Chapter 16

Ryland threw his greatcoat across the bed as he fell into an upholstered club chair by the window. Jeffreys, his valet, scooped the coat up and shook it out while raising his brows in inquiry.

“Nothing,” Ryland muttered. Agitation propelled him back out of his seat. He braced himself against the window frame, letting his forehead rest against the cloudy glass. The small four-room apartment served him well as an unobtrusive base of operations. The window looked down on an alley many criminals traversed on a regular basis.

“Whoever he’s working for is either very good or very negligent.”

Jeffreys frowned at the wrinkled coat. “Negligent, sir?”

“Yes, negligent, and when did you start calling me sir?”

“Just practicing, sir.”

“In that case, you might want to try using Your Grace instead of sir.” Ryland smiled as he watched Jeffreys take a brush to the mistreated coat. The servant’s strokes were efficient. The casual observer would not notice that his left hand bore only four fingers.

The fifth was left in a Parisian alleyway, blown off by a bullet meant for Ryland.

“The negligence, Your Grace?”

“Lambert is still here. In town. Doing nothing but drinking and taking the odd job here and there.”

“I don’t suppose you mean the occasional chimney repair kind of job.”

“No. A man paid him to rob an apothecary. Seems he was having trouble getting his hands on enough laudanum.”

Jeffreys hung the coat on a peg in the closet. “You let him do it.”

Ryland shrugged. “If he disappears, I lose my last connection to whomever his boss is. But the fact that his boss is letting him stay here doesn’t feel right. If someone’s watching Lambert, they’ve also seen me. I haven’t taken pains to hide from anyone but him.”

He shoved his hand through his hair.

A knock at the door gave both men pause. Not many people knew where Ryland was staying. He changed his rooms on a regular basis. Had Lambert or his boss had him followed?

Jeffreys picked up a pistol from the side table and hid it behind his back as he eased the door open. Ryland rose from his seat, ready to fight if the need arose, though he couldn’t see through the door from his position.

“Please don’t shoot me, Jeffreys. I’m quite fond of this coat.”

The familiar voice had Ryland relaxing and Jeffreys laughing as he opened the door wider.

Mr. Colin McCrae strode into the room looking like he belonged in a Grosvenor Street drawing room instead of a set of rented back-alley rooms. A tall hat sat atop his head, reddish-brown hair curling around the edges. Unlike Ryland’s discarded greatcoat, Colin’s appeared freshly brushed, pressed, and cared for.

Ryland dropped back into his chair, waving an arm toward the only other seat in the room. “What brings you by?”

Colin sat in the wooden chair, crossed his booted feet at the ankles, and placed his hat in his lap. “Other than the joy of welcoming you back to town, you mean?”

“I haven’t officially returned.”

“And I’m not officially here.” The tinge of Scottish brogue that seeped into Colin’s words told Ryland that whatever the man had come to say, it wasn’t good.

Ryland sat up a little straighter at that. Colin didn’t, strictly speaking, work for the War Office, even though they’d done their best to recruit him when he stumbled into the middle of Ryland’s mission five years ago. There were times, however, when certain pieces of information would find their way to Colin and he would see fit to use his incredible business acumen, observation skills, and contacts to assist the Office’s cause.

He said no often enough to keep the Office from taking advantage of him though. Most of the other agents weren’t sure what to think of Colin, but Ryland had always considered him a friend. Saving each other’s lives formed a remarkably strong bond.

“You have news?”

Colin nodded. “There’ve been inquiries about the mine.”

“The mine?”

“Yes. The one I sent you information on a few months ago when you asked for a fake investment letter.”

Ryland frowned. “The doomed one?”

“It should be. I refused to handle the venture, but I knew a less discerning gentleman who agreed to see investors. The idea was so abysmal that the venture was soon dead. When you inquired about a fake investment, it seemed easier to pretend Griffith and I were discussing the mine instead of making up something completely new.”

“Are you saying it’s not dead anymore?”

Colin nodded. “Someone’s invested in it, someone who thinks to find something worthwhile in that mud, though Mr. Burke isn’t saying who.”

