Читать книгу Courting Danger With Mr Dyer - Georgie Lee - Страница 12

Chapter Four

‘A woman? Have you gone mad, Dyer? This is no work for a woman and a lady in particular.’ Mr Flint’s ruddy nose turned a shade darker. They sat in his office in Whitehall. The dark desk he occupied matched the rich tones of the panelled walls punctuated by two windows separated by a painting of the Battle of Marathon.

‘Lady Rexford is in an even better position than her brother to get close to people like the Comte and Lord Camberline. No one will suspect a woman of eavesdropping. If they did, then men wouldn’t say half of what they do to their mistresses.’

‘That’s how we got most of what we did out of Italy, through Mrs Hamilton,’ Mr Flint mumbled reflectively as he rubbed the fleshy roundness of his chin. He’d started his career in France under William Wickham and the Alien Office, recruiting spies and supporting the Royalists. He’d risen with the man as they’d sought intelligence first during the French Revolution and now against Napoleon. ‘Being a widow with no children is unfortunate for her, but to her advantage and ours in this matter. She has no dependants to put at risk, enjoys freedom of movement and is more appealing to gentlemen.’

Including Bart. He’d thought as much about her last night as he had the sample of gunpowder and everything he’d seen and heard at the ball. He cursed the distraction. This was no time to lose his head, not with the fate of the Crown at stake. ‘What about the gunpowder I gave you?’

‘Mr Transom is examining it and will report to you soon.’ Mr Flint removed his spectacles and cleaned them with his handkerchief. ‘Any more information on the man who met the Comte de Troyen in Rotten Row?’

‘Joshua is still investigating him. Given what I overhead last night, I’ll tell him to redouble his efforts.’

‘In the meantime, you should pay a visit to gaol. Mr Marks, one of Jacques Dubois’s underlings, was arrested last night for getting into a brawl down by the docks.’

‘Not like one of Mr Dubois’s men to be careless and get arrested.’ Mr Dubois was a well-known smuggler and arms procurer who was as good at getting many in the Admiralty their French wine as he was at acquiring weapons for the war effort. His deliveries of munitions meant the Government looked the other way when it came to his smuggling activities. Until this point, he’d never been suspected of treason. ‘He could be the one slipping notes and money between Napoleon and the Rouge Noir,’ Bart suggested.

‘Only one way to find out.’

Bart rose and made for the door. ‘After a night of risking gaol fever, Mr Marks should be willing to tell me a little about his employer’s less savoury connections.’

* * *

Moira reviewed the dinner menu, but was forced to read over the selection more than once before it stuck. It was difficult to concentrate on fish and chicken when all she could think about was Bart. When she’d agreed to help him and they’d walked together to meet Prince Frederick and the Comte de Troyen, she’d moved with purpose through the ballroom, a wallflower no more. Her purpose had come from Bart and his desire, shared by her, to help their country. It’d been more thrilling than anything else she’d experienced in recent memory.

And I gained nothing for my efforts.

She tapped her pen against the menu. If her help had assisted him in any way, he hadn’t informed her. He hadn’t even had the decency to send a note thanking her for her assistance or explaining his abrupt departure and failure to return.

Footsteps behind her made her turn. Freddy entered the sitting room. He appeared better today, the despair surrounding him after Bart’s visit yesterday having dissipated. However, there was a seriousness about him that made Moira grip the back of her chair as she turned to face him. He always appeared like this whenever he was about to ask her for something she wasn’t going to like.

‘I understand Mr Dyer was at the ball last night.’ Freddy picked up a German glass dish on the table beside him and turned it over to inspect the bottom. ‘A friend of mine saw you speaking with him.’

Moira tightened her grip on the chair. ‘Once Aunt Agatha abandoned me for her friends, and you left me for the cards, there were few other people I was well enough acquainted with to speak to.’

‘Surely there must have been someone else.’

Moira rolled her eyes, not interested in travelling where this conversation was leading. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to be like Aunt Agatha and start railing against him, too?’

‘I am.’ Freddy set the dish back on the table. ‘Bart and I were very good friends once, but I have to insist that you have no further dealing with him. You don’t realise how dangerous it is to our welfare.’

‘I do. He told me what happened with Helena.’ She rose and laid her hands on his shoulders. His muscles tightened beneath her palms. ‘Please don’t fret, Freddy. All he did was ask me to introduce him to Prince Frederick and the Comte de Troyen and I did. There was nothing more to it. I never even saw him after we met the gentlemen.’

‘If that’s all there was to it, then promise me you won’t become involved with or see him again.’ Freddy took her hands off his shoulders and clasped them in his, pleading with her in the oddly gentle way everyone always did whenever they asked her to make sacrifices for them.

