonder,’ she said, ‘that you took notice of such a dowdy in the first place.’

‘It had the effect of annoying His Grace,’ he pointed out, as though that had been his sole intent on approaching his friend’s sister. And Jane, being the kind of person she was, assumed that was what he’d meant.

‘You are a wretch,’ she said with a maliciously approving smile, rapping him lightly on the wrist for good measure. ‘I had wondered why you came, knowing how you must feel about the Cuckoo.’ She darted a look of loathing in the direction of their half-brother.

He followed the direction of her gaze. Their half-brother was looking straight back at them, his beetling brows drawn down into a scowl with which Nick was all too familiar. A scowl which sent his mind flying right back to the first time they’d encountered each other, as boys. In their father’s study, here at Theakstone Court. And the shock he’d experienced upon hearing that the surly, swarthy oaf who’d looked, dressed, and smelled like a farm labourer was going to inherit the house and the title that Nick had been encouraged to believe was his by right. And what was more, that Nick was no longer even going to live here, but in a smaller, distant estate that he’d never even heard of before.

Nick turned his head away, set his glass down on the mantelpiece and raised both his hands to his cravat. Demonstrating, should anyone else be taking note, that he cared more for his own appearance than he did for his half-brother’s opinion. It was an attitude he’d adopted very early on, in order to conceal his devastating pain at being cast off like an old shoe. Oliver might be the first born and the rightful heir, and nowadays also one of the wealthiest men in England, but Nick was never going to let him forget that, once, Nick had seen him standing hat in hand, shuffling his feet in their scuffed boots.

After adjusting the set of his already perfectly arranged neckcloth, Nick returned his gaze to the scowling Duke, raising his quizzing glass as he ran a disparaging eye over the bulky frame in its sombre clothing, before allowing his lips to twist in just the hint of a disdainful grimace, before switching his attention back to his sister.

Who’d so bitterly referred to the Duke as a cuckoo.

But then that was how it had seemed, to start with. As though the moment he’d come to Theakstone Court, Nick and his sisters, along with their mother, had been tossed out of their cosy nest.

The truth was, however, that even though they’d all resented the boy whose appearance had made their father look at them all differently, the analogy fell down under scrutiny. Because no matter where Oliver Norrington had spent the first eleven years of his life, there was no disputing the fact that he was the legitimate first born. And that Nick would remain second best for ever. No matter what he did.

‘Should I,’ said Nick, quirking an eyebrow at his sister’s reflection, ‘ask why you are here, then?’

She gave a little shrug. ‘Anyone who is anyone has been invited. It is the event of the Season. Even the Wortley-Fortescues are posting back from Paris to attend.’

Yes, so they were. He turned to his sister slowly, giving his mind the leisure to ponder that fact before having to come up with the kind of spiteful witticism she would expect.

The Duke had put it about that he had invited so many of the great and good of the land to Theakstone Court because he wanted to introduce his bride to society from his own home, rather than pitching her into the hothouse that was London. Yet, what better excuse could there be for getting all the members of a network together? They could exchange the latest information they’d gathered over a hand of whist, or while out riding in the park, to whoever intended to take it to their paymasters in France. That must have been what Miss Carmichael had meant by her comment about him having the same reason for coming here as she did. She clearly thought he’d come to Theakstone Court on the trail of those responsible for her brother’s death.

And he’d said nothing to disabuse her of that opinion. Because he wanted her to think he was at least as clever as she. Yet only now did he regard the way the room was already thronging with all the noblest and most influential members of society left in England with suspicion. For many of them, as his sister had just pointed out, had already taken advantage of Bonaparte’s defeat and crossed the Channel to see Paris. Or Brussels. Or any other of the cities that had been impossible to visit while Europe had been at war. And once the celebrations for the Duke’s nuptials were done, many more of them would take to ships and flock to the Continent. And only a very few people, who knew that information was being passed to the French, would think anything other than that the fashionable were determined to keep up with the latest trend.

‘I cannot deny that it has also given me a great deal of pleasure to install my own children in the nursery where we all used to play,’ his sister added, with a flash of malice. The sister who’d correctly deduced why he was here.

Because she knew him. She knew that he could, and frequently did, act from petty motives. Over the years, he’d gone from doing his utmost to prove to his father that he was the better son, to creating the biggest scandals he could simply to get the old devil to notice he still existed.

‘Mary did the same. We thought we should make a point, you know.’

‘And what point would that be,’ he said, ‘precisely?’ That they were still pouting over the fact that their father had been unjust and unkind? ‘She was only a babe when we left. She can surely recall nothing of this house, or what it was like to live here.’ He’d only been approaching his sixth birthday himself. Though some things were impossible to forget. Like this room. He let his eyes wander over the nymphs frolicking about the frieze below the elaborate plaster adorning the ceiling. All that yellow. Like sunshine, Mother had always said, although today it put him in mind of lemons and the bitter taste they left in the mouth.

‘We still have more right to be here than...than anyone else.’ She shot a look of sheer loathing at Miss Underwood, who was hanging on to the Duke’s arm and gazing up at him with a worshipful expression. He couldn’t quite believe that any woman could look at any man with quite so much open adoration, let alone a man like the Duke.

