The Enigmatic Rake

After which all consciousness and all knowledge left him.

In the fashionable quarter of Paris, some days later, in the home of the British Ambassador Sir Charles Stuart and away from the sumptuous reception rooms where visiting dignitaries were entertained and suitably overwhelmed, there was a small anteroom usually set aside for informal or private transactions. This particular interview was to be conducted not by the Ambassador, but by a gentleman who made it his business to remain unknown and unrecognised except by a very few. For the head of British espionage it was good policy to remain anonymous, particularly when it was hoped to discover the names of British politicians attempting to undermine British foreign policy, such as those who would find it politic to bring about the downfall of King Louis XVIII of France and the restored Bourbons. Politicians who might even go so far as to plot the restoration of the deposed Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte—if that ailing exile, imprisoned on the distant island of St Helena, lived long enough to see the day.

There was nothing about the gentleman to draw any attention. Indeed, he worked hard to achieve exactly that, being addressed in his public life as Mr Wycliffe. Neat, slight of figure, no longer young and with a quiet demeanour, he sat behind a desk with a document in his hand, a deep frown between his brows, as the door opened. He looked up, the frown growing heavier at the interruption, then rose to his feet with a quick smile as he saw the identity of his visitor.

‘My Lord Faringdon! Come in, my dear man. I had not expected to see you so soon. Come in and take the weight off your feet.’

The gentleman entered slowly, without grace: Lord Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon.

Those closely acquainted with the family would have given the opinion that Lord Joshua was typical of the Faringdon mould. Above average height with dark hair, although prematurely silvered to a gleaming and stunning pewter, and with the fine, distinctive features of all the men of the family. The straight nose and dark brows, the dramatically carved cheekbones and seductive mouth, the aura of power and self-will were all instantly recognisable. Under different circumstances he was acknowledged to be both elegant and graceful. Well-defined muscles would have rippled beneath the expensive cloth of his fashionable garments. But on this occasion as he walked forward into the room it could be seen that he was in considerable discomfort. His exquisitely tailored coat fit more closely than might have been usual, with evidence of heavy padding around chest and one shoulder. Furthermore he walked with a heavy limp, making use of an ebony cane, which was not merely for affectation. He lowered himself to a chair as invited with a grimace and a distinct lack of co-ordination, lips tightly pressed into a thin line.

‘How are you, sir? We have been concerned.’ Wycliffe resumed his seat behind the desk, eyes narrowed on his visitor.

‘I have been better.’ Lord Faringdon abandoned his cane on the floor beside him and eased his shoulders with noticeable effort.

‘I had not expected you to have left your bed. There was no need. We had been informed of—and accepted—your present inability to continue your mission.’

‘Perhaps you see no need, but since you would not come to me, sir, of necessity I must come here.’ The tone was not conciliatory. Wycliffe found himself pinned by a hard stare from predatory eyes, more austere grey than friendly blue. ‘I need to know your intent.’

Not willing to be cornered into any revealing or sensitive disclosures, Wycliffe deflected the demand. He had spent a lifetime in doing such. ‘There is time and enough for that. Joshua …’ he lapsed into a more intimate form of address, hoping to placate, although his words were not guaranteed to achieve that end ‘… you could have been killed.’

‘I am aware. It has crossed my mind to wonder why I was not. I could not have defended myself, and one dead English spy must have its attractions to those who would work against us.’ Lord Faringdon stretched out his right leg, easing torn ligaments of thigh and knee. ‘And although it shames me to admit it, I must consider that I was very neatly set up. I had no notion that I too was watched and my cover undermined.’

‘Hmm.’ Wycliffe steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the desk, to cast a shrewd glance over one of his most able, if most unlikely, employees. It would never do to underestimate the powers of comprehension of Joshua Faringdon. In the circumstances he owed him some degree of honesty. ‘It would seem that the Bonapartists have more skill—and certainly more determination—than perhaps we gave them credit for. They had no intention of handing over the names of those who would work to restore Napoleon and they also escaped with the money that you agreed to exchange for the list. You will not be surprised to learn that Monsieur Blanc—such an obvious name!—’ his lips curled in distaste ‘—who lured you to the Charleroi château, has disappeared from all his known haunts in the city.’

