Rake's Reward Page 3

Sometime later, Edward Varley, the Marquess of Edgewater, returned downstairs. He was his usual dapper self, attired in an evening coat of royal blue velvet, over a waistcoat of oyster white satin embroidered with gold, and a neckcloth tied in the complicated folds of the trone d’amour. Foaming lace at his cuffs disguised the strength of his hands, now holding a walking stick, and a top hat of black silk covered hair that gleamed golden in the dull firelight. No one would ever have identified him as the leader of the conspirators who had just left, except for his eyes, which were still hard, still watchful. Not even the conspirators knew his true identity; those he had recruited himself believed him to be only an impoverished relation of some noble family. And that, the marquess reflected, pulling on his gloves, was the beauty of this whole scheme. Who would ever expect him, a peer of the realm and noted dandy, to be involved in such a thing as revolution?

  Edgewater stepped outside and into the nondescript cab his servant had waiting for him; he would later transfer to his own town carriage, much more resplendent, and much more notable. No one ever would connect him with tonight’s events, or those that would transpire later, until it was too late. All was going splendidly. Best of all, since someone else was financing the plot, it wouldn’t cost him a penny.

  The marquess leaned back, his hands resting on the golden knob of his ebony walking stick. All would be well. Soon, he would have his revenge.

  “That’s him.” Alex took one last look at the body lying on the dirty wooden table, and then turned away, his face expressionless. All about him was the smell of death, something he would never forget, something he thought he had left behind. For God’s sake, this was England, and the war was over. He was entitled to live his life as he saw fit, to try to rebuild his long-lost peace of mind, and not to be plunged again into the nightmare from which there was no awakening.

  “I’m sorry.” The other man signaled to the morgue attendant that they were through. He was taller than Alex, his dark hair thick and straight, his eyes a burnished silver. In his work with the Foreign Office and now, since the war’s end, the Home Office, Oliver, Duke of Bainbridge, had had to perform many distasteful tasks, but few as distasteful as this. A cold fish, he thought, looking at Alex. He had looked at the body of a man who had once been his closest associate, and shown not a flicker of emotion. “You knew him well.”

  “‘Alas, poor Yorick,’” Alex muttered, as they emerged from St. Bartholomew’s Hospital into the murky morning. “He came through the war unscathed, and then gets knifed in a brawl in a Whitechapel tavern, for God’s sake.”

  “Perhaps,” Bainbridge said, as his coachman jumped to open the carriage door for them.

  “Perhaps?” Alex paused in the act of climbing into the carriage and turned, his gaze penetrating. “Say what you mean, Bainbridge.”

  “Not here.”

  Bainbridge gestured again towards the carriage, and this time Alex climbed in, his stomach knotting with anger. “Well?”

  Bainbridge glanced over, and for a moment Alex imagined he saw sympathy in his eyes. “Come back to Bainbridge House,” he suggested. “I’ll explain everything there.”

  “There’s more to this, then?”

  Bainbridge nodded. “I fear so. But not here, St. Clair.”

  Alex stared at him a moment, taking his measure, and then nodded. He had been barely awake, and certainly had not recovered from last evening’s dissipation, when the summons from the Home Office had come. And he had jumped to answer it, he thought now with disgust, quite as if he had still been in the employ of the government, instead of his own man, and for what? Only to see the body of a man who had once been his closest friend. Alf Barnes, born in the East End but able, somehow, to assume any identity he desired. Had he gone on the stage, his talent would surely have brought him fame and wealth. Instead, he had chosen to use it in a better cause, to help his country. He had saved Alex’s life more than once, had survived the horrors of war on the Continent, only to die in England. Ironic, that. Comic, even, in the way the jests the Greek gods had played were comic. Strange, then, that he felt not the slightest desire to laugh.

  In his study at Bainbridge House, the duke called for coffee to be served, and the two men sat in silence until a footman had brought the tray. Alex studied the thick Turkey carpet, the mahogany desk, the gigantic globe that stood in one corner; Bainbridge studied him. “You’re probably wondering why I summoned you this morning,” he began, without preamble.

