A Husband's Wicked Ways (20 page)

She closed her chamber door behind her with an exultant little chuckle. She climbed into bed, snuggling into the nest she had already made, and lay wide-eyed and wide-awake, savoring her memories of the night.

S
IMON LOOKED UP AS
Greville came into his dingy office in the War Ministry. “Good morning, Greville.” He half rose from his chair, extending his hand across the desk. “You’ve been busy I hear.”

“Matters move apace.” Greville shook the offered hand. “I have established my household on South Audley Street, and with the engagement made public, Lady Farnham will act as my eyes and ears, cultivate the acquaintance of those who are of interest to us, and report back to me. Our spending an unusual amount of time together now we are betrothed will cause no raised eyebrows.” He perched casually on the arm of a rickety wooden chair across from the desk.

Simon regarded him narrowly. “Forgive the bluntness, Greville, but Lady Farnham has had no previous experience of our particular business. You are confident that she will be able to—”

“Perfectly confident,” Greville interrupted him
brusquely. “Aurelia is quite capable of holding up her end. Her tasks will be quite simple and she understands them to perfection.”

Simon nodded. “Of course…of course. You will, of course, have made sure of everything.” But a frown still lingered in his eyes.

Greville regarded him with a slightly rueful smile. “As we agreed, this engagement will provide exemplary cover. Better than any other device.”

“Indeed…indeed.” Simon pulled at his chin. “I own to a slight misgiving, though. It seems so…so convenient, if you will, that Frederick’s widow should present herself to you as the perfect partner.”

Greville shrugged. “As you know, Simon, in our business one takes one’s partners where one finds them. I would not have recruited Aurelia had I thought for one minute that she was unsuitable. She has responded well to her training and since her work will be confined to doing what she’s been doing most of her adult life, entertaining, social mingling…” He shrugged again. “I see no possible reason for concern.”

Simon looked down at his cluttered desk. He trusted Greville Falconer absolutely; he would happily put his own life in the colonel’s hands, but he couldn’t shake off a vague unease. Undoubtedly the betrothal would provide the perfect stage for Greville’s work in London, but it was difficult, even for an agent as experienced as Falconer, to involve a person with whom he had emotional ties. Not that Falconer was giving the
impression of having such ties with his fiancée, indeed he’d implied that Aurelia was as detached about their relationship as he was himself. That she had her own reasons for agreeing to serve her country in this way.

“I’ve discussed the matter of the pension for Lady Farnham with my masters,” Simon said, following his last thought. “They are all agreed that her services and those of her late husband should be rewarded financially, but with a single lump sum rather than a pension. A sum of two thousand guineas has been approved. I hope Lady Farnham will find that satisfactory.”

It might not put a house like that in South Audley Street in her price range, Greville thought, but carefully invested and combined with the funds she had at present, it would certainly support a more modest independence. “I’m sure Lady Farnham will be pleased,” he said. “There is still the matter of her husband’s back pay and prize money.”

“Yes, that will be paid at once in whatever form she chooses. A bank draft…or ready cash…Now to business.” The subject thus dealt with, Simon opened a drawer in the desk and drew out a sheet of paper. “It seems possible that the games are about to begin.” He slid the paper across the desk to Greville. “Two Spanish gentlemen were observed landing at Dover. Very open they were about it, too, as I understand. They spent a good ten minutes pacing the quayside, showing themselves off to any interested observers.”

Greville nodded. “Making certain their arrival was noticed then.” Every major seaport in the British Isles was watched day and night by the agency. Any foreign visitor would know that it would be almost impossible for someone to land without attracting attention, unless at a secluded beach in the middle of nowhere.

“Indeed,” Simon agreed. “So they’re either legitimate émigrés or anxious to be thought so, which fits with our earlier intelligence that they’re intending to infiltrate society at its highest levels. Anyway, they’ll bear watching, and perhaps cultivating. They arrived in London last night and took up residence on Adam’s Row.”

“Convenient,” Greville murmured, scanning the information on the paper he held. “Number fourteen. I should be able to contrive an accidental meeting when I take my morning’s constitutional.” He laid the sheet back on the desk. “Don Antonio Vasquez? Do we know anything of him?”

