Читать книгу Courting Danger With Mr Dyer - Georgie Lee - Страница 12
ОглавлениеMoira stood near the back of the line of mamas watching their daughters whirl about the Dowager Marchioness of Camberline’s impressive ballroom. A grand, arched ceiling presided over the rectangular space, at one end of which, in a balcony, the musicians played. At the other end, guests traversed the curving staircase to join the festivities or paused on the single landing to look over the crush. Tall windows punctuated the long run of the opposite wall and all of them were open to let in the cool night air. Camberline House in Mayfair was one of the last houses still surrounded by an extensive garden and land. There was some distance between it and its nearest neighbour and the stately trees and rolling lawn beyond the windows, illuminated by torches, gave Moira and the other guests the impression of being in the country.
A few days ago, Moira had eagerly looked forward to tonight. Once here, the thrill of it lost its allure. Freddy was in the gaming room while Aunt Agatha was off enjoying refreshments with her friends. Moira, being a widow, didn’t need a chaperon and so she’d been abandoned to face the crush alone. Growing up, she’d never spent much time in London, and after marriage and widowhood, she’d continued to avoid town. It left her with no friends here her age and no social circles beyond those her aunt had dragged her into, including as a patroness of the Lying-in Hospital. Those people she did know were from her parents’ or grandparents’ era and she was hesitant to approach them. She’d spent her marriage surrounded by an old husband and his aged friends. She was a young woman and she longed to spend time with people her age. Moira played with the string of her fan, trying to catch the eyes of those around her, but with all their acquaintances already set, no one was interested in forming a new one with her.
Moira sighed. It’d been like this during her very brief and awkward Season, making her isolation even more severe. It seemed as if things had changed, but they hadn’t. Aunt Agatha still railed against Mr Dyer while Moira continued to stand alone in ballrooms.
‘Good evening, Lady Rexford, I’m so pleased you accepted my invitation,’ an elegant voice with a hint of a French accent greeted Moira, breaking the solitude surrounding her.
Moira turned to find the Dowager Marchioness of Camberline beside her, the woman as stately as a Gainsborough in her swathes of mauve silk and black netting. With her grey eyes above a thin nose, she’d turned a number of heads in London after she’d fled the Reign of Terror. Once here, she’d enjoyed her pick of suitors, settling on the much older Marquess of Camberline and the fine fortune and title he’d offered her. Despite a son who’d just reached his majority and being a widow, she was still a stunning woman with little grey in her dark hair. It should have been a relief to at last have someone to speak to, but something about the stately woman placed Moira on edge. ‘I have fond memories of your grandparents dancing at Lady Elmsworth’s parties after I came over from France. Your grandmother was one of the few who refused to wear the red ribbon around her neck. A number of people considered her eccentric because of it, but she adapted so well to England, unlike many others. Good evening, Lady Rexford.’
Her strange reminiscence shared, the Dowager Marchioness swept off to join Lord Moreau, Lord Lefevre and the young lady beside him holding his arm. The woman, who Moira didn’t recognise, was about Moira’s height with blonde hair and a gown cut much lower than even the current fashion favoured.
Lady Camberline tolerating the bold young lady surprised Moira, but not her abrupt departure from Moira. Lady Camberline had been similarly terse with her time and words when she’d extended the ball invitation to Moira and Aunt Agatha while they’d been here for the patroness meeting two days ago. She was surprised the other woman had deigned to notice her tonight, but perhaps Moira was not as easily overlooked as she’d believed.
Moira cast about in search of a familiar face or a friendly invitation by another guest to indulge in conversation. Neither was forthcoming, but she didn’t mind as much as before. In truth, it was Mr Dyer’s presence she eagerly sought instead of anyone else’s. In the few short hours since they’d parted, she’d thought of little except him and his request. Not even the dilemma of which woefully out-of-fashion gown to wear, or the worry of re-entering society after having been gone for so long, had been enough to banish the memory of his stern eyes on hers and the pointed tone of his voice. It seemed, despite the importance he’d placed on tonight, he hadn’t managed to secure an invitation. It ruined her chance of offering her assistance. Let Aunt Agatha disapprove of an acquaintance with him, it wasn’t up to her to decide who Moira did or did not consort with.
