London, May 1814

 

Caroline Gold was the captain of a sinking ship with little hope of finding safe harbor in a desperate storm. The message that had arrived from her father’s doctor amounted to one more hole in the hull when the winds of despair were already pummeling from all sides.

With a heavy sigh, she selected a sausage, scrambled eggs, and a half piece of toast from the sideboard then took her chair at the dining room table, doing her best to hide her worry.

Doctor Smithson had apologized but advised he “couldn’t possibly pay a call until payment was made on their account.”

Her father’s failing physical and mental health over the past eighteen months had created difficulties in every area of her family’s life, most of which she felt ill-equipped to manage. Between significant losses on investments and poor business decisions, their wealth had quickly dwindled until they were reduced to worrying about having enough money to purchase food each week.

As the eldest of three daughters, Caroline still berated herself for not watching him more closely, when she’d first noted his confusion. She hadn’t realized he was making so many unwise decisions with the money he’d worked so hard to earn.

She focused on what could be changed and pasted on an encouraging smile as her sisters and mother settled into their chairs at the table for their weekly Monday meeting. “Good morning.”

With her mother busy caring for her father, Caroline had stepped forward to rally her sisters in whatever manner they could think of to support their parents, save money where they could, and earn some if possible.

“How is Father this morning?” she asked her mother. His nagging cough the past few days had prompted their request for the doctor to pay a call.

If Caroline hadn’t been watching, she might not have noticed the slight tightening of her mother’s mouth. Her worry deepened as her mother smiled—no doubt as false as the one that graced her own lips moments ago. “He slept fairly well.”

Caroline waited until her mother’s gaze met hers. She recognized the concern in the depths of her brown eyes. It had been there so often of late.

“Barclay is with him now.” Their loyal butler had been more help with her father’s condition than any of them had expected.

Sir Reginald Gold was slowly losing his grip on reality. Caroline and her mother had noticed inconsequential things at first. The once vigorous, impressive man clever at investments and so helpful to England’s war efforts with his shipping business that he’d been awarded a knighthood nearly two decades ago, had memory lapses. Not terribly surprising given how busy he was.

They’d disregarded it as nothing more than temporary slips. When it became more obvious, occurring so often that even he realized something was amiss, they’d sent for the doctor.

Doctor Smithson was an old family friend and delivered the news as gently as possible, but the diagnosis was devastating. He warned them to expect Sir Gold’s mental capacity to continue to decline. The worst part of his message was that little could be done to halt it.

Her father was now a shadow of his former self. He couldn’t go to his office at the shipyard without one of them in attendance, nor could he make the decisions required to manage his many investments. His second-in-command at the shipyard attempted to help but didn’t have the business savvy or instincts of Sir Gold. Nor did Caroline.

She and her mother had made the decision to keep the shipping business open but at this point, it barely paid for itself. Caroline made weekly visits with her father, hoping the occasional sight of him in the shipyard would help keep it afloat. Attempting to insert herself into the business when she was a woman and knew so little about what items were profitable to ship, especially in a time of war, continued to be a struggle.

They all missed their father dearly. His physical self remained with them, but the man he’d been had departed. On bad days, when he forgot how to put on his pants or where his library was, she wondered if this terrible form of purgatory was worse than death. During his coherent moments, when he realized how much mental fortitude he’d lost, his despair was heart-wrenching.

“A good night is the basis for a good day,” she told her mother.

Her mother reached to squeeze her hand across the table. “You are quite right, my dear. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Caroline dearly wished she could do more.

“Has the doctor responded to our message?” her mother asked with a hopeful tone.

“Unfortunately, he won’t be able to call for a time.” Caroline said nothing further on the topic, certain her mother understood the reason. The lack of money was a constant battle they all fought.

The cost of feeding their household had nearly tripled due to the wars with France and America. Caroline had cut costs where she could, changing their diet significantly. Breakfast was one of the least expensive meals with the price of eggs high but more reasonable than other foods.

“Annabelle, how is the story coming along?” Caroline asked.

“Quite well.” Her sister, two years younger than Caroline’s twenty-three years, dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “A new villain has emerged. He is far worse than the previous one.” The gleam in her eye made Caroline smile.

