Lady Heatherfield’s summer ball, naturally. Gabe D’Arcy, the recently gazetted Marquess of Mooreshead, eyed the occupants in the over-hot marble-columned ballroom with a sense of despair. Did they have no idea of the danger facing their country? Did they not see the disillusion of the common man on their estates, in their cities and towns? If they did, they didn’t show it. Or seem to care.
The myriad candles reflected in gilt-edged mirrors threatened blindness as he gazed at his fellow peers. How would these carefully coiffed heads look in the basket at the foot of a guillotine? It was where they would end up if Britain became a satellite republic of France.
It wouldn’t happen. Not if he had anything to say about it. He’d given up everything he had to make sure it did not. His principles. His honour. Not to mention his rightful inheritance. Damn his father.
He and his father had never seen eye to eye about a great many things—politics, the treatment of tenants, the bullying of his mother—but Gabe never expected his father’s outright mistrust. Had been shocked when he understood how deep their differences of opinion had gone, to the point where his father considered him a traitor to the family name and to his country. But that was all water under the bridge. His father was dead and Gabe’s rebellion against his father’s autocratic rule had made him who he was now. A penniless marquess and a spy.
He did not let his impatience or frustration show. A worried countenance fuelled gossip. He’d suffered enough of that when details of his father’s will had surfaced. The first to turn their backs had been the matchmaking mamas who had plagued his early years. A poverty-stricken marquess wasn’t worth the time of day. Not that he’d cared, since he had no intention of marrying for years. If ever.
The hearsay about the unsavoury source of his income to support his privileged and idle bachelor life, whispers of him gulling green ’uns at the gambling tables or, worse, cheating, rolled off his shoulders. They were conjectures he’d encouraged.
The rumours about why he’d been denied the income from his estates cut pretty deep. Gossip about his support of the French revolution. The doubts about his loyalty to his country. Unfortunately for his pride, those rumours were also to be encouraged. They served a higher purpose.
Worse would be the revulsion of his fellows if the truth of his real activities came to light. A man could seduce innocents, kill a man in a duel or cheat on his wife, as long as it was all open and above board. It was the kind of underhanded dealings Gabe engaged in that would make him persona non grata in the world of the ton.
So he let them think what they would while he risked life and limb to save theirs. Given his preference, he would never visit London at all, but since he kept his base of operations secret, and since his French contacts demanded the occasional face-to-face interaction, he’d had no choice but to don the guise of charming philanderer and inveterate gambler and mingle with his fellows.
Hence his appearance at Lady Heatherfield’s ball.
A passing gentleman lurched into Gabe, who put out a hand to minimise the clumsily executed accident.
‘I beg your pardon, m’sieur,’ the florid-faced, rotund gentleman murmured, bowing low. ‘M’sieur Armande, à votre service.’
The contact he’d been expecting. ‘Mooreshead. You suffer from the heat, no doubt.’ Code words of recognition, even though they needed none. Armande, a supposed émigré, used his position to gain information for money. They had come into contact more than once over the years.
The man bowed again. ‘Indeed. Fortunately, the winds are strengthening and should bring a change in the weather.’
The winds that would bring the French from France, but there had been a change in plans. What change? ‘Let us hope it occurs soon, sir.’
‘Indeed. I have been almost prostrate these last five days.’
Five days? He had not anticipated they would make their move so soon. He had to get back to Cornwall and prepare. But what was the change in plan? ‘We will all welcome a change in the weather, even if it brings storms.’
‘The captain of your yacht, the Phoenix, I believe, would likely be interested.’
His orders were being sent to his ship. Why drag him all the way to London to tell him that? ‘I shall be sure to let him know.’
Armande dug out his snuff-box and offered it to Gabe. He lowered his voice. ‘You are in danger, mon ami. They do not trust you. Someone has been sent.’ He smiled blandly and raised his voice to normal tones. ‘No one but the English would fill their rooms so full on such a warm summer evening.’
A spurt of anger surged hot in Gabe’s chest. He controlled it. He’d spent years trying to win the trust of both sides in this war—any chink in the walls he’d built could prove disastrous. ‘Who?’ he asked in an undertone. A double-edged question. Who had been sent? And by whom? Armande had loyalty to neither side. He glanced around as if considering the man’s earlier words. ‘Personally, I am surprised anyone is in town at all at this time of year.’
Armande shook his head, his eyes regretful. He did not know the answer to either of Gabe’s questions. ‘A debt paid.’
Gabe had saved Armande from being picked up by a British coastguard one dark night. All part of the job, but even men like Armande, a man who profited from war, had a code of honour and paid his debts.
The Frenchman once more raised his voice. ‘No doubt refreshment is in order.’
‘Over there, m’sieur. Enjoy your evening.’ Gabe indicated the direction of the alcove where a footman guarded a table groaning beneath the weight of punchbowls. The Frenchman bowed and moved on.
Who didn’t trust him, Gabe pondered. The French? Or the British?
Either was possible. Or was it speculation without substance? In the world of espionage rumours ran riot.
‘How was Norfolk?’ a voice behind him asked as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
He turned to meet the stern, harsh face of one of his oldest friends. Bane, Earl Beresford. One of only a handful of people Gabe would trust with his misbegotten life. A captain of industry, Bane owned mines and factories that fed the British war machine. His head would not remain on his shoulders if Napoleon held sway.
‘Norfolk is...Norfolk,’ Gabe said with a brief smile, knowing they were not talking about Norfolk at all. Years ago in a moment of weakness, he had trusted Bane with his secrets. And hence his life. In return, Bane had allowed him to use his family estate in Cornwall as a secret base. ‘Manners creeps around with snail-like efficiency. Boats come and go with cargo, both legal and illicit.’ He always told the truth. Or as close to it as made no difference, whenever possible. You never knew who might be listening.
‘It’s good to see you back in town,’ Bane said in his usual brusque manner. ‘Come for dinner. Next week. We would be delighted to feed you.’
‘I suppose you want to talk politics and the state of the British economy. Poor Mary.’
Bane’s dark face lit up at the mention of his wife. ‘She’s used to it. And she has some pretty good ideas of her own. So, will you come?’
The elegant Lady Mary had a lovely and very delicate neck. Easy work for a sharp blade. With a conscious effort, Gabe shook