Then, at the top of the staircase, Mr Dyer entered the ballroom. He wore a sedate coat of black, a white shirt and cravat and the required fawn-coloured breeches. The darkness of his coat emphasised the seriousness of his expression and captivated Moira. She shouldn’t be this taken with his appearance, but she couldn’t help it. Thankfully, there was no one about to notice her reaction and condemn it. She didn’t need others adding their doubts to hers and making her waver in her resolve.
While the footman was busy listening to the names of an older couple waiting to descend, Mr Dyer slipped around behind him and down the short staircase. At the landing, he stopped to take in the room with the same seriousness as the moment before he’d galloped away from Aunt Agatha. He scanned the guests like a hawk does a field in search of prey, making Moira wonder who he saw and what he suspected, but she couldn’t tear her attention away from him long enough to follow his gaze.
Sensing her watching him, he turned to face her. She didn’t look away, but smiled as if he were a welcome visitor in her house. A scowl crossed his face, especially when she began to thread her way through the guests towards him. Her heart beat as fast as an out-of-control carriage the entire time she moved, afraid he’d stride away from her as quickly as he’d ridden off this afternoon. She wouldn’t blame him if he cut her, but it didn’t make the possible slight, and the disappointment it would bring, any easier to endure. She craved another taste of the hint of adventure he’d offered her this morning and at the same time recognised how silly she was for pursuing it. This was real treason with potential consequences, not some scintillating crime story in the papers. Still, she didn’t stop, but approached him with confidence, refusing to question or alter her decision.
He didn’t bolt off in the other direction, but moved down the stairs, one firm hand on the railing, watching her the entire time until he was at the bottom and she was before him.
‘Mr Dyer, I’m glad to see you tonight.’ He didn’t smell of cologne or shaving soap, but the more potent scent of sweat and leather, the same one which had enveloped her during their misguided and brief engagement. Her husband had never smelled this raw, not even in the midst of his exertions. She snapped open her fan and waved it in front of her face, more to revive rather than to cool herself.
‘Are you?’ Mr Dyer challenged, his self-assurance nearly shaking hers.
‘I am.’ She adjusted one of her diamond earrings, turning to watch the crowd instead of him, but keenly aware of him beside her. ‘I’ve given a great deal of thought to what you and I discussed this morning, and this afternoon, and I’ve decided to offer my assistance by making whatever necessary introductions you need tonight. I may not know very many people here, but I know a few.’
She traced the heavy necklace pulling at the back of her neck while she waited for his response.
He didn’t smile in grateful relief, but eyed her with a strange curiosity which made her shift in her slippers. ‘What brought about this change of heart?’
She pitied the people he’d interrogated in the past. He was being kind to her and already she felt herself shrinking. ‘I’ve had more time to consider the situation and I realised you were right. This is larger than me or Freddy. I love England and I won’t see her, and with it Freddy and Nicholas’s legacies, destroyed.’
Five years ago there might have been more to her offer, but whatever intimacy they’d enjoyed had been snapped like a frayed rope pulled too hard. It couldn’t be knotted together again and she shouldn’t wish it to be. He had his duties and she had hers. Helping him was the only place where they intersected.
* * *
Bart noticed how Moira’s fingers trembled while she adjusted her necklace, the play of her fingers so near the swell of her firm breasts as startling as her offer to help him. After Rotten Row, he’d written her off, intending to come here and find some way to manage things himself. He hadn’t expected her to change her mind and he should accept her help, but he hesitated. Her offer was sincere, but he doubted the veracity of Lady Rexford’s sudden change of heart. She’d do him no good if she crumpled every time the aunt opened her mouth and he had more important business here tonight then fending off disapproving relations. If he wanted to do that he’d attend his parents’ soirée. ‘Won’t your aunt object?’
‘Yes, but it and so many other things are not her decision but mine.’ She settled her shoulders with admirable seriousness, the movement making the diamonds sparkle.
Her defiance revealed a strength of will he hadn’t witnessed in her before, one he hoped she continued to develop. He sensed her happiness relied on her doing so. It shouldn’t matter to him if it did, but by volunteering to help him she was coming under his protection and he was never one to give up on any person in his service, and he needed her. With none of his former clients in attendance, she was, at the moment, the best person to help him. ‘Thank you, Moira.’
She started at his use of her given name. He hadn’t intended to be informal with her, but it’d slipped out, her name as natural on his tongue tonight as when he’d proposed to her. He flexed his hands at his sides, refusing to dig up the past. It had no bearing on the present situation.
‘You’re welcome, Bart.’ She adjusted a comb in the tangle of blonde curls arranged high above her neck. ‘Now, who would you like to meet?’
