Chapter Four
"It’s done. Should be easier from now on.”
“Easier how? You’ve not done anything but gain a few extra pounds.”
“Try a few extra thousand pounds.”
Someone whistled low.
“How?”
“Prudent investments. The point is, it is enough.”
Rafe pressed as close as he could to the door, holding himself as still as possible. It was beyond fortunate that they had chosen to meet in the second study, which was much smaller and much less conspicuous, and happened to have a connecting door to a small antechamber, where he currently waited. Ever the man to scrimp where he could, Sir Edgar had installed flimsy doors in the house, despite their ornate designs, and Rafe could hear every word.
He’d arrived in the antechamber moments before the men had entered the study and had lifted the latch of the door so it would be ever so slightly ajar without raising any suspicion.
The slightest noise from him, however, and they would know exactly where to look.
“Are we prepared to move forward then?” asked a rasping voice Rafe recognized.
He bit back a grim smile. Lord Viskin, it seemed. Well, well, that was one he hadn’t expected.
“I’ve already got my pieces in place,” an unfamiliar voice said.
“Do you?”
There was some slight shuffling and the light within the room suddenly increased. “See here, the profits will only increase once the contract is completed. I’ve given all I have of my own to the cause, but with this connection, the available support will be unending.”
Another voice swore in a bit of awe. “And you’re sure your contact can arrange this? It’s not certain…”
“It is certain. It will happen.”
“And then what?”
“My resources in Calais will provide us with the… inspiration we need to accomplish the next task.”
The room rumbled with laughter, and Rafe frowned. His sources all spoke of Paris, not Calais, and Sieyès was in Brussels, young Napoleon in Austria, and the mysterious brothers of Napoleon, the former kings of Holland and Spain, remained clear of France. The Foreign Office hadn’t given him any reason to think otherwise, not that they usually gave him much to go on anyway, considering he was a London operative.
The secret London-based coalition between Home and Foreign Office that had grown into the London League had begun as a small project at the height of trouble with Napoleon, and their successes had only made them more of an integral part of the covert operations realm. Despite complaints from other branches, they were a fixture now, and were not going anywhere.
If someone had neglected to inform them that their investigation into this as yet unnamed faction had greater ties than they’d previously anticipated, there would be hell to pay. Preferably from someone in the upper ranks.
Maybe the Eagle could put some pressure on… He might not be one of the Shopkeepers, but he could certainly have some influence. He’d saved the lives of each of the men in that group at least once, they certainly owed him something.
“Calais?” someone sputtered. “Why not Paris?”
“Munitions in Paris fall under more scrutiny, Terrence,” Sir Edgar said without much patience. “Calais is safer and less conspicuous.”
“So who is meeting with…?”
Rafe frowned, wondering if he’d missed a name.
“He will contact Grimshaw when he wants to meet,” Lord Viskin replied. “Until then, mind your business and keep to the plan. The last thing we need is for people to think we’re doing business together.”
“No one thinks you do business anyway.”
Dark chuckles rumbled in the room and Rafe almost joined in. It was true, Viskin was known for his poor parties and excessive drink, not for anything productive. No one would believe him capable of concise thought, let alone treachery.
It was a perfect cover.
He heard the men shifting within the room and made to do so himself when he heard voices again.
“How certain are you of your plan?” Grimshaw muttered so low that Rafe had to strain to hear him.
There was a soft grunt. “Perfectly. It’s too simple, really. My piece is in the perfect situation, and there is nothing to draw back to myself. The cover is foolproof, Grimshaw. No one will ever know.”
“They’d better not. This is an opportunity here, Tobias, and you won’t get a second one.”
“From you or from him?”
“Whichever inspires you to succeed.”
Their voices faded and the light in the room faded. Rafe sank against the floor, wincing as he set his head back against the wall.