She peered up at her brother, troubled by his anxiety. She should agree, set his mind at ease, take the easy path and avoid the conflict rumbling just beneath his request, but something in her rebelled. This was too much like five years ago when her father and Aunt Agatha had demanded the same thing. ‘I can’t do that, Freddy. I respect Mr Dyer and his work too much to cut him.’

Freddy let go of her and stepped back, a rare anger flashing in his green eyes. ‘Does he mean so much to you that you’re willing to risk your relationship with Nicholas to see him?’

Moira drew back in shock. ‘How can you threaten such a thing after everything I’ve done for him and you?’

Freddy had the decency to redden with shame. ‘Of course I appreciate all you’ve done. Nicholas, and I, and Fallworth Manor couldn’t have survived without you. It’s why I’m asking this of you.’

She was about to answer him when the faint clearing of a gentle voice made them face the sitting-room doorway.

Miss Kent stood at the threshold, a paper-wrapped bundle in her fine hands, her cheeks brushed with the flush of a recent walk. ‘Lord Fallworth, I have the clothes I collected from the tailor for Nicholas. Would you like to come to the nursery and see them? It’s time for me to wake him from his nap.’

Freddy lit up at the sight of her and it made Moira more uneasy than his interest in her and Bart. Surely it’s because of Nicholas and nothing more, but the feeling it wasn’t was difficult to set aside.

‘Yes, I’d like that. Go up and wake him. I’ll join you both shortly.’

The pretty nurse curtsied, then left. Freddy turned back to Moira, his elation from the interruption gone. ‘I’m not trying to be stern with you, Moira, but I have to think of Nicholas. He was too young to grieve for Helena, but not for you. I won’t have him suffer the way I did.’

‘How much will he and all of us suffer if the Rouge Noir succeeds?’ she challenged.

He frowned, not appreciating being trapped by her logic. ‘Such affairs are not our concern. Leave them to Bart and others to manage, otherwise, I’ll do what I must to protect my son.’

He turned on his boot heel and strode out of the room, leaving Moira alone with his threat.

She wrapped her arms around her waist to fend off the worry engulfing her. If she didn’t heed his request, Freddy might take Nicholas away from her. She loved the boy and didn’t want to be parted from him, but she chafed at being placed in this situation again. She’d given Bart up five years ago and gained very little in return for her sacrifice. She wouldn’t allow it to happen again, especially not with Freddy likely to remarry this Season. Moira’s place in Nicholas’s life would be supplanted by his new stepmother no matter what Moira decided to do today.

She walked to the window to take in the street outside, struggling against her rising frustration. With Freddy making it clear she was not as valuable to him as she’d believed, it was nice to think someone still needed her, even if it was only for a short time. Except she wasn’t sure Bart did need her. After all, he’d done nothing to make her believe he would require further assistance from her.

Then why didn’t I simply agree to Freddy’s request? Because, until she heard otherwise from Bart, there was still hope. She’d come to London to gain a new life for herself, and if she allowed others to dictate who she should and should not see then she’d never claim the independence she craved.

* * *

‘I’m here to see the man they brought in last night. I need to talk to him.’ Bart stood before the desk of the rotund gaol warden.

He didn’t look up from the large mug of cheap ale he poured himself, but continued to fill the pewter until he was satisfied, then set the jug down with a thud. ‘That might be hard. He died last night. Gaol fever.’

‘Then I want to see the body.’ He never trusted anything until he confirmed it, not the information his men brought him, or even Moira’s rejection of him five years ago as the aunt had related it until he’d spoken to Moira in private in the square near her house. It’d been a painful conversation.

The warden smacked his thick lips together as he eyed Bart. Then, with an as-you-wish shrug, he left the room, motioning for Bart to follow. They passed numerous stinking and dark cells crammed with people. Bart didn’t flinch. He’d been here too many times before to speak with possible witnesses and informants to be horrified by the dirty hands reaching out to beg a penny off him. The warden led him to the end of the block of cells and down a flight of rickety stairs to the cold stone cellar. Two bodies were laid out on tables beneath stained sheets. The smell in here wasn’t much worse than the one engulfing the cells upstairs.

‘Here he is.’ The warden flicked back an old sheet to reveal the ashen face of Mr Marks. ‘He’ll be chucked in the pauper’s pit this afternoon unless you want him. No one else does.’

‘I don’t want a dead man.’ Bart yanked the sheet off, revealing the stab wound in the man’s stomach. ‘Gaol fever?’

The warden shrugged. ‘Easier than bringing in the constable, especially for scum like this.’

‘Any idea which other prisoner did this?’

‘Yeah, him.’ He pointed to the man on the table beside him.

Bart flicked back the sheet. The second man had a similar wound. ‘A right epidemic.’

The warden threw out his hands. ‘You know how it is in here at night.’

He did. Leaving a man here to face it often opened his mouth or jogged his memory when Bart returned the next day. ‘Any idea who did the second man in?’