Annabelle loved to write and her vivid imagination never failed to amaze the family. When Caroline had suggested she attempt to sell a story to the local news sheet, their mother had been appalled, but Annabelle was thrilled. After reassuring their mother that Annabelle could write under a pen name and her identity would be kept a secret, she relented.

Each week, Annabelle wrote a chapter in her ongoing mystery under the name A. Golden. The series had become quite popular. She earned enough that they’d re-hired one of the maids who’d been previously let go.

“I’m looking forward to reading the next installment,” Caroline said. “And you, Margaret?” she asked her youngest sister. “How is your latest creation coming along?”

At age eighteen, Margaret’s cleverness was with needle and thread. Even before the need had arisen, she’d designed several gowns for their mother, creating drawings for the seamstress to follow. Now that their financial circumstances had changed significantly, she did the sewing as well and was brilliant at it.

“I’ve found a way to reuse the seed pearls from Mother’s old pink gown to decorate the bodice of her blue gown. It’s coming along very well.” She poured their mother more tea before adding some to her own cup.

Caroline beamed at her. “Your skills never fail to astonish me, Margaret.”

Caroline pushed aside the wish that she had the ability to earn funds. Her sisters had inherited their mother’s creativity while Caroline had her father’s organizational skills but none of his business knowledge. Planning a party wasn’t the same as running a business. She briefly closed her eyes, wishing she could return those skills to him. They were of far better use to him.

“And how is the duke coming along?” Her mother’s gentle question had Caroline shifting in her chair.

A proposal from the wealthy Duke of Wayfair, whose eye she’d caught at the end of last Season when she’d unknowingly befriended his shy sister, would certainly save her family, but nothing could be done to force it from him.

If they weren’t so desperate for funds, his pursuit of her would be flattering. But when everything they did revolved around putting food on the table and paying their account with the doctor, her feelings on the situation had changed.

The pressure to think of a way to make certain she appeared charming and friendly with the hope he’d propose was wearing on her. She had no idea what more she could do to convince him to ask for her hand.

The strain made her feel as if she were being squeezed in a vise. Impossible and uncomfortable, regardless of which way she moved.

With a mental shake of her head, she reminded herself that none of that mattered. Only the well-being of her family was important. The duke would never be the love of her life, but she no longer believed such a thing was in her future. If she could say she liked the duke and enjoyed his company, that would be more than most members of the ton could claim. Surely, that would be enough.

Her previous engagement to David Stouffer, the son of a local country squire near the Gold’s country home, had ended at his behest, when Caroline had advised him of the drastic change in their financial situation. David had no funds of his own, and he’d told her that while he cared for her, it was impractical for them to marry now that her dowry was gone.

She’d been shocked at his coldness and disappointed that he could so easily turn away. She thought he’d cared for her in the same manner she’d cared for him. The realization she wasn’t worth fighting for hurt more than she cared to admit.

Caroline lifted her chin, reminding herself that as the eldest, the welfare of her family rested on her shoulders, and she gladly accepted the responsibility. Everyone was doing their part, but their best hope was for her to make a good match. God had blessed her with her mother’s fine bone structure, blonde hair, and alabaster skin along with her father’s jade green eyes.

Using those gifts to attract a wealthy husband was something done by ladies every day. Never mind that doing so made her feel like a pretty shell waiting to be found on the beach, easily tossed aside if the beauty faded.

“I am hopeful the Southbys’ ball tomorrow evening might be when he’ll propose. I have it on good authority he’ll be in attendance.”

“How exciting.” Her mother’s dark eyes lit with relief, making Caroline aware of how much her mother was counting on Caroline making a good match—or rather, this match.

“Isn’t it?” She smiled broadly at her mother and sisters, ignoring the doubt in her heart. Her happiness was of little concern. The duke was truly quite nice from what she knew of him.

“I will have the pale green silk complete,” Margaret said. “You’ll look stunning in it. That ought to encourage him.”

“Thank you, Margaret.”

Margaret had reworked last Season’s dresses, giving each an updated look with no one the wiser. The less others knew of their reduced circumstances, the better. Caroline had no desire for any of them to gain the reputation as fortune hunters.

