Miss Fortescue's Protector In Paris

Chris sat back in his chair, fascinated. There was always trouble with the Germans, of course, the elderly Bismarck, the bellicose Kaiser and Queen Victoria’s liberal-minded daughter Princess Vicky always creating a stir. ‘Involving a Madame Renard?’

‘A French radical, yes, and a friend of a woman called Mrs Hurst. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? She’s a regular at the Pankhursts’ At Homes. They’re always involved in all manner of doings there.’

‘Oh, yes. I believe she is president of something called the Women’s Franchise League. Makes a nuisance of herself at Hyde Park Corner sometimes, but I don’t remember hearing of anything really nefarious there.’

‘Neither do we, though certainly radical elements like that always bear watching.’ Ellersmere chuckled. ‘Whatever would happen next if women got the vote? Female M.P.s? Preposterous.’

Chris wasn’t so sure about that. Women often seemed to him rather more sensible than most men. Laura Smythe-Tomas was one of their best agents; Emily ran her father’s business; Diana wrote articles. ‘Some women can already vote locally, of course, and sit on school boards. It seems to go rather well.’

Ellersmere frowned. ‘That is quite a different matter to what this Mrs Hurst and her ilk seem to want. We’ve heard she is setting up meetings with Madame Renard and Herr Friedland in Paris. What on earth could they be scheming about with the Germans? Our contact in Berlin thinks it is a fraud of some sort, one which could come to involve the Crown Princess. We cannot allow that to happen. We have enough to do diverting the scandals of the Prince of Wales, we don’t need one with his elder sister, as well. Not that the Princess has ever given us a moment’s trouble in herself.’

‘And how can I help? I hardly think I could infiltrate the League. I’m a good actor, as you said, but not good enough to pass as a Mrs Blakely.’ Nor was there likely to be a real Mrs Blakely by his side any time soon.

‘We just need you to go to Paris and make friends with this Friedland person. Make him think you are sympathetic to German interests and want to promote their friendship with Britain. Maybe romance Madame Renard a little. You know the sort of thing. Whatever it takes to find out what they’re up to.’

Chris seemed haunted by Paris tonight, by old memories there. By the magic of Emily herself in Paris. ‘You want me to go to France?’

‘Yes.’ Ellersmere sat back, a confiding expression on his face. ‘You know, Blakely, we have been very impressed indeed lately by your work. You have uncovered information that was invaluable. A position is soon to be open in St Petersburg which will need a—lighter touch.’

‘St Petersburg?’ Chris said, astonished. It usually took years for a man to gain a posting at such an important court. And it was a notorious tangle of complications. ‘You need a jester in Russia?’

Ellersmere laughed. ‘Hardly. It is an important post, private secretary to the Vice Ambassador, with much room for advancement if all goes well. You know, Blakely, when I was young, before I met Lady Ellersmere, I often took on tasks similar to yours. It was all most exciting. But we all grow older; we all must move forward, make changes when the time is right. A fascinating place, Russia, most challenging. You might enjoy it, even if the duties might seem a bit duller than your current work at first.’ His smile faded into sternness. ‘Provided this Paris operation goes off well.’

‘Indeed,’ Chris murmured, his thoughts racing. A real position, a high secretarial post? For him? One where he could be himself again at long last, find out what he could become once the mask was off. It sounded fascinating. It sounded like work he could grow into, now that weariness had set in at his rakish role. Could it be possible?

Ellersmere sat forward, his hands clasped. ‘I know I need not tell you, of all people, the great need for secrecy in this matter, Blakely. Paris needs a frivolous touch right now, shall we say.’

Chris nodded. He did, indeed, know how to be frivolous. He thought of Emily again, that disappointed look on her face, and a surge of energy for this new job filled him. ‘Then, yes. I think I am exactly your man.’

Chapter Five (#u98df86c1-2404-5a7a-beb1-e9c7d6626896)

The Poseidon Club wasn’t too busy yet when Chris arrived the next evening, which was just the way he liked it. A few moments just to sit by the fire, have a cognac brought to him by the wonderfully silent, wonderfully understanding staff, pretend to read a newspaper and just be alone for once. No one expecting him to be full of jovial chatter about the latest horse race, the prettiest new dancer at Drury Lane, some new mischievous scheme.

For a few moments, he could just—be. Be quiet, be still, be himself. The Poseidon, where he had long been a member, was a haven, at least early in the evening, before the crowds arrived to drink and play cards.

But maybe it would not be such a haven tonight. As Chris paused in the doorway to the library, handing his overcoat to the attendant, he studied the dark-panelled, leather-upholstered room. It was the usual gathering at such an hour—a foursome of older gentlemen who had served together in the army in India and met every day for a hand of piquet by the windows. The Duke of Amberley, escaping his social-butterfly Duchess in a bottle of brandy, a couple of people reading the papers. He could hear the click of a game in the adjoining billiards room.

And Mr Albert Fortescue, slowly turning over the pages of the Express, a distracted frown on his face. Chris knew Emily’s father was a member, yet he was very seldom seen at the club, being so busy with his business affairs. Chris was startled to see him there that day, as if his earlier memories of Emily had conjured him up in the library. He had not seen the Fortescues for a while. Now Emily seemed to be in his thoughts wherever he turned.

It made him feel strangely discomfited. Mr Fortescue glanced up and gave Chris a polite nod. He didn’t seem to know any of Chris’s past with Emily, or any of his wild thoughts now. Chris nodded back,and hurried to his usual armchair by the fire, which was not burning on a warm night. An attendant appeared with his usual cognac and newspapers.

‘A double today, Mr Blakely,’ the man murmured. ‘If you’ll forgive me saying so, you look as if you can use it.’

Chris laughed. ‘I can indeed, Ralph. You are a mind reader.’

Left alone again, Chris took a deep gulp of the spirit and stared into the empty marble grate. It had been damp day, the grey sky a reflection of his own swirling mood. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on the day’s work at the office, his thoughts on the Paris business, on a possible future in St Petersburg.

He also hadn’t been able to shake away those memories of Emily. He didn’t know why she haunted him now. Any other woman would have faded by this time. But she lingered, like the sweet scent of her French perfume. He so often worked to prove himself to her, though she would never, could never, know that.

He knew he had to take that Paris assignment, and then Russia, if he was lucky enough to have it come his way. Maybe it could mean the end of the way he had been living for so long, the end of the secrets, the acting. Ellersmere was right—it had once been exciting, now it felt tiring. Maybe he could even begin to hope for a life such as William had, respect, a family, a wife. Things he longed for when he saw their happiness, but which he dared not want for himself.

Chris frowned, trying to imagine what such a life might be like. He had been so caught up for so long in his own work that he wasn’t even sure what a ‘normal’ life should be. He had certainly never seen it with his own parents. Even William and Diana, clearly deeply in love to all who saw them together, were hardly conventional. They moved from royal court to royal court for Will’s career, with Diana doing her writing.

Chris almost laughed to think of himself ensconced in cosy domesticity, a town house in Mayfair, draped in fringed curtains and decorated with nice landscapes and silver-framed photos, smelling of beeswax polish and lavender. A plump, smiling, pretty wife playing at her piano, making sure Cook had the roast on the dinner table at the right hour. No, he couldn’t face that. But what Will and Di had, a partnership...

That he could just almost imagine. Almost even want.

He suddenly pictured Emily sitting across from him at a desk, going over her own business ledgers as he read her invitations from Russian nobility, deciding on which they should accept. She looked up at him, laughing as he put on a haughty Grand Duke accent, her hazel eyes shining...