The Disgraceful Lord Gray

Chapter Three

The rampant disapproval at the use of his Christian name was coming off Lord Fennimore in waves, but Gray was unrepentant. The old man had insisted on accompanying him on this mission because Gray was apparently new to his precious King’s Elite. Two loyal and highly eventful, successful years chasing criminals wasn’t new in Gray’s book, but his commanding officer was a stick-in-the-mud who took for ever to impress. With Flint guarding his new bride and their key informant in their investigation in the wilds of Scotland somewhere, Warriner and Hadleigh minding the fort in London and Lord and Lady Millcroft on a similar mission in Norfolk, Lord Fennimore had reluctantly drafted Gray into front-line duty to prove his mettle, dangling the carrot of the yet undiscussed promotion temptingly in front of his face.

‘Let’s see how you do, young man, and then perhaps we shall talk.’

Hardly a blood-sworn promise, but the best anyone could hope for from the wily, manipulating, tenacious commander of the King’s Elite.

But it was that tenacity which had served them well. Espionage was a long and patient game. After two years of covert, dangerous investigations and far too many deaths, the King’s Elite had severely weakened the dangerous smuggling ring. Thanks to the new Baroness of Penmor, the French ringleader was dead, and his co-conspirators scattered in chaos. There was no longer a chance of them restoring Napoleon to power any time soon. However, despite having the names of the high-ranking British traitors who had sold the contraband on the black market, they still had no clue about the identity of The Boss—the elusive, faceless mastermind who had run the English side of the vast operation. So vast it had threatened the British economy as well as its security. The government wanted the traitors rounded up and tried as soon as possible, but without tangible proof of their guilt, all the evidence they had hinged on the testimony of one woman.

Or, in legal terms, and without further proof, hearsay.

They quickly realised they needed more than the word of just one witness if they were to make the charges stick. The Boss had no interest in Napoleon, or laws, or lives. He only cared about profit. Under Lord Fennimore’s guidance the King’s Elite had allowed the dust to settle, watched and waited. A man like The Boss would be ruthless in repairing all they had destroyed and they didn’t have to wait very long for the smugglers, suppliers and greedy distributors to begin to piece together some of the tattered remnants of the operation.

Already, more illegal brandy was trickling back on to British shores and, because they had been allowed to do so unhindered, the smugglers were becoming bolder.

The Boss didn’t know they knew. Nor did he know the net was closing in and they intended to catch him red-handed. The Boss also did not know they had narrowed down his true identity to one of two men. He was either the Earl of Winterton in Norfolk or Gray’s target—and the delicious redhead’s guardian—Viscount Gislingham. Whoever he was, he would soon be rotting in the Tower, awaiting his execution. And Gray knew he spoke for all his comrades—both living and recently dead—that that day couldn’t come soon enough. Too much blood had been spilled already.

‘I hope you don’t mind, Miss Cranford, but I thought it made sense to use your invitation to introduce the both of us to our new neighbours. Hopefully I shall make a better first impression on them than I did on you.’ Fennimore had practically spat feathers when Gray had confessed to being caught in the altogether by Gislingham’s niece. He had yet to appraise him of Trefor’s hand in practically drowning her. ‘Once again, allow me to offer my sincerest apologies.’

There were two pretty, pink circles on her cheeks at the reminder, but she held his gaze politely. ‘None are needed. Let us draw a veil over it.’

She blinked rapidly, luring his eyes to her ridiculously long, brown-tipped lashes before her hand fleetingly went to her riotous copper curls. She had beautiful hair. Unusual, but invitingly tactile. The obviously natural ringlets were not uniform. Tight spirals and loose curls wove together, begging to be touched and properly examined. If he pulled one, for instance, how much longer would it be? Double? Triple? Perhaps quadruple the length? In sunlight it crackled like fire. Wet, it deepened to auburn. Here in this bright drawing room it was vibrant, but the lack of direct light brought out the other tones. Bronze. Gold. The merest hint of chestnut. What would the pale moonlight do to it? He was staring at her head and she saw it. A little wrinkle of annoyance appeared between her russet brows, no doubt at his impertinence, before she quashed it.

‘Would you like me to introduce you to my uncle and aunt?’ Of their own accord, his eyes had now dropped to her lips. They were very kissable indeed. Soft, plump, a deeper shade of pink than the blush that stained her porcelain cheeks. Why couldn’t he stop gazing at her when he knew he needed to focus on being a better spy?