They’d gone to great lengths to conceal her father’s poor health. Revealing his failing mental competence could hurt his business—something they couldn’t risk.

As the conversation drifted to less serious matters, Caroline pondered what more she could do to encourage a proposal from the duke.

“Do not worry so, Caroline,” her mother said quietly with a pat on her hand. “You only need be yourself. You are perfect as you are.”

She turned her hand to squeeze her mother’s. “Thank you.”

Why didn’t it feel like enough?

~*~

Richard Walker, the Earl of Aberland, entered the Southbys’ ball through the garden entrance, emerging from the shadows but remaining out of the light. He preferred to avoid drawing attention at social functions.

Besides, his arrival was hardly noteworthy. Not when the ton believed him a rogue with barely a farthing to his name.

He nearly smiled at the memory of the investment summary he’d received from his man of business that morning. His wealth had grown steadily due to some excellent decisions he’d made, including investments in raw silk imports and because of his rather frugal lifestyle. He couldn’t spend money when Society believed him poor.

Secrets were difficult to keep amidst the ton, but that was something he counted on in his line of work. As a spy for the Crown, he preferred to keep his own secrets while unveiling others’.

He paused, greeting several acquaintances, listening here and there for bits of gossip that might aid his diplomatic service for Whitehall.

These were troubled times in his country. England was rife with spies, both from France and America. The latest war with France appeared to be nearing an end, but no one expected Bonaparte to give up easily. He continued to gather support and funds where he could, including in England.

Richard did his best to find those individuals with sympathies toward France. Many of the French aristocrats had fled to England at the start of the war, becoming English gentry. But not all of them severed ties with France despite pledging allegiance to England. Added to that were those Englishmen who supported Bonaparte and his cause.

Regardless of what type of support they gave Bonaparte—money or information—it was still treason. Identifying them was no easy task but he’d spent years honing his skills.

A deep sense of loss filled him at the memory of Charles Dumond, the friend who’d lured him into this ridiculous life.

And it was ridiculous.

Searching out spies had seemed like a mad chess game when Dumond first dragged him into it after their years at Oxford. He and Dumond believed themselves invincible despite the risks they faced. No wonder the government recruited young men for this terrible game. Older and wiser ones lived longer but accomplished less as they weren’t willing to take the risks the position often required.

That was the challenge of this life. Rushes of fear followed by long days of boredom as one watched and waited for something of interest to occur.

Much like this evening, which promised to be as tedious as so many other nights. But members of the ton were often the best source of information. The people in attendance this evening were influential, including diplomats, ambassadors, and titled lords and ladies with relatives in France.

His reputation as a rogue gave him reason to move from brothels, gaming hells, and taverns where information was also abundant to events like the Southbys’ ball. Most people overlooked the fact that his boots were well worn, that he had only one carriage, and his stable was half empty. They thought him harmless, that he was merely taking what pleasure he could from life before convincing a wealthy debutante to marry him.

But marriage was not in his future plans.

He had something far more important on his mind: revenge.

After nearly a year of long days and nights, he’d narrowed the list of suspects to three who fit the identity of a French spy who called himself Le Sournois—The Sly One.

Thus far, Richard knew he was an English lord with relatives in France whose loyalties remained with Bonaparte. He’d brutally murdered Dumond outside a French tavern, along with Maria, the woman who’d betrayed them, before shooting Richard and leaving him for dead.

Richard had caught only a glimpse of the jeweled dagger Le Sournois had used to kill Dumond. Its distinctive handle was burned in his mind forever. Tracing that dagger along with other clues had led him to the three men, one of whom would be in attendance tonight.

The ball was no different than countless others Richard had endured. He told himself he found it amusing to be a voyeur, observing all facets of Society. But often he found the antics of both the ladies and the lords appalling. The innuendos hid little if one watched closely.

What made their behavior any different than the thieves and prostitutes in the rough parts of the city? Better clothes for one, but beyond that, it was difficult to say.

With a mental shake of his head, he pushed aside his cynicism and reminded himself to focus on the task at hand. He nodded at a lady who smiled prettily but moved on. Distractions of any sort were dangerous in his work, especially women. He’d made the deadly mistake of trusting a woman once but never again. Not after Maria.