‘Very sensible of him.’ His lordship winced as he shifted his bruised and battered body in the exceedingly uncomfortable straight-backed chair. ‘I have a debt to pay there! But as I said before—where do we go from here?’

Wycliffe pursed his lips. There was no point in skirting the issue. ‘The problem is, my lord, that your role and your cover here in Paris may have been compromised, although to what extent we cannot yet guess. Perhaps it would be wise for you to remove yourself from the scene in the short term. It may be that you can no longer pose—as you have done with considerable success—as the careless and unprincipled libertine visiting Paris with an eye merely to his own interests and pleasures.’

‘No. I agree.’ Lord Joshua thought for a moment. ‘I still wonder why they did not kill me when they had the chance.’ He rubbed a hand over his face, returning to this one aspect of the night’s débâcle as if it had been keeping him awake at night, along with the physical pain, a memento of crashing from the terrace into the shrubbery. ‘Someone had sufficient affection for me not to wish to hear of my being discovered as a rotting corpse in a garden. So who do you suppose it was who broke my cover?’

Wycliffe pressed his lips into a thin line of distaste. ‘As to that, I could not guess. We have no traitors in our camp. Our security is second to none.’

‘Marianne?’ His lordship’s voice was soft, dangerously so. ‘Our security was appallingly suspect when dealing with that lady. You may have conveniently forgotten the details. But I cannot.’

‘Marianne is dead!’ The slight flush along Wycliffe’s cheekbones might have hinted at embarrassment if one did not know him better. Lord Faringdon watched him with a sardonic twist to his mouth. His Majesty’s spy master clearly did not wish to prolong any discussion of Marianne, the lady who had once had the honour of being Lord Faringdon’s vivaciously attractive wife. ‘The most crucial matter, since you are so concerned with our next step, is that your value, in this investigation at least, has been destroyed.’

‘So?’

‘I think that you should go home.’ On firm ground again, Wycliffe relaxed and allowed himself a more generous smile. ‘Regain your strength. Pick up the reins of your life in England and let the dust of this particular storm settle. I will contact you when things become clearer here and we may see a way to using your services once more. Besides, if Bonaparte dies—and it is my understanding that his health is poor and declining—our work here will be at an end and we shall simply close down this operation. So, as you can appreciate, there is no reason why you should not return to London until the dust clears.’

‘I suppose I could.’ Lord Faringdon showed no particular enthusiasm. He made to cross one leg over the other, remembered and came to a halt, fingers digging into the screaming muscles of his hip. ‘It is true that I have a motherless daughter who will no longer recognise me if I stay away longer. It is over a year since I last saw her.’

‘Well, then. Go and see your family.’ Wycliffe leaned forward persuasively.

‘Very well. You have more confidence than I that I shall be made welcome. I fear that gossip and speculation has made free with my name. I have it on the best authority that my mother considers my remaining in Paris to be of considerable benefit to the family in general and herself in particular, so that she does not have to make excuses for the scandalous behaviour of the head of the family.’ His lips curled to show his teeth, but his eyes were cold and flat, accepting of the situation that he had himself created as a prerequisite for his present occupation. Brows raised in polite enquiry, he looked again at his employer. ‘How do you suggest that I explain my physical state—considering that I have been here on a private visit of debauchery and excess, and am now returning with an obviously incapacitating injury?’

‘Oh, that’s easy to explain.’ The main business out of the way since Lord Faringdon had, it would seem, agreed to leave Paris, Wycliffe rose to pour two glasses of port, one of which he carried over to his guest. ‘I am sure that you can concoct some tale of a jealous husband who disapproved of your attempts to seduce his young and innocent wife. Disapproved sufficiently to dissuade you with a show of force. As you say, you have a reputation that is not inconsiderable—such a tale will be accepted by all. And if you can see your way to it being spread around the fashionable drawing rooms …’

‘Why not?’ A jaundiced shrug and a bland expression signified agreement. ‘It is not a résumé that I would have chosen, but I should have expected no less. I suppose I will have to tolerate the fact that, given my injuries, the jealous husband was able to beat me to within an inch of my life. How ignominious!’ His laugh had a brittle edge. ‘But who am I to cavil at being branded a ravisher and seducer of innocent—or not so innocent—girls? Government service demands a high price indeed.’