‘We would like that very much indeed, Miss Cranford.’ Lord Fennimore shot him a withering glance and inclined his head, giving away no indication as to exactly how much the pair of them were looking forward to meeting their potential nemesis. ‘You are most generous in forgiving my idiot cousin. Rest assured we have had words about the incident.’ His superior had said all the words, mostly in a very loud, agitated voice which had sent poor Trefor into hiding for hours. Unfortunately, they were all justified.

Lord Fennimore held out his arm and Miss Cranford took it, and for some inexplicable reason Gray felt a pang of jealousy. ‘Please lead the way.’

He suppressed the errant emotion and focused on the job in hand. At his best guess, there were twenty or so people in the room, all regarding them with interest. The fact they did nothing to disguise it was refreshing. In town, showing interest was one of the Seven Deadly Sins and everybody schooled their features to look bored. Provincial society was very different and one Gray was surprised to find himself comfortable within. Once upon a time he had loathed it, couldn’t wait to leave it and headed to the capital as soon as he was able. But it was actually rather nice to see what people were thinking for once. It made him oddly homesick.

Holding court on the striped damask sofa was an attractive woman of middle years wearing a fashionable day gown which must have cost more than a month’s worth of his salary. French lace and silk. You couldn’t spend your days catching smugglers and not recognise some of the spoils. She turned her head towards him, then smiled, her gaze flicking briefly to his reluctant new distant cousin, then sliding back to his. ‘Strangers? How exciting, Thea.’

‘Lord Fennimore. Lord Gray. This is my Aunt Caroline, Viscountess Gislingham. Aunt—these are our new neighbours, who have recently taken residence at Kirton House.’

As introductions went, it was very proper, yet he was convinced he detected some censure in her tone beneath all the politeness one would expect from a well brought-up young lady. A quick glance to his right and Miss Cranford’s features were quite bland as Lord Fennimore stepped forward to take the Viscountess’s hand.

‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. I hope you do not mind our unannounced arrival. We were keen to meet you all.’ He was almost as keen to meet the wife of The Boss as the man himself. Wives were rarely innocent, in his experience.

‘It is always a delight to make new friends, my lord.’ The Viscountess’s eyes slowly panned to Gray’s again and held, making him wonder if she was saying more than hello.

As the old man stepped back, Gray stepped forward and bowed. ‘You have a beautiful home, my lady.’

Her gloveless fingers grasped his. Squeezed softly. ‘Thank you. One you are always welcome in.’ A definite invitation. Unexpected, but interesting. Something which might come in useful for the mission. He felt the back of his neck prickle and was instantly suffused with guilt—even more unexpected, but there regardless. As he stepped back he tilted his head to investigate the source, despite already knowing in his bones it was she. Miss Cranford’s face was still bland, but her eyes were not. They were disappointed. Was she disappointed in her aunt or him? Ridiculously, he hoped it was the former.

‘I shall let Thea take you on the rounds to meet everyone and then you must come directly back to me.’ The Viscountess smiled at Lord Fennimore. That smile morphed into something entirely different by the time it reached Gray. She glanced up at him through her lashes, then the tone of her voice dipped ever so slightly as she lingered over the vowels. ‘I absolutely insist.’

It was a subtle invitation, purposefully ambiguous, yet to him—a man of the world who knew how the game was played—he was now left in no doubt. The Viscountess wanted to play. Something which should have excited him, because it gave the King’s Elite a way into the Viscount’s circle, but instead he found it distasteful because Lady Caroline was not her niece. More evidence of his lack of focus, no doubt, and time to be that better spy.

For the next few minutes, while his nostrils twitched at the alluring perfume Miss Cranford wore, they were introduced to the gentleman who seemed to hang on their hostess’s every word. The local solicitor, Mr Partridge. The second son of the Marquess of Allerton. A local landowner who dabbled in stocks. They were soon joined by the very Mr Hargreaves that Miss Cranford had apparently worried about her hair for earlier, although it took all of three seconds for Gray to work out the cut of his jib. All were much the same age as he was. Good-looking and knew it. All were cloyingly sycophantic and clearly all had enjoyed the Viscountess Gislingham’s exclusive company at least once, if he was any judge.

