Courting Danger With Mr Dyer

She’d do what she could to help bring down the wicked people who wanted to destroy them and rob everyone of their freedom the way Napoleon had pillaged and robbed so many people in Europe of theirs, the way her family had stolen hers when they’d insisted she marry Walter. She would have a life of her own and with it a future. She would help Mr Dyer.

Chapter Three (#u0c33e761-b112-50cb-bb5c-c745aa0a3725)

Moira stood near the back of the line of mamas watching their daughters whirl about the Dowager Marchioness of Camberline’s impressive ballroom. A grand, arched ceiling presided over the rectangular space, at one end of which, in a balcony, the musicians played. At the other end, guests traversed the curving staircase to join the festivities or paused on the single landing to look over the crush. Tall windows punctuated the long run of the opposite wall and all of them were open to let in the cool night air. Camberline House in Mayfair was one of the last houses still surrounded by an extensive garden and land. There was some distance between it and its nearest neighbour and the stately trees and rolling lawn beyond the windows, illuminated by torches, gave Moira and the other guests the impression of being in the country.

A few days ago, Moira had eagerly looked forward to tonight. Once here, the thrill of it lost its allure. Freddy was in the gaming room while Aunt Agatha was off enjoying refreshments with her friends. Moira, being a widow, didn’t need a chaperon and so she’d been abandoned to face the crush alone. Growing up, she’d never spent much time in London, and after marriage and widowhood, she’d continued to avoid town. It left her with no friends here her age and no social circles beyond those her aunt had dragged her into, including as a patroness of the Lying-in Hospital. Those people she did know were from her parents’ or grandparents’ era and she was hesitant to approach them. She’d spent her marriage surrounded by an old husband and his aged friends. She was a young woman and she longed to spend time with people her age. Moira played with the string of her fan, trying to catch the eyes of those around her, but with all their acquaintances already set, no one was interested in forming a new one with her.

Moira sighed. It’d been like this during her very brief and awkward Season, making her isolation even more severe. It seemed as if things had changed, but they hadn’t. Aunt Agatha still railed against Mr Dyer while Moira continued to stand alone in ballrooms.

‘Good evening, Lady Rexford, I’m so pleased you accepted my invitation,’ an elegant voice with a hint of a French accent greeted Moira, breaking the solitude surrounding her.

Moira turned to find the Dowager Marchioness of Camberline beside her, the woman as stately as a Gainsborough in her swathes of mauve silk and black netting. With her grey eyes above a thin nose, she’d turned a number of heads in London after she’d fled the Reign of Terror. Once here, she’d enjoyed her pick of suitors, settling on the much older Marquess of Camberline and the fine fortune and title he’d offered her. Despite a son who’d just reached his majority and being a widow, she was still a stunning woman with little grey in her dark hair. It should have been a relief to at last have someone to speak to, but something about the stately woman placed Moira on edge. ‘I have fond memories of your grandparents dancing at Lady Elmsworth’s parties after I came over from France. Your grandmother was one of the few who refused to wear the red ribbon around her neck. A number of people considered her eccentric because of it, but she adapted so well to England, unlike many others. Good evening, Lady Rexford.’

Her strange reminiscence shared, the Dowager Marchioness swept off to join Lord Moreau, Lord Lefevre and the young lady beside him holding his arm. The woman, who Moira didn’t recognise, was about Moira’s height with blonde hair and a gown cut much lower than even the current fashion favoured.

Lady Camberline tolerating the bold young lady surprised Moira, but not her abrupt departure from Moira. Lady Camberline had been similarly terse with her time and words when she’d extended the ball invitation to Moira and Aunt Agatha while they’d been here for the patroness meeting two days ago. She was surprised the other woman had deigned to notice her tonight, but perhaps Moira was not as easily overlooked as she’d believed.

Moira cast about in search of a familiar face or a friendly invitation by another guest to indulge in conversation. Neither was forthcoming, but she didn’t mind as much as before. In truth, it was Mr Dyer’s presence she eagerly sought instead of anyone else’s. In the few short hours since they’d parted, she’d thought of little except him and his request. Not even the dilemma of which woefully out-of-fashion gown to wear, or the worry of re-entering society after having been gone for so long, had been enough to banish the memory of his stern eyes on hers and the pointed tone of his voice. It seemed, despite the importance he’d placed on tonight, he hadn’t managed to secure an invitation. It ruined her chance of offering her assistance. Let Aunt Agatha disapprove of an acquaintance with him, it wasn’t up to her to decide who Moira did or did not consort with.