‘The cause is great, Joshua.’ Wycliffe was not unsympathetic. ‘Your efforts will not go unrecognised or unrewarded.’

‘I am not looking for a reward. I believe in what we are attempting to achieve. A stable government in France—a democratic monarchy with no repetition of revolution or the overthrow of law and order to unsettle the peace of Europe. I need no reward if we achieve such an outcome.’

‘Then let us drink to our success.’ Wycliffe raised his glass and the two men drank.

‘I shall leave next week,’ Lord Joshua stated, his decision made.

‘Excellent! I expect that you will play the role with your usual panache. If I might make a suggestion?’

‘Well?’

‘I suggest that you take the Countess of Wexford with you. She will not be unwilling and will reinforce your cover—your, ah, libertine tendencies. I believe she has more than a tendre for you.’ Wycliffe’s tone was dry as he noted the glitter of suppressed temper in Lord Faringdon’s eyes. ‘It should give the town tabbies all the ammunition they need to destroy your character and mask any further queries concerning your sudden return or the reason for your incapacity. You can embroider on the situation and your liaison with the fair lady as you see fit. There will certainly be no difficulty in persuading her to accompany you. No one will question your arrival in London.’

‘No. But my family might question whether they wish to associate with me! The Countess of Wexford. God help me! A more voracious woman I have never had the misfortune to meet.’

‘But Olivia is very beautiful.’

‘As well as self-seeking, manipulative and unprincipled. She would like nothing better than to get her claws into me and her fingers on my purse-strings. You have given me a hard path to follow, sir.’

‘I have every confidence in you, Joshua.’ Wycliffe rose to his feet, intimating the end of the conversation. ‘Take Olivia Wexford with you.’ It was more command than advice.

Lord Faringdon duly drained his glass and dragged himself to his feet, rescuing his cane, cursing as his limbs had stiffened.

‘On second thoughts …’ Wycliffe stretched out his hand, his frown deepening again. ‘About Marianne. I think that—’

‘No.’ The white shade around his lordship’s lips owed nothing to physical pain. His words and the manner of their delivery were harsh. ‘As you intimated so forcefully some few minutes ago, the subject of my wife is not up for discussion, Wycliffe.’

‘Even so—’

‘As you said, Marianne is dead.’

‘Very well.’ Wycliffe accepted the finality in the statement, if reluctantly. ‘I must wish you a speedy recovery, my lord. I know that you will do everything necessary to protect yourself. The identity of The Chameleon must not be allowed to suffer further revelations.’

Lord Joshua Faringdon left the British Ambassador’s home, lingering on the front steps to take a breath of fresh air. The Chameleon! A changeable thing, a creature of caprice, of quicksilver versatility. How fanciful. An identity acquired from those who saw only the glamour, the allure of a life dedicated to espionage. Yet, in reality, how sordid. Of course he could play the role of rake and libertine—had he not done so for years?—but that did not mean that he would enjoy doing so. If he needed to spread the gossip in London before his arrival, his sister Judith could be relied upon to do so. But he most certainly would not dance to Olivia Wexford’s avaricious tune or welcome her into his bed. He hoped, fleetingly, that the Prince Regent realised the sacrifices being made by some of his subjects to bolster the traditional monarchies of Europe in his name.

But he doubted it.

Chapter Two

Autumn 1819—London

‘Judith, I really must not—indeed, I cannot—live on your kindness any longer!’ Or on your charity!

Two ladies sat at breakfast in one of the elegant and supremely fashionable town houses in Grosvenor Square. A gentleman, the Earl of Painscastle, hid with deliberate concentration behind a copy of the Morning Post and determined to stay there. This was not the first time that such a statement had ruffled the early morning calm. Given the decisiveness in the tone on this occasion, matters were about to come to a head.

The two ladies, one his wife, the other his guest, faced each other across a spread of white linen. Much of an age, their appearance and character were very different, yet within the past months they had become fast friends. The red hair and green eyes of one spoke of a lively and energetic lady, dressed in the latest fashion despite the early hour. The other was of a quieter disposition with fair curls and calm blue eyes, her morning gown neat rather than fashionable. A quiet composure governed her every movement.