‘Follow me, gentlemen.’ Miss Cranford’s voice held a hint of snippiness as she brusquely turned, that sultry perfume wafting like a siren’s call to tempt him, and glided in the direction of a particular group of ladies, three of whom happened to be the wives of the men he suspected were the other woman’s lovers. Was that deliberate? If it was, was the point directed at him or her aunt? And why did he have the overwhelming urge to tell her she didn’t need to worry about him because he wasn’t attracted to her aunt in the slightest? Gray had to bite down on his lip to stop the words coming out, knowing they would be a lie. If he had to seduce the Viscountess for King and country, then he would. Regardless of the beautiful redhead’s disapproval and his peculiar, misplaced guilt.

What the blazes was the matter with him? He had waited two years for the chance to head up an important mission—he wouldn’t let his uncharacteristic reaction to a hitherto unknown woman stand in the way. It was probably the responsibility and the heat. Despite the lighter coat, he could still feel the back of his shirt sticking to him. Nerves and the hot July sun would do that to a man.

* * *

Thea found Harriet on the terrace soaking up the sun. Because the whole world believed a woman’s skin should be pale to be beautiful, her friend was determined to fly in the face of convention and was lounging with her head tilted back to capture every ray. Typically, like her rebellious streak, the healthy tan suited her. Thea wandered to the bench and plopped her bottom on to it, irritated. ‘You left me with Colonel Purbeck.’

‘Of course I did. The man spits when he talks.’

‘A true friend would have promptly rescued me.’

‘Ah...but I could see that Mr Hargreaves was eager to talk to you, so I knew you would be all right.’ Harriet cracked open one eye and then shuffled to sit upright when she saw Thea’s miserable expression. ‘I was only teasing about Mr Hargreaves. Aside from the breeches and his face, he has little else to recommend him.’

‘I know.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ She huffed out a sigh. Watching Lord Gray flirt with her aunt had left a sour taste in her mouth. Not that she was interested in him. If one ignored the fine face and impressive body, the man had too much of a mischievous glint in his unusual eyes for her to consider him as anything more than a pleasant conversation partner. Not that they had had a pleasant conversation. Thea had introduced him to everyone bar her uncle, who had slipped away for a nap, and then had delivered him eagerly back to Caro all in the space of ten minutes. Without all those tiresome introductions and her irritation at her aunt’s blatant interest in their new visitor, the errant yet persistent memory of him sans clothes made it difficult to think of anything remotely interesting or even banal to say and he seemed to have no desire to fill the void.

He had immediately come to life in front of her vivacious aunt, though, as soon as she had delivered him back. He had practically bent over backwards to charm her. Not that Thea coveted that sort of charming or approved of anyone who fell for the flirty façade her uncle’s slightly self-absorbed and highly strung wife presented to the world.

Still, being so blatantly overlooked rankled when she was obviously younger and single. And deep down she was thoroughly disappointed that the handsome new stranger no longer passed muster.

‘Do you think I’ve become dull?’

‘I despise dull people. We couldn’t be friends if you were the least bit dull.’ Harriet’s eyes dipped to where her hands fiddled idly with the fabric of her skirt. A sure sign she was tempering her response.

‘I sense a but...’

‘But you are a little too buttoned up nowadays, truth be told. Subdued. Too concerned with etiquette and behaviour and being proper and doing right by your uncle.’

‘Ladies are meant to behave with decorum.’ The impetuous part of her felt trapped by those rules, while the greater part feared what would happen without those boundaries. ‘Unlike you, I do not have the luxury of abandoning my good reputation. I still have to find a husband.’ Not that she had really been looking. All her suitors thus far had failed to exceed her low expectations and all were fixated on the money she came with. It had made her jaded. Understandably so.

‘I wasn’t suggesting you become a scandal, Thea. Merely that you let your hair down once in a while. You used to be so bold and spontaneous—I wish you’d let all those scintillating aspects of your character shine again rather than tempering them. You would have such fun! I want you to have some excitement in your life before you settle down—if you ever deign to allow a gentleman to get past your iron-clad defences, of course. Believe me, the years fly past so quickly and I would hate for you to regret your wasted youth. It worries me that you rarely leave your uncle’s grounds unless I drag you.’