‘The Comte de Troyen.’ Bart nodded at a dark-haired man with a long face and the longer nose of the Hapsburgs standing by the window with Prince Frederick. ‘He came over during the Peace of Amiens and is good friends with the Prince.’
‘You think he’s one of them?’
Her arm brushed Bart’s when she shifted on her feet to get a better view of the Frenchman. The charge arching between them was unmistakable. He didn’t flinch, but it threatened to rock him off balance as hard as when Mr Flint had first told him of the plot. He drew on the steadfastness of purpose he used in the court to keep opposing counsel from rattling him to put aside his personal feelings and focus on the Comte.
‘His friendship with His Highness gives him ease of access to sensitive information and he has the strongest connection to France.’
‘Most of the people here have deep connections to France.’ Moira levelled her fan at a group of elderly men and women chatting near the dance floor. ‘Mr de Rue’s father was the Chevalier de Rue. Lady Mortley’s father was the Comte de Boulogne. Lady Wortley’s parents were the Duc and Duchesse d’Oiseau. All of these people had aristocratic parents or grandparents who fled to England after the revolution and married their children to earls and dukes.’
‘What about Lord Camberline’s grandparents?’
‘They weren’t lucky enough to escape and were guillotined in France, but not before they spirited Lady Camberline to England to be raised by Lady Elmsworth. She was an old goat of a countess who used to give me the chills whenever Mother had her in for tea.’
Bart studied the clutch of ageing aristocrats. He rarely spent time in society or paid much mind to who did what unless it was pertinent to one of his trials or investigations. It left him at a loss and he didn’t like being without information. It was the reason he’d first approached Lord Fallworth and why he was grateful, if not surprised, to have his sister beside him, the creaminess of her smooth skin heightened by the candlelight. ‘Those are connections but they’re older ones, before Napoleon came to power. The Comte was in France until the Peace of Amiens and when Napoleon restored many of the old aristocrats’ titles and lands, the Comte de Troyen’s were returned to him as well, and no one knows why.’
‘Maybe Napoleon was trying to lure the Comte back to France to help bridge the gulf between the old guard and the new regime. I understand the Comte was an accomplished French statesman at one time. It’s how he survived the Reign of Terror.’ She touched her fan to her delicate chin. ‘It seems to me neither his title nor lands are much good to him in England. With the blockade, not even letters can get through, much less any payments.’
‘Given what I’ve seen of smugglers, it isn’t difficult to slip things through the blockade. If I knew why Napoleon restored his lands, it might answer a great deal to either his innocence or guilt, but the Comte is adept at keeping his business to himself, making him one of the more difficult men for me to investigate. The members of the Rouge Noir are a cautious lot.’ They didn’t gamble or drink to excess, making learning much of anything, including the identity of its members, difficult.
‘I can’t guide you on how to investigate his circumstances, but I can arrange the introduction. My father, and my husband, were well acquainted with Prince Frederick, making him one of the few people here I know. Follow me.’ In a flutter of dark blue silk, she made for the pair of men.
Bart followed, noting the sway of her dress around her hips and the tempting view of the smooth skin of her shoulders and neck beneath her high coiffure. He appreciated her assistance, but not the reminder of her connection to the Prince. He’d been disgusted when he’d learned she’d married Lord Rexford, a man thirty years older than her and in ill health. He understood personal sacrifice, his career had seen a bevy of it, but he couldn’t comprehend surrendering legally and in body to another person just because her father had wished it. He’d never allowed his father, or anyone above him in rank, to dictate his future, much to his father’s continued dismay.
They approached Prince Frederick and the Comte de Troyen, and Bart buried any distaste he experienced for either man. It was a skill he’d honed during his many trials when he’d faced down some of the worst men to see justice done by pummelling them with arguments and evidence instead of his fists. He could be as polite and engaging when the time called for it as he could be ruthless and unforgiving when it involved rooting out enemies of the Crown.
‘Your Highness, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you.’ Moira held out her hand to Prince Frederick.
‘Lady Rexford, my condolences on your husband.’
Prince Frederick bowed over her hand. He was balding and it added to the sloped forehead sliding into a long and pointed nose. The two small eyes fixed on either side of it focused more on her chest and the generous swell of her breasts above her bodice than her lively smile. Bart had to fight the urge to step in between her and the lecherous royal. It wasn’t his place to act as her chaperon.
