Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

He nodded his thanks, picked up the cup, cradled it between his hands. He sipped, then went on, “Once it became clear how successfully I could penetrate the highest civil and military ranks, there was more at stake. Leaving became too risky. The French had to believe I was always there, always accounted for—not the slightest question over what I was doing at any time.”

Leaving the pot on the sink, she returned to her chair. “So that’s why you didn’t come back for James’s funeral.”

“I managed to get out for Papa’s and Frederick’s, but when James was lost, Wellington’s forces were closing on Toulouse. It was more vital than ever that I stay in place.” Frederick, his eldest brother, had broken his neck on the hunting field; James, the second eldest, had succeeded Frederick, only to drown in a freak boating accident. He, Charles, was the third son of the sixth earl, yet here he now was, proclaimed and established as the ninth earl. One of the vicissitudes of fortune that had overtaken him.

She nodded, her gaze far away; lifting her cup, she sipped.

Eventually, she refocused on him. “Where were you at Waterloo?”

He hesitated, but he wanted the truth—all of the truth—from her. “Behind French lines. I led a few others, half-French like me, to join a detachment from Toulouse. They were guarding artillery on a hill overlooking the field.”

“You stopped the cannons?”

“That’s why we were there.”

Her gaze remained steady on his face. “To reduce the slaughter of our troops.”

By slaughtering others . He left the words unsaid.

“But after Waterloo, you sold out.”

“There was no further need of us—agents like me. And I had other duties waiting.”

Her lips curved. “Duties you and everyone else had never imagined you’d have to take up.”

Indeed. The mantle of the earldom had fallen to him, the wildest, outwardly least suited, least trained to the challenge of his father’s three sons.

She continued to study him, after a moment asked, “How does it feel—being the earl?”

She’d always had an uncanny ability to probe where he was most sensitive. “Odd.” He shifted in his chair, stared into his half-empty cup.

Impossible to explain the feeling that had enveloped him when he’d walked up the front steps and through the massive front door earlier that day. The earldom and the Abbey were his . Not just them, but the lands and the responsibilities that came with both, and more—the Abbey was not just his childhood home but the home of his ancestors, the place in which his family had its deepest roots. This was home , and its protection and fostering had fallen to him; to him fell the challenge of seeing it and the estates pass to the next generation not just intact but improved.

The feeling was as compelling as any bugle call had ever been, yet the impulses it stirred were not as yet so clear. Nevertheless, more than anything else, his need to respond by finding his countess, by properly linking himself back into this world, had brought him home; Dalziel had just provided a fortuitous excuse.

“I still find it hard remembering Filchett and Crewther are trying to get my attention when they say ‘my lord.’ ” Filchett and Crewther were his butlers, here and in town respectively.

He’d told her enough. He drained his cup, intending to start his side of the interrogation.

She stopped him with the words, “I heard you and some others had formed a special club to help each other in your search for brides.”

He stared at her, simply stared. “Have you been to London recently?”

“Not for seven years.”

He’d accepted Dalziel knew all about the Bastion Club, but…“How the hell did you know?”

She set down her cup. “Marissa had it from Lady Amery.”

He sighed through his teeth. He should have remembered Tony Blake’s mother and godmother were French, part of the network of aristocratic emigrées who’d come to England years before the Terror. As was his mother. He frowned. “She didn’t tell me she knew.”

Penny snorted and stood to retrieve their cups. “She and the rest only went up to town four weeks ago. How much time have you spent with her?”

“I’ve been busy.” He was grateful he didn’t blush easily. He’d been actively avoiding, not so much his mother—she understood him so well it was frightening, but consequently she rarely attempted to tell him his business—but his younger sisters, Jacqueline and Lydia, and even more his sisters-in-law, Frederick’s wife Annabelle and James’s wife Helen.

Their husbands had died without heirs; for some mystical reason that had converted them into the most passionate advocates of marriage for him. They’d infected his sisters with the same zeal. Every time any of the four saw him, they’d drop names. He didn’t dare go riding or strolling in the park for fear of being set on and dragged to do the pretty by some witless, spineless miss they thought perfect to fill his countess’s shoes.

Initially, he’d welcomed their help, no matter his oft-voiced aversion to such feminine aid, but then he’d realized the young ladies they were steering his way were all wrong—that there apparently wasn’t a right one in all of London—but he hadn’t known how to explain, how to stop them, couldn’t bring himself to utter a straight No ; he could imagine their faces falling, the hurt look in their eyes…just the thought made him squirm.

“Have they driven you from town?” Penny watched his head come up, watched his eyes narrow. She held his gaze, amused. “I did warn them—and Elaine and my sisters, too—but they were all quite convinced they knew just who would suit you and that you’d welcome their assistance.”

His snort was a great deal more derisive than hers had been. “Much they know…” He stopped.

She probed. “It’s the start of the Season—the very first week—and you’ve already fled.”

“Indeed.” His voice hardened. “But enough of me.” His eyes—she knew they were midnight blue, but in the weak light they looked black—fixed on her face. “What were you doing riding about the countryside dressed like that?” A flick of his eyes indicated her unconventional attire.

She shrugged. “It was easier than riding in skirts, especially at night.”

“No doubt. But why were you riding at night, and sufficiently hard to appreciate the difference between sidesaddle and astride?”

She hesitated, then gave him one inch—dangerous, but…“I was following someone.”

“Someone doing what?”

“I don’t know—that’s why I was following him.”

“Who is he and where did he go?”

She held his gaze. Telling him was too great a risk, not without knowing why he was there. Especially now she knew the truth of his past.

That hadn’t been that great a shock; she’d always suspected something of the sort—she’d known him quite well, the youth he’d once been. But thirteen years had passed; she didn’t know the man he now was. Until she did, until she could be sure…she knew enough to be careful. “You said you were asked to look around here by your ex-commander. What sort of ex-commander does an ex-spy have?”

“A very determined one.” When she simply waited, he grudgingly elaborated, “Dalziel is a something in Whitehall—exactly what, I’ve never known. He commanded all British agents on foreign soil for the last thirteen years at least.”

“What has he asked you to look into down here?”

He hesitated. She could see him weighing the risk of telling her, of giving her the last piece of information she wanted without any guarantee she’d reciprocate.

She continued to wait, gaze steady.