A Warriner To Seduce Her

He ran to the tree, screaming for help. ‘Jack! Jamie! Come quick!’

His elder brothers were in the field somewhere, working because most of the labourers had left long ago. He had no idea where Joe was, but willed him here, too. Joe was cleverer than Jake and his quick brain would find the solution, although anyone else would be better than just him. In desperation, he clung to the sturdy trunk and leaned out as far as he dared, knowing that if he tumbled in then the raging river would take him and they would both be dead.

‘You need to grab my hand, Mama!’ Hot tears were streaming down his face. Tears of guilt and terror, of shame at not being good enough and too selfish to sacrifice himself. ‘Please!’

Her heavy winter coat and long skirts were weighing her down like an anchor. Jake could see that as well as he could see the fear in his mother’s eyes just before her head plunged beneath the water. It bobbed up, but barely. Only her face was visible as she gulped for air, but her eyes locked with his and beneath her fear he saw the disappointment that he had failed her just as his father had so many times. In that moment, he realised she had never meant to die.

‘Grab my hand...please!’ Her chilled fingers were losing their grip on the slippery fronds, the fast current was greedily flowing around her, each new surge ebbing higher and higher as she struggled to stay afloat. Soon her fingers, then her face disappeared beneath the water and all Jake could see was the tangled whirl of her green skirts trailing like river weed among the branches of the willow.

He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the dreadful sight, even for the thumping sound of racing feet behind him, watching powerless as his two eldest brothers selflessly risked their own lives to correct his mistake. Joe arrived soon after and was stood frozen behind, his face white and terrified. Like a statue, he was so still.

In his daze, the tragedy unfolded.

Jack, his eldest brother, waist deep in the water, holding Jamie’s hand tightly on the bank as he tried to grasp her.

Jack carrying his mother’s limp and bedraggled body towards the bank.

Jamie laying her out on the ground, pumping her chest. The eerie gurgle of water trickling from her mouth with each push. Painful minutes ticking by before pressing his ear to her chest. Shaking his head.

Joe’s pleading voice. ‘We have to save her. There must be something we can do?’

His eldest brother’s arms went around his shoulder. He didn’t offer platitudes or false hope, simply his strength, and Jake leaned on him.

‘This is all my fault.’

‘No, it isn’t. You did all you could.’

Which was never enough.

His mother’s lifeless eyes as she gazed up from the mud. That final cold, dead stare out to nothingness. Disappointed for evermore.

Chapter One (#u2563f3b5-6187-53f8-a574-7c0b42b13fb4)

Lord Fennimore’s Mayfair study, on a very wet night in February 1820

Thanks to the splendid port, the cosy heat from the fire and a distinct lack of sleep the night before Jake would soon need a pair of matchsticks to prop open his eyes. Viscount Linford was droning on about the latest numbers of confiscated barrels of brandy in every coastal county the length and breadth of the entire British Isles, or at least he had been before Jake’s mind had wandered off to greener pastures while listening to the man’s soporific voice.

As always, the Viscount measured success in numbers, seemingly oblivious to the fact it made no difference how many cargoes the blockade men had seized this month compared to last. Those dull statistics were a drop in the ocean—albeit the English Channel—compared to the massive cargoes which slipped past them daily. For a small pile of coin, most people could be relied upon to be resourceful. But smugglers weren’t most people, the piles they wanted weren’t small and their resources far outstripped those of the rag-tag disorganisation of the Board of Excise. Whoever the mysterious Boss was, his toxic network was proving near impossible to infiltrate. Crowbars wouldn’t budge the terrified sealed lips of the few crews they had arrested and for every ship they seized another twenty sailed right past.

‘All well and good, but can we trace any of those barrels back to Crispin Rowley?’ Lord Fennimore’s curt tone suggested he was as bored by the Viscount’s bean-counting as Jake was.

‘Not exactly.’

‘Not exactly? What sort of an answer is that? Either we have a traceable link to the bounder or we don’t.’

Viscount Linford began to blink at the challenge. ‘We know that a substantial amount of those barrels were destined for the capital.’

‘And?’ Fennimore was losing patience. ‘We are in the midst of the Season, when I dare say London consumes more than its fair share of brandy. Are Rowley or any of his associates transporting the goods further afield or selling the stuff in the capital?’