‘Lord Rexford and your father were a great help to me in securing funding from the House of Lords for munitions during the War of the First Coalition and you’re too young to be a widow.’
‘Thank you.’
Bart noticed how Moira gritted her teeth at the mention of her loss, and the brief flash of pity in Prince Frederick’s eyes, but her charming smile didn’t fade. It appeared, like him, she’d developed a talent for hiding her thoughts.
‘He always spoke well of his days with you and I think he regretted giving up the service. I’m very sorry to hear what happened to you, losing your post as Commander in Chief of the Army. They were wrong to let a man of your talent go. Thankfully, they came to their senses and called you back.’
‘Bloody fools, but they haven’t got a brain in their heads, not between the lot of them and no real leadership,’ Prince Frederick blustered, the veins along the sides of his nose turning a deeper red. ‘How we manage to get anything done on the Continent is amazing. Why, one lethal fever among a few too many in the Government and the entire country would plunge into complete chaos.’
‘Mon ami, surely it can’t be so dreadful,’ the Comte de Troyen exclaimed as he laid his hand over his cravat. He was tall and lithe, a bit thick in the middle from age, but the man who’d cut a swathe through society ten years ago was still evident in his aquiline nose, air of divine superiority and attire. He wore more brocade than was fashionable and a black wig.
Prince Frederick tipped the rest of his champagne into his mouth. ‘It’s worse than you think. If we didn’t have Wellington leading the army, we’d be done for.’
Bart tried not to groan at hearing Prince Frederick bluster on about the weaknesses of the Government in front of the Comte. If he was this loose with his words while mostly sober at a ball, Bart could just imagine what secrets he let slip when he was drunk at private parties. The Comte or any other traitor wouldn’t have to work hard to garner secrets for Napoleon from Prince Frederick.
Moira looked back and forth between Prince Frederick and the Comte, silently soliciting an introduction.
‘Oh, forgive me, what with the scandal and all I’ve quite forgotten my manners,’ Prince Frederick mumbled. ‘Lady Rexford, may I introduce the Comte de Troyen. You were probably too young to remember when he was the toast of London.’
‘I might have been young, but I could never forget the dashing Comte. You’re even more handsome than either the pictures in the paper portrayed you, or my grandmother used to say.’
‘And you, my dear lady, are trés magnifique.’ The Frenchman admired her with too much interest, making Bart’s back stiffen. ‘And so was your chère grandmère. So many wonderful times in Paris we had. It’s a shame the Revolution ended it all.’
‘My grandmother always used to say so, too.’ She matched the sombreness of the Comte’s voice, allowing his regret and hers to hang in the air a moment. Bart marvelled at her skill in gaining the man’s trust. Some of his younger agents had yet to master such delicate persuasions. Then, after the moment passed, she motioned to Bart. ‘Your Highness, may I introduce Mr Dyer?’
‘Yes, the accomplished barrister. I’ve heard a great deal about you.’ Prince Frederick introduced Bart to the Comte. ‘Monsieur le Comte, if you’re ever in any legal trouble, this is the man to have at your side. If he’d been able to represent me in my awful affair over the sale of commissions, I might not have had to resign as Commander in Chief of the Army. But in the end I was exonerated.’
‘The truth is always the most powerful defence,’ Bart remarked and the Comte shifted in his silver-buckled shoes. It made Bart wonder what about the mention of the truth had made the Comte go white beneath his wig. It increased his suspicions about the man. ‘The discovery of which I strive to achieve in all my trials.’
‘I’ll certainly keep you in mind, Mr Dyer, but I live such a quiet life, I see no chance of troubles.’ The Comte returned his attention to Moira. ‘Might I have the pleasure of this next dance, Lady Rexford?’
Bart wanted to tell her to refuse because he wanted the Comte to remain here and not sneak away, but he was in no position to do so. He tried to catch Moira’s eye and silently dissuade her, but he failed and she held out her hand to the Comte.
‘Yes, you may.’
While the Comte led her away, she looked back over her shoulder at Bart and threw him a conspiratorial wink. He realised she was now in a better position than he was to gather intelligence on the Comte. Although Bart didn’t want her anywhere near the man and danger, he was forced to stifle an answering smile, amazed once again at this brave new Moira. With any luck, she could pry some useful information out of the Frenchman while they danced, but he prayed she remained subtle with her enquiries. He didn’t want the Comte, or anyone else who might be connected to the Rouge Noir suspecting her of more nefarious motives.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Dyer. I must speak with Lord Palmer.’ Prince Frederick strode away, having nothing further to discuss with Bart. It didn’t matter. It was the Comte and Moira who commanded all his attention.