Ryland scratched his chin as he contemplated the importance of this development. He’d known there was someone else in the game, someone powerful. This confirmed that he was looking for someone of means, quite possibly an aristocrat. That one of his peers would betray England like that turned his stomach. He’d bought enough secrets from high-powered Frenchmen to know that wealth and title didn’t particularly mean loyalty to their country. Treasonous Frenchmen were considerably easier to stomach than treasonous Englishmen though.

“All the more reason to come out of hiding, Your Grace.” Jeffreys hauled a small trunk from under the bed and began folding clothes into it. Ryland watched, amusement creeping over his agitation, as his valet quietly stored the room’s meager contents in the open baggage.

“And have you also planned where I shall make my debut?” Ryland finally asked.

Jeffreys extracted a small white card from his pocket and flipped it across the bed. Ryland snatched it out of midair, crumpling the corner a bit. It was an invitation.

“She’s going to be there?”

Jeffreys nodded. “The servants have been speaking constantly of the various costumes their lords and ladies have procured. That invitation was meant for your aunt. Price said it was a shame she never received it.”

Ryland couldn’t help grinning. His hulking, unconventional butler had not only gotten him into the party but kept his troublesome aunt out. As he read the details of the event, excitement unfurled in his belly. He couldn’t have planned it any better.

God was certainly watching over him.

Colin leaned over and read the card. “There’s a she?”

“What is her costume going to be?” Ryland tapped the invitation against his palm, ignoring Colin while he considered the ramifications of attending the ball.

“We aren’t sure, though we know it’s blue. She and her sister and mother were all seen at the modiste ordering dresses especially for that event. The sister was quite excited. The mother was less so.”

“Not surprising. Masquerades are not known for keeping the faint blush of youth in a young lady’s cheeks. I wonder at Lady Blackstone letting that be Lady Georgina’s first society appearance.”

Colin coughed. “Lady Georgina Hawthorne?”

“The hostess, Lady Yensworth, is a particular friend of Lady Blackstone’s—otherwise I’m sure they would be skipping the event.” Jeffreys pulled a pair of boots from the bottom of the closet. “Are we keeping these?”

The boots were beyond ruined in appearance but still comfortable. Ryland raised a brow. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Your Grace.”

“What?”

“Only reminding you that you are a duke. I don’t know a whole lot about the aristocracy, but I know they don’t wear boots that look like this.”

Ryland sighed. He hated to admit that Jeffreys was right. Many of the comforts and idiosyncrasies he’d become accustomed to were going to have to fall by the wayside. A few quirks would label him eccentric. Too many would make him a social pariah.

Colin rose and grabbed Ryland’s shoulder, shock covering his normally unreadable features. “You’ve intentions to court Lady Georgina Hawthorne?”

“What? No.” Ryland shifted in his seat.

Colin turned an inquiring look to Jeffreys.

“The older sister, sir.”

“Ah.” Colin grinned.

Ryland glared at Jeffreys as the valet strode about the room gathering items. He was efficient and loyal, but hardly subservient. Ryland had been slowly filling his staff with people like him. People who’d helped him over the years and needed a safe place to earn a living.

It was also a subtle way of reminding his aunt that the house, title, and power were still his. He grinned, thinking again of Price, the butler he’d installed in the town home. A man the size of the Tower of London, with a face just as craggy. His aunt had been outraged, according to Ryland’s steward.

He hadn’t considered that his unconventional staff would come back to haunt him. “Why are you telling Mr. McCrae my secrets, Jeffreys? Isn’t your loyalty supposed to be to me?”

“Of course, Your Grace. That’s why I didn’t tell Mr. McCrae that you’ve been brooding over the young lady since you left your position at her house several months ago.” Jeffreys threw the dilapidated boots into the trunk. “Only the least discreet of valets would reveal that you’ve actually paced the floor as you contemplated what you’d do when she returned to London.”

Colin laughed so hard he fell back into his vacated chair holding his right hand to his side underneath the ribs.

Chagrin quickly replaced Ryland’s outrage. If Ryland were going to make a successful return to society he was going to need help. Trust Jeffreys to take care of that when Ryland was too stubborn to do it himself.

Six months ago he wouldn’t have cared if the ton accepted him back into the fold. He ran a thumb over the invitation. It was amazing how quickly things changed.