He lingered behind the Marchioness of Danbun, who was currently having an affair with the Spanish ambassador, but she said little of interest. He continued around the room, catching interesting comments here and there. Gathering intelligence sounded far more exciting than it was.

As the music for a quadrille ended, he watched people clear the dance floor and others take their place. He rarely danced. Few of the ladies were truly skilled at it, and conversation during most dances was nearly impossible, unless one indulged in a scandalous waltz.

With surprise, he realized he was lonely this evening. Ironic, given the fact that he stood in the company of over a hundred others. Loneliness was an emotion he rarely allowed himself. Doing so meant thinking of Dumond, and despite the fact that he’d been gone nearly a year, Richard still missed him deeply. Social events had been far more amusing with his friend at his side.

A French diplomat paused in his conversation with a lady to glance at Richard as though sensing he should be careful with his words. Richard didn’t immediately move away, enjoying the man’s discomfort.

His mood wasn’t conducive to gathering intelligence this evening. In truth, he was tired—a weary-to-the-bone kind of tiredness that told him to take a few days away from this business. He had to guard against cynicism, lest it drag him into despair.

But he couldn’t take that time off yet.

The Duke of Wayfair was one of three lords on his short list of suspects for Le Sournois, and he was supposed to be in attendance this evening. Richard didn’t often come across the duke, who tended to only partake in select events. Any opportunity to watch and hopefully listen to what he said couldn’t be wasted.

Keeping an eye on the growing crowd for his quarry, he continued moving along the room at a snail’s pace, observing, filing away the random comments he heard to be examined more closely later.

“Did you see who she danced with?”

“Why would she choose to wear such a color?”

“I heard he lost a fortune on a ship from the Caribbean.”

On and on the gossip went, some interesting but much of it petty and cruel.

“From my research, I understand there is money to be made in the spy business.” That comment had him pausing.

He wanted to turn to face the woman who’d said it, tempted to correct her assumption. The paltry amount he received for his services barely covered his expenses.

“How much?” The intensity of the other lady’s tone had him listening closer.

“Well, the exact amount wasn’t mentioned, but it’s supposed to be quite lucrative.”

“Then I shall make inquiries.”

Richard couldn’t help but turn as subtly as possible, pretending to search the crowd so he could identify the two women speaking, though he didn’t know who had said what. Did they not realize what a deadly game they played by speaking of spying?

One was a young lady he didn’t recognize. The other who’d sounded so interested at the idea of spying was Miss Caroline Gold. He’d noticed her on more than one occasion simply because she was beautiful. Though he had no intention of marrying, ladies still occasionally caught his interest. Her blonde hair and green eyes combined with her cool demeanor had drawn his attention the previous year.

Those unusual eyes met his, the intelligent awareness in their depths surprising him. How had he not noticed that before?

The woman was truly beautiful, making it difficult not to stare. Rather than preening as so many debutantes did, she shifted as though uncomfortable under his regard. As if she knew her appearance was nature’s doing rather than her own, and she couldn’t take credit for the result.

When she raised a brow askance, he realized how rude he was being.

Halting his fanciful thoughts, he turned away, hoping the two would continue speaking on the topic of spying, but their conversation turned to other matters.

As he skimmed over the crowd once more, a ripple of satisfaction filled him at the sight of the Duke of Wayfair approaching. But when Richard realized he walked directly toward him, his heart rate surged. Only once he was near did Richard realize the duke’s focus was on Miss Gold rather than himself.

While Richard wouldn’t mind a confrontation with the man, he did not yet have proof. Confronting him would only alert him to Richard’s suspicions.

As the duke greeted Miss Gold then escorted her to the dance floor, Richard watched them closely.

He didn’t care for the duke, regardless of whether he was Le Sournois, but Miss Gold seemed to, based on her bright smile. Richard couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret that the intriguing lady was involved with Wayfair. Yet as he considered it further, her comments about spying made perfect sense if she worked with the duke. It never failed to amaze him that people spoke so freely about their supposed secrets in public. He’d encountered that with surprising frequency over the years.

Perhaps he’d inadvertently found another link in the chain that connected the network of French spies living in London. The pair bore watching and the night was young.

Richard trailed behind them, realizing the evening had just gotten much more interesting.