Then, at the top of the staircase, Mr Dyer entered the ballroom. He wore a sedate coat of black, a white shirt and cravat and the required fawn-coloured breeches. The darkness of his coat emphasised the seriousness of his expression and captivated Moira. She shouldn’t be this taken with his appearance, but she couldn’t help it. Thankfully, there was no one about to notice her reaction and condemn it. She didn’t need others adding their doubts to hers and making her waver in her resolve.

While the footman was busy listening to the names of an older couple waiting to descend, Mr Dyer slipped around behind him and down the short staircase. At the landing, he stopped to take in the room with the same seriousness as the moment before he’d galloped away from Aunt Agatha. He scanned the guests like a hawk does a field in search of prey, making Moira wonder who he saw and what he suspected, but she couldn’t tear her attention away from him long enough to follow his gaze.

Sensing her watching him, he turned to face her. She didn’t look away, but smiled as if he were a welcome visitor in her house. A scowl crossed his face, especially when she began to thread her way through the guests towards him. Her heart beat as fast as an out-of-control carriage the entire time she moved, afraid he’d stride away from her as quickly as he’d ridden off this afternoon. She wouldn’t blame him if he cut her, but it didn’t make the possible slight, and the disappointment it would bring, any easier to endure. She craved another taste of the hint of adventure he’d offered her this morning and at the same time recognised how silly she was for pursuing it. This was real treason with potential consequences, not some scintillating crime story in the papers. Still, she didn’t stop, but approached him with confidence, refusing to question or alter her decision.

He didn’t bolt off in the other direction, but moved down the stairs, one firm hand on the railing, watching her the entire time until he was at the bottom and she was before him.

‘Mr Dyer, I’m glad to see you tonight.’ He didn’t smell of cologne or shaving soap, but the more potent scent of sweat and leather, the same one which had enveloped her during their misguided and brief engagement. Her husband had never smelled this raw, not even in the midst of his exertions. She snapped open her fan and waved it in front of her face, more to revive rather than to cool herself.

‘Are you?’ Mr Dyer challenged, his self-assurance nearly shaking hers.

‘I am.’ She adjusted one of her diamond earrings, turning to watch the crowd instead of him, but keenly aware of him beside her. ‘I’ve given a great deal of thought to what you and I discussed this morning, and this afternoon, and I’ve decided to offer my assistance by making whatever necessary introductions you need tonight. I may not know very many people here, but I know a few.’

She traced the heavy necklace pulling at the back of her neck while she waited for his response.

He didn’t smile in grateful relief, but eyed her with a strange curiosity which made her shift in her slippers. ‘What brought about this change of heart?’

She pitied the people he’d interrogated in the past. He was being kind to her and already she felt herself shrinking. ‘I’ve had more time to consider the situation and I realised you were right. This is larger than me or Freddy. I love England and I won’t see her, and with it Freddy and Nicholas’s legacies, destroyed.’

Five years ago there might have been more to her offer, but whatever intimacy they’d enjoyed had been snapped like a frayed rope pulled too hard. It couldn’t be knotted together again and she shouldn’t wish it to be. He had his duties and she had hers. Helping him was the only place where they intersected.

* * *

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.’

‘Bloody fools, but they haven’t got a brain in their heads, not between the lot of them and no real leadership,’ Prince Frederick blustered, the veins along the sides of his nose turning a deeper red. ‘How we manage to get anything done on the Continent is amazing. Why, one lethal fever among a few too many in the Government and the entire country would plunge into complete chaos.’

‘Mon ami, surely it can’t be so dreadful,’ the Comte de Troyen exclaimed as he laid his hand over his cravat. He was tall and lithe, a bit thick in the middle from age, but the man who’d cut a swathe through society ten years ago was still evident in his aquiline nose, air of divine superiority and attire. He wore more brocade than was fashionable and a black wig.

Prince Frederick tipped the rest of his champagne into his mouth. ‘It’s worse than you think. If we didn’t have Wellington leading the army, we’d be done for.’