  Alex looked up, and his eyes took on the hooded look they always assumed when he was facing a new, unknown situation. “It had crossed my mind.”

  “The situation is this.” Bainbridge leaned back. “When you returned from the Continent, you resigned from the service. Alf Barnes didn’t.”

  “No war on at the moment that I’ve noticed,” Alex commented mildly, though he was annoyed by the criticism implied by the other man’s words.

  “No, not with a foreign enemy. The trouble is inside.”

  Alex took a sip of coffee before answering. “Revolution?”

  “It’s a possibility. Has been for years, but now, God knows things seem to be getting worse. We’re watching matters closely.” Bainbridge set down his cup and leaned forward. “We received information—it doesn’t matter how—that a new conspiracy was forming, with the goal of overthrowing the government. It’s not the first, probably won’t be the last. What bothers us about this one is that, from what we’ve learned, men of substance are part of it.”

  “You’re taking it seriously, then,” Alex commented, wondering yet again what this had to do with him, but intrigued, just the same.

  “We have to. These men have power. We decided we needed an agent to infiltrate the group.”

  “Alf Barnes.”

  “Exactly. I needn’t tell you how adept he was at taking on any role he wanted.”

  “No.” Alex grinned, the sudden smile that so changed his face. “Once I was wounded behind enemy lines and Barnes managed, God knows how, to get a French uniform. It got us past the sentries. I almost believed he was French myself.”

  Bainbridge let the silence continue for a few moments before he spoke. “Barnes managed to infiltrate the conspiracy. He was accepted as a member. Or so he thought.”

  “You think they killed him.”

  “I think he was onto something dangerous, and yes, I think they killed him for it. You see, the only piece of information he managed to pass on is that the leader is gentry. Possibly even aristocracy.”

  “Hell,” Alex said, softly.

  “Exactly. The only other thing Barnes mentioned about the leader is that his left eye twitches when he’s angry. If he is the leader.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Apparently he hinted that there was someone above him, that he was only an emissary. It was the leader’s identity Barnes was trying to find out.”

  “And did he?”

  “We have reason to believe he did. And that he died for it.” Bainbridge paused. “He was a good man.”

  “A good friend.”

  Bainbridge glanced sharply at the other man. Alex’s head was bent, and his eyes were unfocused. Not such a cold fish after all, Bainbridge thought, and crossed the room to pour out a measure of brandy. “Here.”

  Alex glanced up, his face for once without its usual mask of wary cynicism, and for a moment his eyes met the other man’s. “Thank you,” he said, taking the glass, and Bainbridge sat again.

  “Several days ago,” he went on, “Barnes managed to contact me. He said he thought he knew who the leader was, but he needed proof. He also said that at this next meeting he would find out the aim of the conspiracy. I couldn’t call him off after that, of course.”

  Alex nodded. “Indeed. So you kept him on it.”

  “Yes. I’m afraid, though, he gave himself away somehow.”

  “Hell,” Alex said again, and drained his brandy. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “You can see the situation we’re in, St
. Clair. We need help.”

  “My spying days are done.”

  “The conspirators made one mistake,” Bainbridge went on, as if Alex hadn’t spoken. “Barnes didn’t die right away. A watchman found him, and before he died he said a name.”

  Alex leaned forward, intrigued in spite of himself. “The leader?”

  “I don’t know. I sincerely hope not.”

  “Who, man? Who?”

  Bainbridge looked uncomfortable. “Cecily Randall.”

  “Who?” Alex said blankly, and Bainbridge’s look of discomfort increased.

  “The Duke of Marlow’s oldest daughter.”

  Chapter Three

  “Marlow’s—God’s teeth!” Alex slammed his glass down on the table by his side. “You’d have me believe Marlow is implicated in this? Everyone knows he’s above reproach.”

  “So far as we know, he is. His daughter, though—no one knows about her. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman has been involved in such a scheme.”

  Alex’s lips twisted in distaste. “She can’t be very old.”

  “She isn’t. Marlow has a son at Oxford, and his two older daughters are both out.”