Blast. This was getting more complicated all the time. Someone else was calling the shots, and thanks to their secrecy, he had no idea whom. He could get a fairly accurate detailing of the men who had gone into that room and thus were traitors to the British Crown, but it wouldn’t get him the one pulling the strings.
But they had to start somewhere. Grimshaw was heavily involved, as he’d thought, and Viskin… Well, that was going to be a pleasure to bring to light.
Provided this came to light at all.
It might be prudent to let them alone for now. To disrupt their current plans would draw attention to their involvement, and ruin any chances at reaching the bigger fish.
The Shopkeepers loved the bigger fish.
He snorted softly as he picked himself up off of the floor. Shopkeepers, indeed. That was a point of pride for him. The heads of the Home, Foreign, and War Offices, as well as the spymaster and Prime Minister, had met for eons of time in secret about covert operations, and had kept themselves out of each other’s hair for the most part. More recently, however, they’d been forced to mix and mingle their operations and meet more regularly, thus requiring reports to be more inclusive, and the need for secrecy only increased. Code names were usually earned rather than bestowed, but exceptions had to be made.
Inspiration had come when Bonaparte had so unwisely proclaimed that England was a country ruled by shopkeepers.
And then it suddenly was.
The Shopkeepers gleefully accepted the jab and had turned it into the greatest private joke in British history. No one knew of their covert dealings, and the boring lives they led as the most powerful political figures in Britain seemed to be task enough. Weaver, for example, was a Shopkeeper, but he was Lord Rothchild for the public, better than the official ambassadors to various nations, and more respected than the lot of them.
Of course, Weaver still dabbled in various operations, but the Fox, as he’d been when he was an operative, was officially retired.
Officially.
He wondered faintly if Lady Rothchild was aware of that…
Rafe sighed and brushed off the dark livery. This antechamber, however useful, was not well kept. He would have to pass that information on to his new friend, provided he could turn him. He usually could. Loyalty of servants was highly overrated.
He glared down at the ancient and stinking powdered wig, and the idiotic wreath currently tangled within it. If he’d been a footman in truth, he would have expected a great deal of bribery to remain in a house this mad.
But appearances must be kept, so he donned it once more and carefully made his way back through the halls.
“What are you doing there?” barked an older woman with a severe expression. She wore none of the finery of the guests, which placed her squarely with the household.
Perfect.
Long accustomed to being expressionless, Rafe adopted the token placid face of a footman. “The master asked me to take something to the library for him. I’m returning to the ballroom.”
She snorted and quirked fingers at him. “Not empty handed, you’re not. You know better. Come with me.”
Rafe fought a smile, but obediently followed. Either the woman had a miserable memory for her own staff, or Sir Edgar had hired out extra help for this ball.
Both options worked to his advantage quite well.
After being forced to bear another tray of whatever horrid concoction was supposed to represent Greece to the ballroom, and endure the inanity of the guests around him, he was at last able to slip away and meet the wigless and simply clad footman at the mews.
He shuddered as he removed the wig and tossed it at him. “I don’t envy you that thing, lad.”
The footman shrugged and set it atop his head, slightly askew. “Sad to say, sir, but you get used to it.”
Rafe shucked the livery and brushed it off, giving him a frown. “You work at the house?”
As he thought, the footman shook his head. “No, sir, I work for Lady Poole. Sir Edgar needed extra hands for this soiree, so he brought us over. I made an extra five bob tonight.” Again there came the shrug.
What a bizarre life, Rafe thought with a sad shake of his head. “You’ve made far more than that,” he reminded him as he pulled out a bill from his trousers. “And more to come if you hear or notice anything of interest surrounding Sir Edgar. Understood?”
The footman’s eyes widened as he took the note, then he swallowed and shoved it into his own.
Rafe bit back a smile. “And if you find that tending the Peacock Pooles or Sir Edgar is too much for you,” he said, fumbling for the bit of pencil he always kept on him, “you can go here.” He scribbled the address onto a spare bit of parchment and handed that over as well. “Ask for Horton. He’ll help you out.”