* * *
A thrill tripped up Moira’s spine as she took the Comte’s hand and the musicians began the allemande. It wasn’t the Frenchman who inspired her, but the hint of danger in dancing with him. Bart watched from the edge of the dance floor. Despite not looking at him, she was more aware of Bart than the Comte holding her hand for the turn. It took a great deal of effort to remember the steps and to charm the Frenchman.
‘Why have I not seen you in London before tonight?’ The Comte circled her with admirable elegance.
‘Mourning and family obligations have kept me in the country.’
‘My deepest sympathies. I, too, have suffered. My wife passed and I must see to my daughter’s marriage and welfare.’ He motioned to where a young lady with his nose and eyes conversed with the tall and dashing Marquess of Camberline, much it seemed to the Dowager Marchioness of Camberline’s disapproval. Lady Camberline marched up to her son and drew him away from the crestfallen and chastised young lady. Moira pitied the girl, knowing all too well what it was like to have a disapproving parent dictate a young woman’s affections.
The Marquess didn’t stay long with his mother, making for a door at the back of the room after offering her a curt remark which made the Dowager’s lips purse.
‘I’m sorry to be so rude, Lady Rexford, but I must end our dance early,’ the Comte apologised, bringing them to a halt in the middle of a chasse. ‘There is someone I must speak with. Please excuse me.’ With a shallow bow, he hurried away in the direction of the Marquess, leaving her to stand alone in the centre of the whirling couples.
Aware of the many people watching her, Moira gathered up all the self-possession she could muster and strode back into the anonymity of the crowd. She was making for the far wall near where the chaperons stood bored and ignored when Bart appeared beside her.
‘Where’s he going?’
‘I don’t know.’ She nodded in the direction of the tall door on the far side of the ballroom. ‘But I believe it’s wherever Lord Camberline is headed.’
Without a parting word, Bart dashed off into the crowd, working to keep sight of the Comte before leaving the ballroom in pursuit of him.
Moira remained where she was, wishing she could follow him instead of being forced to remain here. Without him to chat with or to force her to interact with others, she was alone and ignored once more. She picked at her fan, wondering what she should do next when Aunt Agatha approached her.
‘Given the crush at this ball, I’m surprised to find you standing by yourself. You should make more of an effort to meet people, especially gentleman who are apt to overlook you in favour of younger and wealthier ladies.’
Despite the sting in the remark, Moira thanked providence it was her solitude and not her time with Bart her aunt had noticed. He was the one man Aunt Agatha didn’t want her to speak with and Moira didn’t relish another argument about him.
A group of women strode past them, jostling Aunt Agatha when they passed because of the crowd.
‘Lady Camberline should better manage her guest list. I’ve never seen such a crush, but I suppose one can’t expect much from a French aristocrat, no matter how long she’s been in England.’ Aunt Agatha frowned as she was forced to step aside for another group of passing people. She’d been prejudiced against the many titled French people who’d come to London after the Revolution for a long time, never really losing her dislike of them even when her brother had married Moira’s mother. She could remember the Christmas dinners when her grandparents sat on one side of the table and Aunt Agatha the other, wincing each time they spoke French to one another. It hadn’t mattered to Aunt Agatha if they’d almost lost their lives to the guillotine. Aunt Agatha detested the French nobility. ‘Well, you might as well join me and my friends. There’s no point in being a wallflower.’
‘I might as well.’ Heaven knew when Bart would return or if he needed her any longer. Spying Freddy leading young Miss Filner on to the dance floor, she realised people not needing her was fast becoming an all-too-familiar pattern in her life.
* * *
Bart followed the Comte de Troyen at a discreet distance through the refreshment room, past the one reserved for gambling and down the long hallway leading to the back of the house. The number of guests thinned as they walked and Bart dropped further and further behind the Comte to avoid being noticed. The Comte paused at a juncture where the main hallway was crossed by another one. Bart stepped back into the narrow alcove of a closed door and pressed himself deep into the shadows, not daring to move.
After a long breath, Bart leaned forward, but the Comte was gone. Bart hurried to the juncture, the thick rug muffling the fall of his shoes. He hazarded a look down one side and then the other. In the centre of the right hallway, the Comte stood with Lord Camberline, less regal and more irritated than he’d been in the ballroom. Bart leaned back against the wall, near the corner to listen to their heated exchange.
