Prologue #2
Robert’s foreboding expression helped him cut through those who were just out and about, and his broad muscular frame meant few would venture too close.
One of his lovers had once said that Robert emulated the sort of brutal masculinity that forbade him from being considered good ton.
Given his career in the navy, Robert had considered this attribute a point of pride.
However, in the heart of fashionable London, he acknowledged, if only to himself, how out of place he was, like a rough uncut stone without any polish.
Still, he reminded himself, since he had come to London on business, the flippancies of the beau monde such as charming the ladies, flirting in a gentlemanly manner, or finding a suitable wife were not for the likes of him.
Robert used his cane to push the gate to St James Park wide open, and he headed inside.
Springtime was peaking its way out, all around him, in one pleasant sunny wave of birdsong, white flowered blossom and a surprising burst of heat.
He, however, had no time to stop and admire the beauty of the day.
In one hand, he held a wooden cane, and in the other, he clasped a small valise stuffed with important papers.
Presumably, he cut a rather gloomy sight because of his unsmiling focus.
In his youth, he would never have imagined that he would need to use a cane at his age, but his wartime injury made it a necessity.
In Robert’s case, it was his eyesight that had been damaged—leaving him only able to see within a couple of meters in front of him.
And it made walking through a city filled with carriages, horses, and even a rogue sedan chair an endeavor.
With a sigh, Robert adjusted the valise a little closer to his chest as he prepared to cross onto Birdcage Walk.
He hated being this tense, this on edge, but he had been called up to London to discuss his “work” with none other than Baron Montacute.
His previous interactions with the baron had been limited to hearsay, indirect orders, and (whilst his fellow officers wouldn’t have liked the inference), gossip.
The handsome white stone of the royal area crowded around him, the vague shape of Westminster Abbey in the distance far ahead of him.
The modern government buildings were stark with their vastness.
Even with his reduced eyesight, Robert could see how these were meant to convey the forceful hand of a powerful empire, in which he was only one small pawn.
“Davenport!” A man broke into Robert’s thoughts as he paused on the street, glancing around himself.
It was still early in the morning. Most of the beau monde would still be abed and Robert could not count many of his acquaintances in the ton. His family connections were rooted in Dublin, so he was unlikely to see any of them in London.
“Davenport,” Lieutenant John Perrin said, his Yorkshire accent peeking through so that Robert could immediately know who it was before his face materialized before him.
The two of them had served together ten years ago.
Of middling height, with golden brown hair, thick eyebrows, and a rugged but handsome face, Perrin was well-regarded within the company.
At thirty-one, Perrin was his junior by only one year, but the man could be expected to rise higher in the navy, Robert would bet.
Putting the valise under his arm, Robert shook Perrin’s proffered hand. “Off to see Montacute too?”
“Aye,” Perrin said as he turned at his heel, clearly knowing the way better than Robert. “His lordship requested my presence here today. Are—” Perrin paused surveying the street before continuing more quietly, “—you up from Sussex?”
“That’s right,” Robert said, even more uncomfortable at the casualness of discussing their work in the middle of the street. Smuggling and by extension treason were not topics for light-hearted small talk.
“To see Montacute?”
“Of course,” Robert answered.
“There is no knowing how far that man will rise. Undersecretary at the moment, with his spies stretching from coast to coast. Wellington might control the seas, but it is the baron who holds sway on land.”
“A dirty business,” Robert said dryly.
Picking up on Robert’s mood, Perrin fell silent as more people approached. Robert felt the dis-ease of his temperament riding him. His mind grasped for something suitable to say as the blurry buildings flittered past. “Is Mrs. Perrin well?”
Despite his focus on almost everything else, the smile that broke over Perrin’s face could not be missed. The happiness illuminated his features. Clearly, the hearsay that the Perrins’s marriage was a love match had not been exaggerated. “She is in excellent health, thank you.”
The black, twirled gate appeared on their left, and when Robert saw a guard, the two of them stopped, waiting to relay their names and state who their meeting was with.
Finally, they were then allowed inside the first of the many Whitehall mansions that lined Great George Street.
A servant led them down a series of dark passages, passing door after door, until Robert felt certain he would struggle to find his way back.
He was grateful Perrin went ahead and allowed Robert his lagging pace.
The office they were ushered into was grand as befitted someone of Baron Montacute’s station in life.
Fine, thick, scarlet curtains cut out most of the sunshine, casting the space into a dark, crimson glow.
The space was dotted through with matching armchairs, mahogany bookcases lined with heavy leather-bound tomes, and an imposing desk, which had a few neat files on it.
Behind it stood a tall, guarded man watching them, well over six foot three.
He needed no introduction. This had to be Montacute.
As a baron and a member of the customs office, in charge of security within the realm, his lordship was even a captain too, but everyone simply called him Montacute.