‘Especially that by-blow of his.’

‘His what?’ He whipped round to look at her.

‘Oh, didn’t you know? Our perfect brother has blotted his copybook. And rather than making any attempt to be discreet, he has brought the fruit of his misdeeds into his house and is forcing that stupid girl to acknowledge it. And she is making a mull of things, from what I hear. The schoolroom is in total chaos, at any rate, since there is no governess in residence.’

She’d said it at the top of her voice. As though hoping anyone within earshot would hear. Because she was furious. And no wonder. It was bad enough to have been thrown out as though they were chaff. But to hear that Oliver was prepared to bring an illegitimate child here really turned the knife in the wound.

He turned to stare at his half-brother with resentment. Was he doing it to make a point? To tell the world that he held even a bastard in higher esteem than his own legitimate siblings?

By God, he hoped that Miss Carmichael was right. That this week-long celebration of the Duke’s nuptials to a nobody really was a front to disguise the true purpose of gathering this particular set of people here. That among them all was a small group who were dedicated to betraying their country by passing on highly sensitive information to the French. Specifically, to those segments of the French population who persisted in supporting Napoleon Bonaparte and stirring up as much unrest as they could. Who’d do whatever it took to see him restored to power, even if it meant plunging Europe back into a state of warfare.

When he and Herbert had first been alerted to what was going on, he’d leapt at the chance to find out who the traitors were, believing there could be nothing more satisfying than preventing Europe from descending into warfare again. But if the Duke was mixed up in this particular act of treason...then, oh, yes, that would really be something.

Even if the Duke wasn’t mixed up in it, at the very least Nick would stir up a hornet’s nest.

He looked round the room at the wedding guests who’d already arrived. Miss Carmichael seemed to believe that her brother’s killer was here. Possibly in this very room. Why? What did she know that he didn’t?

Hah. Probably a great many things. He’d been so distracted since Herbert’s death that he hadn’t even heard about the Duke’s love child.

He had to pull himself together. The room was teeming with nobles, politicians and high-ranking clergy. Any one of whom could have turned traitor and then had Herbert killed rather than risk exposure. Because Herbert had been getting close. Too close for someone’s comfort, clearly. Else why have him killed?

He altered his stance, just a touch, so that he could see the corner of the room in which Herbert’s sister was sitting. She was nibbling at a slice of chicken, rather disconsolately. Because he’d told her she was no good at this line of work.

And she wasn’t. Yes, she could decipher codes, but she had no talent for the kind of double-dealing that had come to Herbert naturally. She couldn’t sit up all night drinking a potential source of information into a stupor, lulling them into a false sense of security by ladling on the charm. She couldn’t befriend someone and, under the guise of gossiping, gain their sympathy and get them to reveal far more than they should.

And yet she wanted to track down Herbert’s killer. It was why she’d come here. It must be. It certainly couldn’t be for the reason most women would attend a wedding. She wasn’t one of those who went to any lengths to get invitations to the most fashionable events, to get a rich, titled husband. Since she’d stumbled through her first Season without taking, she’d gained a reputation for disliking men. You only had to look at her to see she had no interest in fashion, either.

And from what she said, she had information that, when put together with what he knew, might blow the whole conspiracy wide open.

But how could he involve her in an affair that had become so dangerous that even Herbert, a skilled operative, hadn’t survived?

And Herbert had been so determined to keep her out of things that he hadn’t let anyone, not even Nick, know she was making any contribution to their work at all.

Not so determined, however, that he’d had any scruples about getting her to decipher the coded messages that had occasionally fallen into their hands.

‘Whatever is it about that creature that has you so fascinated?’ His sister’s strident tones broke into his thoughts, making him aware that for the last few minutes he’d been staring at Herbert’s sister, while debating with himself whether he could, in all conscience, bring her on board.

‘I am wondering whether it would be profitable to cultivate her acquaintance.’

‘What, a drab little thing like that? Not your usual style, Nick.’ Though then she grinned. ‘What mischief are you plotting? It has to be something exceptionally wicked for you to get that particular look on your face.’

‘I shall not tell you,’ he said with sincerity. The last person he could tell of his sensitive dealings with government ministers was a gabblemonger like Jane. He might as well take out an advertisement in The Times. ‘But what I can promise you is that our half-brother is not going to like it.’

‘Oh, goody,’ she said. ‘If there is anything I can do to help, you have only to let me know. I would give almost anything to see that smug expression wiped off his face.’

Yes, even to the point of conniving in an innocent damsel’s downfall, by the look she was shooting Miss Carmichael.

Though was he any better? His plans for her were not of the sort Jane assumed. But they would bring her into just as much danger. And not merely of her virtue, but possibly of her very life.

If he was a less selfish man, he wouldn’t dream of involving her. But he was selfish. The work he’d begun with Herbert had given him a sense of purpose for the first time in his life. And he was good at it, too. He simply didn’t want to give it up.

Besides, preventing a war was more important than the welfare of one insignificant female.

Wasn’t it?