Georgie Lee - Courting Danger With Mr Dyer

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Bart noticed how Moira’s fingers trembled while she adjusted her necklace, the play of her fingers so near the swell of her firm breasts as startling as her offer to help him. After Rotten Row, he’d written her off, intending to come here and find some way to manage things himself. He hadn’t expected her to change her mind and he should accept her help, but he hesitated. Her offer was sincere, but he doubted the veracity of Lady Rexford’s sudden change of heart. She’d do him no good if she crumpled every time the aunt opened her mouth and he had more important business here tonight then fending off disapproving relations. If he wanted to do that he’d attend his parents’ soirée. ‘Won’t your aunt object?’

‘Yes, but it and so many other things are not her decision but mine.’ She settled her shoulders with admirable seriousness, the movement making the diamonds sparkle.

Her defiance revealed a strength of will he hadn’t witnessed in her before, one he hoped she continued to develop. He sensed her happiness relied on her doing so. It shouldn’t matter to him if it did, but by volunteering to help him she was coming under his protection and he was never one to give up on any person in his service, and he needed her. With none of his former clients in attendance, she was, at the moment, the best person to help him. ‘Thank you, Moira.’

She started at his use of her given name. He hadn’t intended to be informal with her, but it’d slipped out, her name as natural on his tongue tonight as when he’d proposed to her. He flexed his hands at his sides, refusing to dig up the past. It had no bearing on the present situation.

‘You’re welcome, Bart.’ She adjusted a comb in the tangle of blonde curls arranged high above her neck. ‘Now, who would you like to meet?’

‘The Comte de Troyen.’ Bart nodded at a dark-haired man with a long face and the longer nose of the Hapsburgs standing by the window with Prince Frederick. ‘He came over during the Peace of Amiens and is good friends with the Prince.’

‘You think he’s one of them?’

Her arm brushed Bart’s when she shifted on her feet to get a better view of the Frenchman. The charge arching between them was unmistakable. He didn’t flinch, but it threatened to rock him off balance as hard as when Mr Flint had first told him of the plot. He drew on the steadfastness of purpose he used in the court to keep opposing counsel from rattling him to put aside his personal feelings and focus on the Comte.

‘His friendship with His Highness gives him ease of access to sensitive information and he has the strongest connection to France.’

‘Most of the people here have deep connections to France.’ Moira levelled her fan at a group of elderly men and women chatting near the dance floor. ‘Mr de Rue’s father was the Chevalier de Rue. Lady Mortley’s father was the Comte de Boulogne. Lady Wortley’s parents were the Duc and Duchesse d’Oiseau. All of these people had aristocratic parents or grandparents who fled to England after the revolution and married their children to earls and dukes.’

‘What about Lord Camberline’s grandparents?’

‘They weren’t lucky enough to escape and were guillotined in France, but not before they spirited Lady Camberline to England to be raised by Lady Elmsworth. She was an old goat of a countess who used to give me the chills whenever Mother had her in for tea.’

Bart studied the clutch of ageing aristocrats. He rarely spent time in society or paid much mind to who did what unless it was pertinent to one of his trials or investigations. It left him at a loss and he didn’t like being without information. It was the reason he’d first approached Lord Fallworth and why he was grateful, if not surprised, to have his sister beside him, the creaminess of her smooth skin heightened by the candlelight. ‘Those are connections but they’re older ones, before Napoleon came to power. The Comte was in France until the Peace of Amiens and when Napoleon restored many of the old aristocrats’ titles and lands, the Comte de Troyen’s were returned to him as well, and no one knows why.’

‘Maybe Napoleon was trying to lure the Comte back to France to help bridge the gulf between the old guard and the new regime. I understand the Comte was an accomplished French statesman at one time. It’s how he survived the Reign of Terror.’ She touched her fan to her delicate chin. ‘It seems to me neither his title nor lands are much good to him in England. With the blockade, not even letters can get through, much less any payments.’

‘Given what I’ve seen of smugglers, it isn’t difficult to slip things through the blockade. If I knew why Napoleon restored his lands, it might answer a great deal to either his innocence or guilt, but the Comte is adept at keeping his business to himself, making him one of the more difficult men for me to investigate. The members of the Rouge Noir are a cautious lot.’ They didn’t gamble or drink to excess, making learning much of anything, including the identity of its members, difficult.

‘I can’t guide you on how to investigate his circumstances, but I can arrange the introduction. My father, and my husband, were well acquainted with Prince Frederick, making him one of the few people here I know. Follow me.’ In a flutter of dark blue silk, she made for the pair of men.

Bart followed, noting the sway of her dress around her hips and the tempting view of the smooth skin of her shoulders and neck beneath her high coiffure. He appreciated her assistance, but not the reminder of her connection to the Prince. He’d been disgusted when he’d learned she’d married Lord Rexford, a man thirty years older than her and in ill health. He understood personal sacrifice, his career had seen a bevy of it, but he couldn’t comprehend surrendering legally and in body to another person just because her father had wished it. He’d never allowed his father, or anyone above him in rank, to dictate his future, much to his father’s continued dismay.

They approached Prince Frederick and the Comte de Troyen, and Bart buried any distaste he experienced for either man. It was a skill he’d honed during his many trials when he’d faced down some of the worst men to see justice done by pummelling them with arguments and evidence instead of his fists. He could be as polite and engaging when the time called for it as he could be ruthless and unforgiving when it involved rooting out enemies of the Crown.

‘Your Highness, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you.’ Moira held out her hand to Prince Frederick.

‘Lady Rexford, my condolences on your husband.’

Prince Frederick bowed over her hand. He was balding and it added to the sloped forehead sliding into a long and pointed nose. The two small eyes fixed on either side of it focused more on her chest and the generous swell of her breasts above her bodice than her lively smile. Bart had to fight the urge to step in between her and the lecherous royal. It wasn’t his place to act as her chaperon.

‘Lord Rexford and your father were a great help to me in securing funding from the House of Lords for munitions during the War of the First Coalition and you’re too young to be a widow.’

‘Thank you.’

Bart noticed how Moira gritted her teeth at the mention of her loss, and the brief flash of pity in Prince Frederick’s eyes, but her charming smile didn’t fade. It appeared, like him, she’d developed a talent for hiding her thoughts.

‘He always spoke well of his days with you and I think he regretted giving up the service. I’m very sorry to hear what happened to you, losing your post as Commander in Chief of the Army. They were wrong to let a man of your talent go. Thankfully, they came to their senses and called you back.’