May the Best Rake Win
Shite.
Sir Kenneth Fraser, devilishly handsome rake and all-round rascal, was far too consummate a professional to slam the last drawer of his host’s desk as he finished rifling through the private contents, but the impulse was there.
No receipts for mysterious influxes of income, no letters from Bonapartists, not even a sternly worded condemnation from his vicar or an unpaid bill from his baker.
Standish must keep evidence of his treason elsewhere in his study.
Frowning, Kenneth straightened, his gaze going to the large bookshelves bracketing the rear of the desk. If the evidence the Crown needed was kept within that multitude of books, he was going to be here a long while.
Well, best get to it.
As the music for a quadrille rose in the background, he began to methodically pull the largest tomes down and riffle through them in an unsuccessful attempt to rifle through them.
The Standish Ball was one of the most anticipated events of the Season, and the best opportunity Kenneth had to search the study for the evidence his Crown superiors needed.
Three weeks ago, rumors began to surface regarding the Earl of Standish and his political ties abroad. There was no proof, but that’s where Kennth stepped in. He needed to find the proof, and needed to do it before the end of this ball.
Maybe Kenneth’s superiors at the Home Office considered it suspicious that the man had gone forward with this ball, but they didn’t understand the way the minds of the Ton worked; to cancel the ball would be tantamount to admitting defeat, and thus guilt.
Of course Standish and his wife were out there laughing and drinking punch with their guests.
Scowling, Kenneth moved on to the next bookshelf, knowing his time was running out.
He—or another agent—would have to return another night, assuming they were given the go-ahead for an infiltration.
Snooping at a ball was one thing, especially when he was at ease among the guests—was a guest himself.
Ordering the break-in at an Earl’s home was quite another.
When he turned to slide this book back into place, his elbow nudged a strange little gold statue, and he had to twist to catch it before it hit the ground and brought a footman running.
What the hell is it? Kenneth lifted the thing in the dim light and realized it was one of those Egyptian pieces everyone seemed so agog about since the campaign of two decades ago.
A glance around the room reminded him that every surface was covered in such trinkets—some small, some large and glittery. Real gold? Thoughtfully, he placed the statue back. Was it possible Standish’s antiquities collection was somehow related to the rumors of treason?
Distant heavy footsteps had him freezing, cocking his head to one side. Fook, are those steps heading this way? Kenneth held his breath, listening. When he determined that aye, the man’s course was in fact pointed toward the study, he cursed silently and leapt into action.
When the door opened, he was lounging in one of the large leather chairs beside the embers of the hearth, idly fiddling with his almost0untied cravat and gazing about with the happy glaze of the slightly intoxicated, one leg hooked over the arm of the chair.
“By Jove, what are you doing here?” Standish—because of course it would be the host, the very object of Kenneth’s investigation—blurted out.
Kenneth made a show of blinking woozily at the lamp the man turned up. “Mmm?”
“Fraser?” Standish’s expression turned to confusion as he stepped closer. “What the—are you well? Do you need help?”
Why’d the bastard have to be so kind? Well, Kenneth had cultivated his ridiculous reputation for a reason, hadn’t he?”
“Ha—Hallo, milord.” His foot hit the ground and he sighed deeply. “Ye cannae help me, I’m afraid, because ye’re no’ the one I’ve been waiting for.”
The man blinked, looking around the room. “You’ve been waiting for someone? In my study?”
Kenneth leaned in with a lewd wink. “A particularly-ly bonnie someone.” As he used his palms to draw a crude, curving silhouette of a woman in the air, he swayed slightly, bolstering the image of a drunken rake. “But alas, I have to assume she’s been detained.”
Standish’s nose wrinkled, and as he turned away Kenneth heard him mutter, “Or come to her senses, no doubt.”
The instinct to defend himself—and his skills when it came to pleasuring women—rose, but Kenneth swallowed it down, remembering the roll he must play. His well-earned…or rather, poorly-earned reputation was useful at times such as these.
Standish had turned away with his lamp, seemingly searching among his collection.
Kenneth didn’t want to pass up the chance to interrogate his host—ask him a few drunken questions about his interests abroad, that sort of thing—but before he could come up with how to play the conversation, the older man made a satisfied noise and scooped up something small and shiny.
“Here it is.” He turned, tucking the statuette into his pocket and stepping toward the door.
