can’t guide you on how to investigate his circumstances, but I can arrange the introduction. My father, and my husband, were well acquainted with Prince Frederick, making him one of the few people here I know. Follow me.’ In a flutter of dark blue silk, she made for the pair of men.
Bart followed, noting the sway of her dress around her hips and the tempting view of the smooth skin of her shoulders and neck beneath her high coiffure. He appreciated her assistance, but not the reminder of her connection to the Prince. He’d been disgusted when he’d learned she’d married Lord Rexford, a man thirty years older than her and in ill health. He understood personal sacrifice, his career had seen a bevy of it, but he couldn’t comprehend surrendering legally and in body to another person just because her father had wished it. He’d never allowed his father, or anyone above him in rank, to dictate his future, much to his father’s continued dismay.
They approached Prince Frederick and the Comte de Troyen, and Bart buried any distaste he experienced for either man. It was a skill he’d honed during his many trials when he’d faced down some of the worst men to see justice done by pummelling them with arguments and evidence instead of his fists. He could be as polite and engaging when the time called for it as he could be ruthless and unforgiving when it involved rooting out enemies of the Crown.
‘Your Highness, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you.’ Moira held out her hand to Prince Frederick.
‘Lady Rexford, my condolences on your husband.’
Prince Frederick bowed over her hand. He was balding and it added to the sloped forehead sliding into a long and pointed nose. The two small eyes fixed on either side of it focused more on her chest and the generous swell of her breasts above her bodice than her lively smile. Bart had to fight the urge to step in between her and the lecherous royal. It wasn’t his place to act as her chaperon.
‘Lord Rexford and your father were a great help to me in securing funding from the House of Lords for munitions during the War of the First Coalition and you’re too young to be a widow.’
‘Thank you.’
Bart noticed how Moira gritted her teeth at the mention of her loss, and the brief flash of pity in Prince Frederick’s eyes, but her charming smile didn’t fade. It appeared, like him, she’d developed a talent for hiding her thoughts.
‘He always spoke well of his days with you and I think he regretted giving up the service. I’m very sorry to hear what happened to you, losing your post as Commander in Chief of the Army. They were wrong to let a man of your talent go. Thankfully, they came to their senses and called you back.’
‘Bloody fools, but they haven’t got a brain in their heads, not between the lot of them and no real leadership,’ Prince Frederick blustered, the veins along the sides of his nose turning a deeper red. ‘How we manage to get anything done on the Continent is amazing. Why, one lethal fever among a few too many in the Government and the entire country would plunge into complete chaos.’
‘Mon ami, surely it can’t be so dreadful,’ the Comte de Troyen exclaimed as he laid his hand over his cravat. He was tall and lithe, a bit thick in the middle from age, but the man who’d cut a swathe through society ten years ago was still evident in his aquiline nose, air of divine superiority and attire. He wore more brocade than was fashionable and a black wig.
Prince Frederick tipped the rest of his champagne into his mouth. ‘It’s worse than you think. If we didn’t have Wellington leading the army, we’d be done for.’
Bart tried not to groan at hearing Prince Frederick bluster on about the weaknesses of the Government in front of the Comte. If he was this loose with his words while mostly sober at a ball, Bart could just imagine what secrets he let slip when he was drunk at private parties. The Comte or any other traitor wouldn’t have to work hard to garner secrets for Napoleon from Prince Frederick.
Moira looked back and forth between Prince Frederick and the Comte, silently soliciting an introduction.
‘Oh, forgive me, what with the scandal and all I’ve quite forgotten my manners,’ Prince Frederick mumbled. ‘Lady Rexford, may I introduce the Comte de Troyen. You were probably too young to remember when he was the toast of London.’
‘I might have been young, but I could never forget the dashing Comte. You’re even more handsome than either the pictures in the paper portrayed you, or my grandmother used to say.’
‘And you, my dear lady, are trés magnifique.’ The Frenchman admired her with too much interest, making Bart’s back stiffen. ‘And so was your chère grandmère. So many wonderful times in Paris we had. It’s a shame the Revolution ended it all.’
‘My grandmother always used to say so, too.’ She matched the sombreness of the Comte’s voice, allowing his regret and hers to hang in the air a moment. Bart marvelled at her skill in gaining the man’s trust. Some of his younger agents had yet to master such delicate persuasions. Then, after the moment passed, she motioned to Bart. ‘Your Highness, may I introduce Mr Dyer?’
‘Yes, the accomplished barrister. I’ve heard a great deal about you.’ Prince Frederick introduced Bart to the Comte. ‘Monsieur le Comte, if you’re ever in any legal trouble, this is the man to have at your side. If he’d been able to represent me in my awful affair over the sale of commissions, I might not have had to resign as Commander in Chief of the Army. But in the end I was exonerated.’
‘The truth is always the most powerful defence,’ Bart remarked and the Comte shifted in his silver-buckled shoes. It made Bart wonder what about the mention of the truth had made the Comte go white beneath his wig. It increased his suspicions about the man. ‘The discovery of which I strive to achieve in all my trials.’
‘I’ll certainly keep you in mind, Mr Dyer, but I live such a quiet life, I see no chance of troubles.’ The Comte returned his attention to Moira. ‘Might I have the pleasure of this next dance, Lady Rexford?’
Bart wanted to tell her to refuse because he wanted the Comte to remain here and not sneak away, but he was in no position to do so. He tried to catch Moira’s eye and silently dissuade her, but he failed and she held out her hand to the Comte.
‘Yes, you may.’
While the Comte led her away, she looked back over her shoulder at Bart and threw him a conspiratorial wink. He realised she was now in a better position than he was to gather intelligence on the Comte. Although Bart didn’t want her anywhere near the man and danger, he was forced to stifle an answering smile, amazed once again at this brave new Moira. With any luck, she could pry some useful information out of the Frenchman while they danced, but he prayed she remained subtle with her enquiries. He didn’t want the Comte, or anyone else who might be connected to the Rouge Noir suspecting her of more nefarious motives.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Dyer. I must speak with Lord Palmer.’ Prince Frederick strode away, having nothing further to discuss with Bart. It didn’t matter. It was the Comte and Moira who commanded all his attention.
* * *
A thrill tripped up Moira’s spine as she took the Comte’s hand and the musicians began the allemande. It wasn’t the Frenchman who inspired her, but the hint of danger in dancing with him. Bart watched from the edge of the dance floor. Despite not looking at him, she was more aware of Bart than the Comte holding her hand for the turn. It took a great deal of effort to remember the steps and to charm the Frenchman.
‘Why have I not seen you in