It was smaller than he remembered, though with seven windows facing the street from the first floor it was still considerably larger than most of the other terraced town homes in Mayfair. The simple three-story facade surrounded the street-level covered and columned entrance, setting it apart from the ornate buildings on either side of it.

It had been a long time since Ryland had laid eyes on Montgomery House. Through considerable effort Ryland had managed to avoid most of Mayfair for the past nine years. His trusted estate manager kept him abreast of important news.

Jeffreys clapped a hand on Ryland’s shoulder. “If we stand here much longer, someone is going to recognize you. You haven’t changed that much in appearance.”

In appearance, no. But in everything else . . .

“Of course.” Ryland cleared his throat and waited for a stately coach-and-four to drive by before crossing the street.

The two men slipped down the stairs to the servant entrance below street level. Entering the workroom was like walking down memory lane. Nurses, soldiers, and even a few reformed criminals welcomed him with smiles and cheery hellos.

Breakfast trays were being readied on one table, and after a brief round of handshakes and hugs, everyone returned to their work. Such a large house required that everyone work diligently to keep it running, even with the enormous number of staff he had hired.

His stomach rumbled as one of the maids, a former battlefield nurse, carried a tray of eggs and kippers toward the stairs.

“Mattie,” Ryland called to the French woman stabbing a spatula at the stove, “would it be possible to have one of those trays brought up to my room? I think I need a little kip before I tackle the social scene tonight.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The tall woman softened her thick French accent with a saucy wink as one of the kitchen maids began setting out the makings of another tray.

“Thank you. Send it up when you’ve finished with the others. No need to delay theirs and make them wonder.” Ryland led Jeffreys to the side staircase where the breakfast tray had disappeared moments before. He paused with his foot on the bottom stair. “My room is free, isn’t it?”

Cecil, a footman who had been a sly pickpocket and leader of a street gang in his former life, puffed his chest out in evident pride. “Yes, Yer Grace. ’E tried to take it over a time or two but none of us would wait on him while ’e was in there. Wouldn’t see to hisself, so didn’t take more than a day to boot him back to his old quarters.”

“Thank you, Cecil, and to the rest of you. It’s good to be home.” His glance managed to meet the eyes of everyone in the room before he turned and climbed the steps.

Emotion, surprising and a bit unwelcome, clogged his throat, making him glad Jeffreys was two steps behind him. That was his legacy, why he’d continued on year after year. He hadn’t realized it until that moment, seeing them all together in one room. The good he’d seen in those people and others like them was why he’d taken the risk to fight quietly in the shadows.

The servant stairs hid them for only a while. In order to reach the master’s rooms, they would have to pass his aunt’s room. The unpleasant task of greeting his relatives could wait. He wanted to bask in the feeling that he’d done some good in the past ten years. With a war on, that was sometimes easy to forget.

Jeffreys had barely shut the door behind them before another servant entered with a pitcher of hot water. Ryland cleaned up and slipped into one of the new silk dressing gowns he’d ordered.

For three months Jeffreys had been slipping clothes and other personal items into the house so that it would be ready for his arrival. There were times when experience at subterfuge came in handy.

The silk felt good. The bed felt even better. The scent wafting from the quickly delivered breakfast tray was almost heavenly. Maybe it wouldn’t take as long as he’d feared to adjust back to the life of a duke.

“How do I look?”

Miranda rolled her eyes behind the protection of her blue jeweled and feathered demi mask. It covered her forehead completely and slid just over the bridge of her nose. It was the fifth time Georgina had asked that question since they had climbed into the carriage twenty minutes prior. While Mother rushed to assure her youngest daughter that she looked exquisite in her angel garb, Miranda took the time to adjust a feather that was determined to tickle her nose.

The nice thing about masquerades, particularly masquerades during a girl’s fourth Season, was that pastels were not required. The bright blue of Miranda’s gown did wonders for her complexion, which she then, of course, had to cover up with a mask. Life wasn’t fair sometimes.

“What are you again?” Georgina ran a hand over the gauzy skirts of Miranda’s gown.

“The sky.”

Mother turned her attention to Miranda. “I thought you said you were a bird.”

Lord Blackstone laughed from his corner of the carriage. “Told me she was the ocean.”