‘Don’t think I’ll allow you to renege now, not with so much at stake,’ the Frenchman insisted, showing no deference to the young man’s superior rank.
‘I won’t renege,’ the Marquess answered, as agitated as the Comte. ‘But it’s been more difficult than you realise to put everything in place.’
‘I think you’re stalling for time, to avoid doing what we agreed must be done.’
‘I want this as much as you do. It will change everything and I want it changed. I’ll send word when all is ready. I promise, it will be soon.’
‘It better be or you’ll regret it,’ the Comte threatened.
The Comte’s shoes thudded against the carpet as he stalked away from Lord Camberline. Bart dashed down the hall and into the first room he found. He left the door cracked open slightly, hiding behind it while the Comte passed by, muttering to himself in French. Whatever he and the Marquess were embroiled in, the Comte held power over the younger man and he wasn’t going to let him get cold feet. Bart would make sure the young man’s feet froze solid before he let him compromise himself or the country.
Bart waited in the empty room to give the Marquess time to pass, his eyes adjusting to the moonlight falling in through the windows along the far wall. Above the scent of wood oil, he caught another familiar and more deadly scent.
Gunpowder.
If this were a masculine room he wouldn’t be concerned. Stored hunting rifles improperly cleaned by a footman might leave a lingering scent, but the gilded chairs and comfortable sofa set before a delicate writing table near the windows told him this was a lady’s domain. The scent of gunpowder shouldn’t be here.
Bart made his way around the room, searching for the source of the scent. He found it near the writing table. He pulled open the drawers on the left side and rifled through them, but there was nothing inside except blank papers, pens and extra ink. He closed the last one and moved to search the right-hand drawers when his foot came down on something. It was a small envelope and it grated like it held fine gravel. He picked it up and carefully opened the envelope to examine the substance inside. It was gunpowder, but a redder and more pungent variety than any he’d encountered before. The colour and smell of it concerned him as deeply as the conversation he’d overheard. He tucked the envelope in his coat pocket, then peered cautiously through the cracked door to make sure the hallway was empty before he left the room.
He retraced his steps, the people and conversation growing thicker as he approached the gaming room. He moved past them and into the ballroom, intending to return to Moira. She might know something about Lord Camberline and a way for one of them to get closer to the young lord and learn more.
He stepped into the crowded ballroom, searching for her light hair, the elegant line of her jaw and the captivating eyes that had met his across a ballroom similar to this one five years ago, making him forget the need to be cautious about young ladies of higher rank. She’d accepted his invitation to dance without the snide condescension of other ladies in search of more lucrative elder sons of lords. They’d wanted nothing to do with a fifth son who earned his living from hard work, and he’d refused to endure their insolence. Moira hadn’t cared about his rank or dismissed him because of it.
No, she’d left it to the aunt to do it for her.
He spied her across the room standing with her aunt and a number of other elderly ladies, irritated at the old slight and captivated by her present beauty. Whatever the aunt still thought of him, it was clear Moira didn’t share her opinion or her aunt’s enthusiasm for her present company. She appeared as bored by the gaggle of biddies as Bart was disappointed. He couldn’t approach her while she was with them.
Damn.
Lord Camberline and the Comte were up to something and he was sure it had something to do with the gunpowder in his pocket. He needed to give the sample to Mr Flint and have his man, Mr Transom, examine it, and tell his superior what he’d overheard in the hallway. Maybe Mr Flint had received some more intelligence to help them make sense of it. It meant leaving the ball and Moira early, but he’d find a way to meet her again tomorrow and explain everything without the aunt interrupting them. He was sure Moira would understand his abrupt departure. He hoped she did because he needed her. She’d shown him tonight how she could charm men like the Comte with an ease none of his other agents could match and she was already an acquaintance of the Camberlines. It gave her access to them and their house, one he could not otherwise obtain. In light of what he’d overheard and what he’d found, it was a critical connection he had to take advantage of.
He reached into his pocket and rubbed the envelope with the gunpowder between his thumb and forefinger. The granules grated beneath the paper and his fingertips. He didn’t want Moira involved in this or in harm’s way, but her help might prove crucial to stopping the Rouge Noir. If he could keep her work to chatting to titled men and women at parties, asking the right questions or simply listening, she should be safe. He would do all he could to ensure it and not fail her or England as he’d failed Lady Fallworth.
