Courting Danger With Mr Dyer

‘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.

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?’

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