Chapter 12
Twelve
Sir Williamson,
I have received information from Bow Street Runner, Jonathan Payne, who comes highly recommended by the late Duke of Nithesdale and the current Duke of Ross, in regard to the sabotage at the construction sites of the Forth and Clyde Canals.
He was with Ross at the time of Astley’s retrieval and learned some very interesting information while in France.
He met a man deep in his cups at The Happy Hag Tavern who claimed a French émigré by the name Comte Mathieu Armand du Motier was not all that he seems. The Comte reportedly traveled to England when Napoleon stole his family wealth and killed his parents and older brother.
Except this man claimed the second son died along with his family.
If this information is true, the imposter Comte may be responsible for the destruction of the canals, since he is involved with obtaining funding for the project and is attempting to push the agenda of Scotland importing American grain due to the country’s recent crop failures.
He advised there was more to the story about the canals, but the gentleman with whom he was speaking, became suspicious, and he left The Happy Hag with the utmost haste.
I believe Mr. Payne will be an excellent asset to the Crown.
He has shown dedication, discretion, and the ability to ferret out information where others have struggled.
I regret to inform you that I will be resigning my commission and taking on my duties as the Earl of Dorset.
It is a position I am ill-suited for, but I must think of my wife, child, and the vast number of servants and tenants I have acquired with my estates.
If it weren’t for my countess, I would have sailed far and fast before accepting this current assignment. You bastard, I know you had a hand in this. I am forever in your debt, but hate you just the same.
Dorset
—A letter to Sir Robert Williamson, War Office London, England from former agent, Elias Drake, who had been in the unique position of being a citizen of France and England.
He rescued the Earl of Astley from Mont Saint Michel, France while sailing as a privateer for the Crown.
For his dedication and service, he was made Earl of Dorset, a defunct title which he regrettably used while undercover.
Simon stopped Williamson from leaving with a slap of his crutch against the doorframe, blocking the door. Williamson looked at his crutch and slowly let his eyes travel the length of it before turning to face him.
“Do not think you can drop a cannon ball like that and then walk out this door. One, we require more explanation as to Ross’s part in this sordid affair, and two, I have not yet read The Whispers of the Ton.” He snatched the paper from Williamson’s hand and sat down on the settee next to Caillen.
Gazing down at the etching on the newspaper, Simon noticed the printed date was the next day. “How did you obtain an advance copy of this trash?”
Except it wasn’t trash. Caillen was glorious in it, and the look of love and concern on her face as she gazed upon him, was nothing but a dream.
“I have my ways,” Williamson responded.
“Damn you, Williamson. I’m not threatened by your big hulking stature.
There are ways to chop down the biggest tree in the forest, after all.
” He didn’t voice what truly bothered him was how the spymaster drew Caillen’s attention.
She watched him with an interest he did not care for.
He supposed every woman watched Williamson when he walked into a room, and perhaps that was the exact reason why the man never went to ton events.
Being a Douglas fir surrounded by holly bushes drew every eye to the stout tree.
The attention didn’t necessarily assist a man in his quest to do the observing instead of being the observed.
Caillen moved closer, her thigh brushing his as she waited for him to unfold the paper.
He looked down at her, vulnerability evident in the tension in her face.
“I know you’ve viewed the etching and its caption, but the actual letter to the readers will probably be rather ugly. Are you ready for that?”
“I’m ready.”
He smiled down at her, proud of the strength she was beginning to recapture, and he unfolded the paper.
They studied the etching in silence. He looked a bit healthier than he actually was, but it wasn’t far from what his appearance had been before his capture by the French.
Caillen, on the other hand, was as enticing as any goddess in mythology.
Her golden hair tumbled down around her shoulders in glorious waves that made him want to take out her pins and run his fingers through it, right then.
Her scent was intoxicating at this proximity, causing a warring between his mind and body.
His mind wanted to run, but his body wanted to nuzzle into her neck and follow the ebb and flow of her essence all the way to her core.
Get a grip, man.
The etching only displayed her profile. The likeness, however, was uncanny.
Sir Williamson was correct. If she walked out his front door after this paper was published tomorrow, a person would have to be blind not to recognize her.