“My cousin’s husband and I were debating the purpose of the wedjat amulet.
” He frowned at Kenneth. “Come sir, since your rendezvous has clearly been canceled, allow me to escort you to the gaming room where you may…ahem. Show us your skills.”
Right.
Damn.
Unfortunately Standish was in no mood for a meandering conversation. He all but marched Kenneth down the corridor, depositing him in a comfortably chair in a smokey room full of bleary-eyed men at tables. Apparently, the Earl of Standish had no sympathy for rakes.
Or at least rakes who claimed to have arranged assignations at his ball, in his private study.
When his host left, presumably to find his cousin’s husband, Kenneth found himself rising to prowl the perimeter of the room, his fists clenching and unclenching, irritated at the delay and his failure.
Would he be able to get back into the study to continue searching for evidence? Was there evidence at all? Perhaps the rumors of treason were simply that: rumors. Perhaps the Earl of Standish really was as morally uptight and judgmental as he appeared. Perhaps—
Shite.
“Fraser!” The good-natured call erupted from one of the nearby tables, and he whirled about to see a friend waving him over.
Grinning in genuine pleasure to see the man, Kenneth ambled over. They’d gone to school together and had become good friends. The Right Honorable Mr. Remmington Ives, as he hated being called, was the younger son of an earl—and liked to have the same kind of fun Kenneth had always enjoyed.
For the moment, the conundrum of Standish’s supposed innocence was pushed aside. “Remmy! I didnae expect to see ye here!”
In retrospect, perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. Although Remmy was devoted to his theater, The Grand Folly, the other man did occasionally drag himself away from his leading ladies to show his face at the more respectable events.
And damnation, but Standish was respectable. But was he also treasonous?
Chuckling, Kenneth settled beside his friend and only then turned to face the other man sitting at the table.
And managed to hide his reaction.
Remmy grinned. “My lord, allow me to present my long-time friend, Sir Kenneth Fraser. Kenneth, this is the Earl of Merevale.”
Aye, Kenneth was well aware. Everard Trentham had been one of his superiors at the Home Office for years. The fact he was marrying and retiring did nothing to diminish his air of cool competence.
Kenneth inclined his head, pretending he didn’t know the man, hadn’t worked with him on a number of occasions. “Milord, a distinct pleasure.”
“Pleasure is all mine,” Merevale intoned formally, as if they hadn’t colluded just yesterday on the plans for tonight’s infiltration. He flicked his finger toward a waiting footman, pretending he had no care beyond ordering a drink for his “new friend”.
Kenneth could tell the Earl wanted to know if his mission has been successful, but with Remmy so observant, the best he could manage was the slightest shake of his head. The older man’s expression tightened in what Kenneth assumed was disappointment, but he smoothly changed the subject.
“Our mutual friend was bemoaning his grand folly.”
“The Grand Folly,” Remmy corrected, then shook his head. “I—the theater needs the publicity.” The normally good-natured man toyed with his drink as he dropped back in his chair. There were discarded cards before both men, as if they’d given up playing. “I’m getting desperate.”
Kenneth winced, hating how dejected his friend sounded. “Does yer publicity have to be for something good?”
“If you’re suggesting we make the papers because of an outbreak of the pox among the ballet corps, I’ll ask for another idea,” Remmy said with a scowl, promoting a snort of what might have been muffled laughter from Merevale.
Och, aye; one of the rumors surrounding Remmy’s theater was his fondness for the actresses. Kenneth had never confirmed his friend’s predilections; he saw no reason to police another man’s sexual escapades, lest they attempt to police his.
But the thought sparked an idea. “Does the publicity have to be about the theater?”
To his surprise, Merevale shifted forward in his seat, “I was about to suggest the same thing, actually.”
Remmy perked up, but all three men quieted for a moment when a servant placed a glass of brandy before Kenneth. Apparently Standish hadn’t mentioned Kenneth’s supposed intoxication to anyone.
“Let’s hear your idea, my lord,” Remmy prompted eagerly.
Merevale’s grin was easy, and Kenneth was struck by the fact that, for the first time he could recall, his superior seemed happy. At ease.
Well, falling in love did that to a man. Kenneth would know; he’d been in love plenty of times. With a different woman every night, some months. Falling in love was easy. Falling out of love was easier.