  “So I’m to believe that a chit just out of the schoolroom is involved in some dire plot. I’ve seen a lot of things, Bainbridge, but this—”

  “How often did you know Alf Barnes to be wrong?”

  Alex stared at him and then leaned back. “Not often. But, hell.” Thoughtfully he stroked his upper lip. “What were his exact words?”

  Bainbridge frowned. “I believe they were,‘Cecily Randall. Ask Cecily Randall.’“

  “‘Ask’?” Alex said, sharply. “Ask what?”

  “God knows. But it’s the only clue we have.”

  “I see.” Alex was quiet for a long moment. “Say he was right,” he said, slowly. “Say this girl does have something do to with this plot. Why tell me?”

  “Because you’re the only man with the right credentials to investigate her.”

  “Rubbish. You must have any number of spies—”

  “But none with entree to the right places,” Bainbridge said, his voice almost gentle.

  “Most of which I avoid. Consider my reputation, Bainbridge.”

  “I have.”

  “Do you seriously believe this girl’s mother would allow me near her?”

  “Has that stopped you in the past?”

  Alex’s eyes were hard. “I don’t seduce innocents.”

  “But we don’t know that she is innocent. I suggest, merely, that you become friendly with her. Find out who her companions are, who she knows, where she goes. Good God, man, do I really have to tell you what’s at stake? If news of this gets out the government could fall, at the least, and that’s the last thing we need.”

  There was a muffled thump at the door, and both men started, as if the very conspirators of whom they had been speaking had discovered them. Bainbridge was already striding across the room when the thump was followed by a childish wail, and his face relaxed. He opened the door, stooped, and came back in, a small boy in his arms, knuckling his eyes. “My heir,” he said, wryly.

  “My congratulations, Bainbridge,” Alex said, and the child looked up.

  “Gobe, Daddy,” he demanded.

  “Where is your nurse?” Bainbridge asked, but without any anger as he walked across to the giant globe, spinning it, to the child’s delight. Alex watched, lips quirked back, feeling distinctly out of place in this domestic scene.

  The door opened again and a young woman hurried in, her hair, like liquid sunshine, held back simply by a ribbon. She gave Alex a quick, distracted smile as he rose, and crossed the room. “I’m sorry, Oliver, but you know how fast he runs.”

  The child turned and bestowed on her a beatific smile. “Gobe, Mommy,” he said. “Merica.”

  “Yes, pet,” she said, reaching for the child, “and perhaps someday you’ll go to America. But for now it’s back to the nursery for you.”

  “Sabrina, I don’t believe you’ve met our guest.” Bainbridge walked across the room with her, his hand resting possessively at her back. “My wife, Sabrina. The Viscount St. Clair.”

  Alex inclined his head. “An honor, ma’am.”

  “How very nice to meet you, sir. Excuse me, but I’m afraid my hands are rather full just now,” she said, smiling down at her son, who was busily pulling at her hair ribbon.

  “Of course, ma’am.” Alex watched as Bainbridge walked with his wife to the door, smiling down at her and the child, a different man from the one who had spoken so seriously of revolution and conspiracies a few moments ago. A most affecting scene, Alex thought sardonically, unaware that just a touch of wistfulness had crept into his eyes. No woman would ever tie him to her apron strings like that.

  The door closed behind the duchess, and Bainbridge returned. “My apologies, St. Clair. The boy is fascinated with the globe.” Alex merely inclined his head in reply, his face impassive. “To return to what we were discussing—”

  “You wish me to get close to Lady Cecily, if I read you aright,” Alex said bluntly, and Bainbridge, after a startled glance at him, nodded.

  “Exactly. I have as hard a time as you believing she could be involved in such a thing, but I find it harder to believe that Barnes was wrong. She may not be the leader, but she may be able to lead us to him.”

  “So I am to court her and learn her secrets. I see.” Alex rose, and his voice when he spoke was flippant. “Who better than a rake to investigate a woman?”