The footman took that as well, shaking his head. “Thank you, sir,” he breathed.
Rafe shook his hand, then tapped his nose knowingly. “Your silence, remember. Not a word.”
“About what, sir?” came the immediate reply.
“Exactly.”
The footman shook his hand again and left, leaving Rafe to the silence, and his folded pile of finery.
He ought to rush off to Hal, or head back to the office, something significant after what he’d just heard.
But Margaret Easton was back at the house.
And blast it all if he didn’t want to see her more than anything else.
Well, that was one event without success.
Margaret nibbled on her dry toast, without jam, and tried not to glare at her companion. She had no desire to be scolded this early in the morning, and she knew that she was due for it already.
The carriage ride last night was proof enough.
She’d been too forward with the men she had danced with, and her friend Miss Arden had been a bad influence. Her cousin was too wild and visits with her were to be curtailed, but not forbidden, as Miss Dalton could benefit from a good example. Events were now to be chosen by Miss Ritson alone, being the paragon of virtue and far more informed in Societal matters.
And, of course, fashion was to be addressed.
Margaret had no idea what there was to find fault about in her ensemble last night. She’d worn a simple cream muslin and pearls, hardly any additional adornments, and everything had been fitted according to the styles of the day.
But apparently, she was far more hopeless than she’d thought, and she was fortunate Miss Ritson had found her now before it was too late.
Such was her tirade, at any rate.
Margaret had actually enjoyed the night, had met some lovely gentlemen, though none that she truly thought she could marry, and had found the comfort in her friend and cousin that she had been seeking. But there would be less and less of that, and more suffering and enduring. If she managed to find a husband in truth with Miss Ritson prodding her along, it would be a miracle.
On the other hand, it might make her more desperate and less particular.
That was a rather terrifying thought.
She made a face as she bit into her toast again. She’d been forbidden jams and tarts, sweets of any kind, as she was apparently just as plump in the eyes of her companion as she was with her great aunt.
And she was starving.
“Mind your expression, Miss Easton,” Miss Ritson barked in her chilling voice that was too low for her frame. “You must be refined at all times.”
“Yes, Miss Ritson,” she recited obediently.
“And sit up!”
She did so.
Miss Ritson frowned, the lines at her small mouth becoming more pronounced. “You have a willful spirit, Miss Easton, and that is unbecoming.”
Margaret resisted the urge to sigh. It was not the first time she had heard about her independence as a flaw of massive proportions, and it would not be the last. Her parents had always allowed her a bit of leisure, and as such, she was, admittedly, freer than an average miss, but she was also unfailingly obedient, and surely that was something to be admired.
“Your expression indicates you are resentful,” Miss Ritson said with a faint sniff. “Why are you determined to resist my efforts? Your parents have generously allowed you to remain for the Season, and I am to aid you in your attempts to find a suitable British husband, which is what you wish for yourself. How can I help you do so if you continue to remain unobliging?”
Despite her bristling at the implication that this was all her fault, Margaret lowered her chin in a demure submission. “I do not mean to be so,” she murmured.
And she didn’t. But really, how could she be faulted for not being admired as she was? She was not shocking or wild by any stretch, and she was no wallflower or spinster. Whatever was working against her, it had nothing to do with her being a pariah.
It was simply a matter of taste.
It had to be.
Miss Ritson shook her somehow lifeless brown hair and sighed, sipping her tea. “I don’t know what to do with you, Miss Easton. Until you allow me to advise you in truth, you will not get anywhere.”
Margaret chewed her lip, struggling within herself. Miss Ritson had an agenda, there was no question, but as she could not see to what end that would lead, she did not have much of a choice. Her chaperone was her key to going out at all, regardless of whether their plans would converge at any point. Could she let Miss Ritson take control of her without actually relinquishing control at all?
She had to. If she wanted any chance at a marriage of her own choice, she had to play along.
Miss Ritson had all the power to restrict her as she saw fit.