‘You know that Uncle Edward is unwell.’ And her aunt abandoned the house for days on end visiting friends or shopping. Polite excuses for not wanting to be in her husband’s hostile or uninterested company. Their marriage had been strained before his illness and, despite her aunt’s utter despair at the thought of losing her husband in those grim days after his collapse, it was practically non-existent after. Both were always happier when at least ten miles of road separated them.

‘I also know dear Edward is as desperate to see you happy as I am. He’s repeatedly offered you a Season and I have repeatedly offered to be your chaperon in London—yet soon you will celebrate your twenty-fourth birthday and you haven’t set one foot out of Suffolk in for ever. I can barely get to you attend even the local assembly any more. What are you afraid of?’

She wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. Reluctant, more like. When one had the amount of money in the bank that she had, the vultures tended to circle. At least here, close to home, she knew all of them, had repelled most of them and didn’t have to waste valuable time trying to identify them as vultures in the first place. London was the great unknown, stuffed to the rafters with wholly unsuitable men who had no scruples and who would move heaven and earth to get their hands on her fortune. Winnowing out the wheat from the chaff did not appeal. Especially when Impetuous Thea had such poor taste in men.

‘I need to be close in case something happens.’ That was at least a reasonable excuse. With a sham for a marriage, no children and a largely absentee wife, Uncle Edward was alone. If Thea wasn’t there, then he would have nobody but his manservant, Bertie, to keep him company from one week to the next. She couldn’t allow him to live like that. Not when he had taken her in after she had been orphaned, loved her unconditionally and been both mother and father to her for over half of her life.

So much so, he had transferred the bulk of his unentailed fortune to her while she had still been a child. Tens of thousands of pounds, cannily invested, continually multiplying and held in trust until she had reached her majority. He still managed her fortune for her and every year it grew bigger still, ever multiplying like the venomous heads of the mythical Hydra and twice as frightening. Not that she would admit such a thing to anyone, least of all her beloved uncle. He had gifted her a lifetime of financial independence and had never asked for anything in return. It seemed horribly ungrateful to loathe the generous gift he had saddled her with.

‘Very noble—but exactly how many more years are you prepared to wait for the worst to happen? It has already been three.’ Which coincidentally was the last time she and her uncle had really argued, when Thea had defied him to sneak out of the house past midnight to kiss the handsome officer who she had met at the assembly rooms the week before. With hindsight her uncle had been entirely correct in his censure. The man had been too old, too worldly and wholly focused on her fortune. He was taking flagrant advantage of her youth, her rebellious nature and her inexperience to further his own ends.

Unfortunately, at the time she had been too outraged at being forbidden to see him and too wilful to accept the edict. While Impetuous Thea was out, the worst had happened. If Bertie hadn’t been there to save him, her uncle would now be as dead as her father.

‘Edward’s condition has neither deteriorated nor improved. You need to face facts, Thea. While you sit around waiting, being the overly dutiful niece and the devoted daughter Edward never had, your own life is passing you by. Mr Hargreaves notwithstanding, you could be married already, living close by and still being the dutiful niece who visits daily, yet you have thwarted every potential suitor who has shown an interest.’

‘None of them was suitable. They all just wanted my money.’ She didn’t want to end up shackled to a vulture. ‘With great wealth comes great responsibility. I have to be sure I entrust it to someone worthy.’

‘Or perhaps your exacting standards are too high on purpose? You are the most suspicious person I know.’

That stung. ‘I’m an heiress! I have to be suspicious! Every fortune hunter, ne’er-do-well and chancer who ventures into Suffolk automatically seeks me out and plights his troth, keen to get his greedy hands on all that money. I have to be cautious.’

‘Cautious, yes. Not overcautious and determined to denounce them all as villains. Lord Selwyn, for instance, didn’t turn out to be a swindler as you suspected.’

‘But he was a fortune hunter.’

‘And Mr Taylor, the young widower, was in fact a widower and not a bigamist either.’

Thea threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. ‘Yet he was in debt up to his eyeballs and hopelessly in love with my fortune, too.’

‘Yes, granted, both saw the money before you, but Captain Fairway had his own fortune.’

‘And three illegitimate children by two separate mistresses. I knew he was a philanderer!’

‘There is always something wrong with them—fortune hunter, philanderer, scoundrel...what was the name of the chap you thought was a highwayman?’

‘Chisholm Hunter? I’m still not entirely convinced that he wasn’t. There was something very shifty about that man.’