‘Not that we can find. He’s covered his tracks well. However, we all know he is the source.’

‘Knowing it and proving it are two very different things. The Attorney General will sign no warrant for the man’s arrest unless he has tangible evidence of Rowley’s involvement.’ Something they had failed to get in the six months since Crispin Rowley had come under the suspicion of the King’s Elite, a small but highly skilled band of covert operatives created to infiltrate and take down the powerful, organised smuggling rings which threatened Britain’s ailing economy.

Rowley was linked to a ring that they believed was funding the loyal last remnants of Napoleon’s army, which was a great cause for concern. This group was intent on stealing the former French leader from his island prison and returning him to power, using funds raised from smuggled brandy on the shores of the very enemy that had brought him down, and at the helm was one man: the faceless, untraceable and powerful man known only as the Boss. As much as ten thousand gallons a month were finding their way into the public’s glasses in the south-east, no duty paid and all profits heading directly back to the French rebels.

But this smuggling ring was not only supplying the capital. Every major city, the length and breadth of the British Isles, was benefitting from cheap spirits to such an extent the bottom had practically dropped out of the legitimate market. Most worrying was the persistent intelligence that hinted the group’s tentacles were firmly embedded among the ranks of the British aristocracy. Men with the power, connections and means to distribute the goods widely. Lord Crispin Rowley was the first and only name from that dangerous list they had.

So far they only had the tenuous word of a French double agent, who up until recently had been completely loyal to Bonaparte. His sudden change of allegiance, combined with his hasty flight from France, did not instil a great deal of confidence in his intelligence. Not when the man had urgently needed asylum and was still too terrified to come out of the hiding place Lord Fennimore had provided him, lest his former comrades hunted him down and assassinated him as they had so many other informants.

As much as none of them trusted that man’s word, there was a great deal about Lord Crispin Rowley which did not ring true and had set the intuitive Lord Fennimore’s alarm bells ringing. Three years ago Rowley had been on the brink of bankruptcy. The government contracts he had enjoyed during the war years to supply grain to the British army were cancelled after Waterloo and with no market for his corn and prices plummeting, as with many of the landed aristocracy, Rowley had suffered gravely and become disillusioned with the crown, blaming his collapse entirely on the government’s lack of perceived loyalty to those who had helped England win the war.

Crispin Rowley wasn’t the only peer of the realm who had turned on the government. Others also felt betrayed and were vocal in their criticism. While Jake had some sympathy for the way those men had been treated, he was also a realist. The world was changing rapidly and to survive the aristocracy had to learn to adapt. Land alone would not sustain a fortune any longer. Not with the mills, mines and colonies proving to be more lucrative for canny investors with ready coin to spend and cheap foreign grain pouring into England’s ports.

Rowley, like so many of his ilk, had appeared to be doomed. His fields remained fallow, his labourers laid off and his creditors lining up at his scuffed and peeling front door. Then, for no discernible reason as far as anyone could tell, his fortunes miraculously turned around eighteen months ago. The huge debts he had racked up had been paid off in impressive lump sums and the formerly penniless peer was now positively lording it up all over the capital.

And he suddenly kept some impressive company. Bankers, shipping magnates, dukes and foreign princes all now enjoyed Rowley’s extensive hospitality and, if their intelligence was to be believed—and Jake had no reason to doubt it—there appeared to be no ulterior motive to the man’s benevolence at all. He didn’t own businesses outright, preferring to dabble in stocks and shares like much of the new money. He was, to all intents and purposes, merely an investor—yet the double agent was adamant Rowley’s fortune was intrinsically linked to the free traders as their main distributor in the south-east of England.

‘So we’ve hit another dead end!’ His friend, and former Cambridge classmate, Seb Leatham slumped back in his chair like a petulant child and shook his head. ‘We keep throwing mud at the man and nothing sticks. Nothing! Surely there must be a chink in the fellow’s armour somewhere?’ He and his men had been watching Rowley’s every movement in the last few months and Seb’s legendary patience was wearing thin.