She could not let that happen.
“What would you suggest for my next social engagement, Miss Ritson?” she asked politely, pointedly taking much smaller bites.
The flash of victory in the pale eyes gave Margaret pause, but it was too late now.
“You have been invited to attend Lady Cavendish’s card party,” Miss Ritson reported, setting aside her silverware. “You will accept, and mingle with some ladies of high quality. They may open doors to you, and your impression must be favorable.”
“Of course,” Margaret murmured. “When is it?”
“Tomorrow, so we will not have time to find a suitable wardrobe for you.”
Margaret frowned slightly. “No time? Why not today?”
Miss Ritson raised a brow at her. “It is Thursday, Miss Easton. We are to visit Mrs. Campbell.”
The toast in her mouth suddenly felt drier. “Aunt Ada?” she squawked, her voice rising noticeably in pitch.
“Of course, you must maintain your family connections!” Miss Ritson shook her head in disappointment. “You cannot be so cruel as to ignore the dear lady while your parents are away.”
Aunt Ada had never been considered a dear lady in her entire life, and certainly never in Margaret’s, and she could not see any reason to go visit her without her mother as a buffer. The last two weeks had been lovely in that respect. Miss Ritson had never insisted on these visits before, and for that she was grateful.
Why now?
“I would never be so neglectful,” Margaret replied with care. “I only… Well, we have not gone since my parents have left, so I was only clarifying.”
Miss Ritson looked suspicious, narrowing her shrewd eyes and clearing her throat slightly. “That is because she has been unwell and sent a request that we not disturb her during her time of much needed rest. She is recovered now, and we shall maintain your usual schedule.”
“Indeed?” Margaret asked, heart stuttering slightly, fingers beginning to tingle.
“Yes,” her chaperone said absently, nodding and pulling a small book from somewhere Margaret could not see. “Thursdays to visit your great aunt, Tuesdays to Bond Street, returning calls on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Fridays for receiving.”
Margaret fought the urge to bite her lip again, this time in delight. A return to her regular schedule would mean a return to seeing her mystery man, and she had been longing for ten second moments for what felt like an age. It made no difference that she could never have him, he made her come alive, and when she was feeling so very lost and adrift, she needed that steadying influence.
“Whatever you think is best, Miss Ritson,” she murmured, hiding a smile.
Miss Ritson looked up at her, frowning slightly. “There shall be more things to your schedule than that, Miss Easton,” she informed her in a tight voice. “I shall schedule as many events for you as I can, and we must work in fittings, elocution and etiquette lessons, dancing, music, French…”
“I am already fluent in French,” Margaret interrupted, bewildered by the sudden addition of education to her tasks. “And I have completed my education at a finishing school in Switzerland.”
“Do not interrupt, Miss Easton,” came the quick reply. “It is very rude. And obviously your education and etiquette are lacking, for you are most certainly not finished, and not accomplished enough for your fortune to tempt a man enough to wed you and bed you.”
Margaret gasped a little and her fingers curled into a fist beneath the table.
Miss Ritson raised a brow at her. “I have not said anything you did not already know, do not act so surprised. Now, I must finish my report to your parents, who have sent their disappointment with your lack of success thus far, and you must practice your pianoforte.”
Margaret blinked back an odd sense of tears and cleared her throat. “I do not play the pianoforte, Miss Ritson.”
“You would if you practiced.” Again came the sniff, and then her chaperone was off again, this time listing appropriate men for Margaret to try for, but she was no longer listening.
She ought to fight this prison of hers. It was confining her so much she would never be able to maneuver on her own when about. She would never find a husband worth his salt like this.
But fighting it would ensure she was married off to an Italian before Easter, and she couldn’t give up so soon.
She would cling to the image of her mystery man, if she ever had freedom of her eyes to look for him, and hope that this would all prove worth it in the end.
She nodded once to herself, and to whatever Miss Ritson said, and bit into the last of her miserable toast again.