Miranda grinned. “I guess I shall be a woman of mystery, then. Mother, the door is open.”

Mother spun her head around to see the footman was indeed waiting for her to exit the conveyance.

Miranda looked up at the house as she followed her mother. The entrance was lit like day, while the rest of the front remained shrouded in darkness. The effect was very dramatic. With a final adjustment to her mask, she trailed her family up the steps and into the home, passing four footmen holding aloft enormous candelabras.

Lady Yensworth greeted them enthusiastically. “I’m so glad you returned to town in time for my little gathering.”

Miranda managed to restrain an incredulous laugh. From the looks of things, everyone had returned to town for the little gathering. It was sure to be a crush inside. She greeted her hostess with a bow and entered the room, eager to see what kind of decorations lined the interior.

The starkness of the exterior was not mirrored on the interior. Swaths of sheer fabric flowed from the high ceilings, giving the rooms an exotic softness. The second-floor ballroom was exquisite. More candelabras lined the room, these being held by tall stands instead of footmen. Strings of crystal beads hung from them, catching the candlelight and sprinkling spots of sparkle across the room. Lady Yensworth was certainly setting a high standard for the rest of the Season’s balls to live up to.

Georgina’s pure white gown stood out among the colored dresses most of the women had chosen for the occasion. It wouldn’t be long before men were fetching her punch or asking her for a dance. Miranda whipped out her fan and sent her irritating feathers fluttering.

She spied Amelia’s pink costume across the room, her arm linked with that of her tall husband, who had donned only a domino mask in addition to his normal evening attire. Anthony might be reformed and completely converted, but certain habits from his jaded, rakish past remained. The couple was in close discussion with two other couples. Rather the women were talking intently while the men gave each other bored half smiles.

Miranda snapped her fan shut and worked her way across the room, the first genuine smile of the evening on her face. Whatever the women were discussing had to be more interesting than watching her sister. There was nothing she could do for Georgina now anyway. It was in God’s hands. He would either answer her prayers to protect her younger sister from heartbreak, or He wouldn’t.

“Good evening, Amelia. Lady Granton. Mrs. Reeding.” She nodded to each of the women who’d chosen masks so minuscule they hardly deserved the name before curtsying to the men.

The men bowed in return.

“If you would excuse us,” Anthony said, patting his wife’s hand. “There is a card game in the east drawing room.”

“Sure to be vastly more entertaining than this commotion. A bunch of fuss over nothing, if you ask me. Probably portly and disfigured.” Lord Granton ran a hand over his own ample midsection. “That’s why he chose a masquerade.”

The men bowed to the ladies once more. Lord Granton and Mr. Reeding departed at once. Anthony leaned in to peck his wife on the cheek first.

“I’ll come dance with you later.”

Amelia grinned. “A scandalous number of times, no doubt.”

“But of course.” Anthony nodded to the other ladies and left the party.

It was unusual for any husband to accompany his wife on the dance floor, but Miranda had a feeling that the newlyweds would not care about social convention.

Miranda waited expectantly for the ladies to fill her in on the topic of Lord Granton’s grumblings. Trepidation began to climb up her spine as Amelia glanced at her sideways and then refused to meet her eyes.

“Have you heard? It’s the most exciting thing. Sure to be the talk of the entire Season!” Mrs. Reeding fluttered her fan to cool her flushed cheeks.

Icy fingers of fear covered Miranda’s shoulders. She didn’t know what she was afraid of, only that it felt like this news was going to have a great impact on her future.

Lady Granton leaned in and glanced around. “I heard him over by the punch bowl. He introduced himself to Lord Trent.”

“Trent is here?” Miranda looked around for her other brother.

Amelia snagged Miranda’s arm, pulling her attention back to the circle. “It could be someone pretending to be him. It’s been known to happen.”

Lady Granton shook her head, making her mask slide from side to side across her nose. “I saw the ring. That signet ring is certainly authentic. No one would dare to copy it. Not even his cousin.”

Miranda was losing interest in the whole intrigue. Obviously her sense of doom was wrapped up in the drama of the story. “Who?”

Mrs. Reeding leaned in. “The Duke of Marshington is here.”