‘Not that I’ve found.’ Lord Peter Flint sighed from his place across the table. Being the heir to a barony and an enormous fortune, Flint had managed to inveigle his way into Rowley’s vast inner circle and had spent months socialising with him in the hope of being allowed into the inner sanctum. ‘I’m starting to wonder if we’re barking up the wrong tree and he is not the man we are looking for. I’ve plied his closest cronies with drink and asked them all manner of subtle probing questions and nobody knows anything other than the fact he likes to speculate.’

‘He must have secret associates. We have to keep digging. If we could get inside his house, watch the comings and goings, read his correspondence and private papers, we’ll find something.’

Flint glared at his boss. ‘I’ve searched his study. Repeatedly. There’s nothing there.’

‘Which is why we need ears inside that house. A slippery eel like Rowley is hardly going to leave damning evidence lying about in Mayfair when he’s invited guests in. If we can bribe a servant or get someone on the inside during the day to snoop around, I’ll wager that’s when we’ll find his weakness.’

‘I’ve offered huge bribes to as many minor servants as we dare. All have been refused. The others are too close to Rowley for me to risk approaching them. They will only tip him off.’ Seb Leatham always sounded angry even when he wasn’t. Unlike the suave Flint he worked best in the shadows and had a knack for blending in with the lowest of the low. ‘And we already know the place is guarded like a fortress. Right now, he’s confident enough to make mistakes. We daren’t risk shaking that confidence by breaking in.’

‘Then we’ll need to be invited, won’t we?’ Fennimore smiled enigmatically. A sure sign he had dredged up something thus far undiscovered. Whatever it was Jake didn’t care. He’d spent the last eight months infiltrating a gun-smuggling consortium running out of the East End docks and, now that the lynchpins were all sat in damp cells in Newgate awaiting trial, blissfully unaware of how their empire had crumbled, Jake was due a significant stretch of leave. Hell, he’d earned it. It had been a dangerous assignment and one he’d barely survived without a bullet between the eyes.

Tomorrow, he would head north to Markham Manor and see his brothers for the first time in almost a year. For some strange reason, he had a hankering for the north and for home in particular. Probably because he was tired. Leading a double life, a secret double life, was exhausting. In deepest, darkest, dankest Nottinghamshire he was just Jake. It would almost be as good to be that carefree young rapscallion again as it would to see his family. Three months of being himself, no hidden agendas, no danger, no responsibilities and no web of lies.

Except the one.

The rest of the Warriners had absolutely no idea the directionless rake of the family had worked for the British government since the day he left Cambridge, when Lord Fennimore had recognised he actually had some potential, albeit not potential which would ever serve a good purpose. Not strictly true. Jamie suspected. The questions he asked and the quiet assessing way he had about him suggested he was piecing together the hidden puzzle of Jake’s life. Jamie hadn’t vocalised his theory outright, because that was not his reticent elder brother’s style, but he had abruptly stopped joining in with the litany of criticisms Jake had received about his lack of purpose on his last two visits home, which in turn had led to more guilt and made returning home harder. That and the desire to keep them all safe. His job was dangerous. The risk of inadvertently dragging some of that with him on a visit home kept him up at night, when he much preferred to sleep. And, of course, it meant he prolonged his absences further and made more excuses.

Five years of lying to the brothers he loved was driving a wedge between them because Jake was actively avoiding them. They knew him too well and saw too much. They had also all made great successes of their lives and despaired that he had not. He tried not to feel envious at it, knowing they deserved all the good things and more, but the sight of their lives blossoming was coming to make his own existence feel barren. Yet he missed them and every day he missed them more. At least now his last assignment was completed he could go home and relax, safe in the knowledge he was working on nothing else which might put them in danger, trip him up or force him to tell them another pack of lies which he doubted they truly believed.

He let his eyes wander around the stuffy study which served as the King’s Elite secret headquarters until they fixed on the dancing flames in the fireplace and listened with less than half an ear.

Or at least he thought he did.

‘Warriner!’ His head snapped around to see Lord Fennimore’s bushy grey eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. ‘Have you listened to a damn word I just said?’

‘Er...of course, sir...well, actually...no. Not really. My eyes glazed over somewhere between one thousand barrels in Sussex and Rowley’s resistance to mud. Forgive me. I’m tired and as I’m about to go on leave I didn’t think it mattered.’

‘Your leave has been cancelled. I have a job for you.’