  “A man already skilled in intelligence work,” Bainbridge corrected quietly, and Alex’s mouth twisted. The entire affair left a sour taste in his mouth. He had thought he had left all this behind, the deception, the treachery, the death. The thought of involving a possibly innocent girl in such matters was distasteful. But Alf Barnes had discovered she was implicated in some way, and Alex had never known him to be wrong. A tiny glow of excitement, one he didn’t really wish to acknowledge, sprang into life inside him.

  “Very well. I’ll do it,” he said, and held out his hand. The two men shook hands solemnly, and Alex left the room.

  Sabrina met Bainbridge in the hall, and the child reached for his father. “He’ll do it, then?”

  Bainbridge smiled down at her. Gone were the days when he had mistrusted this girl; his heart and soul were now in her keeping. “Yes. He’ll do well, too.”

  “Poor man,” Sabrina said, and Bainbridge looked at her quizzically. “He looked lonely, don’t you think?”

  “That one?” Bainbridge laughed. “My dear, you’re wasting your pity on him.”

  “Perhaps. But I do hope this does more for him than give him something to do. Well.” She looked at her son, who was struggling to get down. “I’d best return him to Nurse.” Smiling at her husband, Sabrina reached up for a quick kiss and headed for the stairs.

  Outside, Alex clapped his beaver hat upon his head and tucked his walking stick under his arm. His steps were firmer, more purposeful, as he ran down the stairs to the pavement and strode along, already planning his strategy. His first thought at seeing Barnes’s body, to drink himself into oblivion, was gone. No more empty days, or even emptier nights; no time, even, for a girl chance-met in the park. At last he had a purpose again, and it might even, in some way, make up for what had happened to him in France. Alf Barnes, he vowed, would not go unavenged.

  Mr. Anthony Carstairs, pink of the ton, attired in an evening coat of mulberry velvet, his shirt points so high and so starched that he was in imminent danger of cutting himself if he should so much as turn his head, studied his cousin long and hard through his quizzing glass. “Never thought to see you at Almack’s, coz,” he said, letting the glass drop. “Not exactly your sort of do. No high flyers here, don’t you know.”

  “Indeed,” Alex answered, hiding his intense amusement. Had he not known Tony from boyhood he would have dismissed him instantly as a worthless fribble, but he knew dandyism was simply a pose he had affected. There
was good stuff in him, and that was a great relief to Alex. When he went, Tony would become the ninth Viscount St. Clair. Alex had no doubt the title would be in good hands. Better, perhaps, than his own.

  “Nothing to drink but lemonade or orgeat, and nothing to eat but stale cake,” Tony went on in his languid drawl, “and cards played for chicken stakes, don’t you know.”

  Alex smiled, so briefly it was almost invisible. In contrast to his cousin, he was dressed in sober black, in the fashion decreed by Brummel, discredited though he now was. His evening coat was of superfine; his breeches of black satin, against which his waistcoat and neckcloth stood out dazzlingly white. The cut of his clothing was impeccable, of course; nothing less would do. It suited him to dress so, inconspicuously, so he thought, unaware that by contrast with the peacock dress of his cousin, he looked all the more elegant, and more than a little mysterious. As Tony had hinted, the Viscount St. Clair rarely appeared in such tame surroundings as Almack’s, and his appearance had already occasioned a great deal of speculation.

  Little was known about the viscount, or where he had spent the last years. He was an enigma, a challenge few ladies wished to resist, with a reputation both scandalous and dangerous. Anxious mamas steered their daughters towards safer prey, while older, more sophisticated ladies eyed him speculatively, wondering just went on behind that undeniably handsome, enigmatic, exterior. “Then why are you here, Tony?” he asked.

  “To see a goddess.”

  His tone was so fervent that Alex looked at him. For the first time he realized that Tony’s attention had been constantly focused on the door, though he had greeted acquaintances and flirted with the young ladies present. His inner amusement grew. “Who is it this week?”

  “Unfair, coz,” Tony answered, his energy belying his languid pose. “This time it’s real.”

  “Of course.”

  “It is! Wait until you see her, and you’ll agree. Hair like midnight, face like an angel—”

  “You could be a bit more original in your compliments, Tony.”