The one detail missing from her rendering was the hairline scar through her eyebrow where he’d painstakingly stitched her closed that fateful day.
If he had not been tasked with teaching his youngest sister the art of embroidery years ago, he would have never been able to make the scar as minimal as it was today.
He moved on to the article that accompanied the etching. ‘Blah, blah, blah, he’d returned to town…fire…unknown lady nurse.’ The damned author may as well have issued a reward for the lady nurse’s identity. Drat, blast and damn.
“I will be sending over a new agent to work within your household. I believe you are in need of a valet.”
He glared at Williamson. “What would make you think that?”
The spy allowed his gaze to travel down the length of Simon’s attire with the critical eye of a modiste critiquing a woman’s mode of dress she found lacking.
“I don’t want a blasted spy reporting back to you about what goes on in my household.”
“I am already aware of what goes on within these walls. The valet will be responsible for your protection.”
“It’s not myself I’m worried about. It’s Lady Bredlebane and the children and my staff.”
“All the more reason why you should have my man within.”
“Who is he and what are his qualifications?”
“His name is Mr. Jonathan Payne and this would be his very first assignment.”
Simon scoffed. “You must be joking. We don’t need a green agent who’s wet behind the ears.”
“You were once green yourself, as I recall.”
“And look where that got me. No, thank you. I can take care of my household on my own.”
“Like you were at the time of the fire when Lady Bredlebane was assaulted and her gown caught fire?”
The matter-of-fact tone in which he used to describe the second most frightening day of Simon’s life made Simon want to chop that damned tree down. And yet, he couldn’t deny the need for help.
“I’ll ask again. What are his qualifications?” He ground out.
“He comes highly recommended by someone with whom I believe you are acquainted.” Williamson pulled a letter from his jacket pocket and held it out.
Simon snatched the letter and opened it. It was written by none other than Caillen’s new brother-in-law, Elias Drake, Earl of Dorset.
“Poor Bastard,” he muttered.
“My brother-in-law is not a bastard. Nor am I, but I still find the word offensive. There are children in this household who might hear you.”
“I didn’t mean it in that way,” he blurted out.
“And yet you used it.”
“I have brothers and sisters—”
“Who, I am certain, would not like you to use the word in their presence either.”
“Actually, my brothers—”
The disappointment on her face was more than he could bear. Hash it all. “What I meant to say, was that it was ill-advised of me to use such a low-base word.”
Sir Williamson interjected. “The agent in question assisted the Earl of Dorset with your retrieval.”
“My ‘retrieval?’” Simon said. “Good God, I sound like a half-starved dog he found in the wilds of Scotland.”
“You were half-starved…in the middle of the ocean,” Williamson clarified.
“I was a prisoner of that bast—” he looked at Caillen who was watching him. “That arse, Napoleon, who thinks he’s king.” He faced Caillen. “I apologize for my language. I do not mean to offend you.”
“Your language is completely understandable under the circumstances,” she said.
“It is?”
“Of course. You were a prisoner of war.”
“And I can call him an illegitimate man because of that?”
“Is he illegitimate?”
“I have no idea.”
“He is not,” Williamson added.
“Then why would you call him illegitimate?” She asked.
“Because you said I could?”
She smiled gently. “You may call Napoleon any name under the sun, but he is the only exception.” Then she changed the subject back to the business at hand and ask Sir Williamson, “Do you believe the Comte to be a spy?”
“I don’t know. This was the first inkling I’ve heard questioning his status as an emigre.
However, I’ve done some checking and learned that he’s been here since 1792 as a voluntary emigre.
His family stayed in France at that time but were executed in 1795.
He has a home in Marylebone as well as one in Bath.
He does work as a financial advisor, has two mistresses, and three illegitimate children whom he supports. ”
“I’d hate to know what very little you know about me,” Simon said dryly.
“Oh, I know quite a bit about you.”
“Of course you do.”
Williamson nodded as if that were the way of things, and Simon folded up the letter and returned it.
“Why would I take in a man who was working with Ross if you suspect Ross of being involved in her father’s death?”
“I don’t suspect the current Duke of Ross of anything.”
“But you said he was responsible.”