Simon shook his head. “Not at present. The name is unknown to us, but it could be an alias. I’ve sent instructions to our man in Madrid to do some digging, and with luck we might get something in a week or so. In the meantime, I suggest we approach with caution. As we’ve just said, he could be perfectly innocent, following his deposed king into exile. Simply an aristocratic fugitive from Bonaparte’s Spanish dependency. There are plenty of them all over the Continent as Napoléon puts his own relatives on the thrones of Europe.”

“I’ll make his acquaintance,” Greville stated, getting to his feet. “Presumably this Senor Miguel Alvada is a henchman of some sort.”

“Presumably.” Simon, too, got to his feet, leaning his hands flat on the desk. “You might start with Countess Lessingham. She’s the center of the Spanish exiles in London…offers support, introductions, help with lodgings, that kind of thing. Her house is always a first port of call for any new émigré. If she doesn’t know Don Antonio now, she soon will.”

Greville nodded. “She was Bernardina y Alcala, if I remember right.”

“Exactly so. She married Lessingham five years ago, but is well-known for her patriotic efforts on behalf of her countrymen.”

“I’ll follow it up…make my own assessment.” Greville shook his companion’s hand in farewell and left the ministry. As her first mission, he would ask Aurelia to pursue an acquaintance with the countess.

His curricle was waiting for him in the ministry’s courtyard, a groom attending the handsome pair of bays, who shifted restlessly on the cobbles as Greville approached. He took the reins from the groom and took his seat on the box. “Let go their heads.”

The groom released his hold on the bits and jumped up behind as the curricle headed for the big wooden doors that stood open onto the street. Greville nodded at the guardsmen on either side of the doors as they saluted him, then drove towards St. James’s Park. He crossed
the park and turned onto St. James’s Street, heading for Piccadilly. Two men stood deep in conversation as he passed White’s club and he drew rein.

“Good afternoon, Bonham, Petersham.” He greeted Harry and Nick Petersham.

“Nice pair, Falconer,” Nick said approvingly, examining the horses through his quizzing glass. “They look familiar.”

Greville laughed. “That’s because they are. They’re Eden’s breakdowns.”

“Ah.” Nick nodded wisely. “I heard he was selling up. All to pieces I gather. Did you hear that, Harry?”

“Aye,” Harry agreed. “Lost a fortune at hazard in Pickering Street…young fool.”

“Well, if he will play in a hell, what can he expect,” Nick stated, then caught his friend’s astounded eye. Nick flushed a little. “All right, Harry, no need to look at me like that. I know I’ve played there m’self, once or twice.” He turned back to Greville. “You’re not one for the tables, are you, Falconer?”

Greville shook his head. “Never seen the appeal, which is fortunate since I have little aptitude and less money to waste.”

“And now you’re to be a married man,” Nick said with another sagacious nod. “Nothing like a wife to encourage a man to keep the purse strings tight.”

“Which is presumably why you remain a bachelor,” Harry stated. “Are you going home, Falconer? Could you take me up?”

“With pleasure,” Greville said with alacrity.

Harry climbed into the curricle beside him. Nick Petersham waved them away and went up the steps to the hallowed portals of White’s.

“Convenient that we’re such near neighbors now,” Harry remarked. “Nell and Aurelia will certainly find it so once the marriage has been solemnized.”

Greville’s only response was a flickering smile and an accepting nod as he turned his horses into the cacophonous throng on Piccadilly, concentrating on weaving his way through the carriages, coaches, street barrows, and drays.

“Have you and Aurelia set a date as yet?” Harry asked nonchalantly.

“I await Aurelia’s word on that subject. It is customary, I believe, for the lady to set the date.”

“Of course.” Harry hesitated, then decided to take the plunge. “You have said that you expect to work mostly in England now, but should that change, have you thought how to explain such an absence to Aurelia?”

Greville gave him a sideways glance, then said in a tone that stated quite clearly that it was none of his passenger’s business, “Should that time come, I’ll deal with it.”

“Of course. I’ll say no more, except that if I can be of service where Aurelia is concerned, Falconer, you have only to say. She does not lack for friends.”

Greville cast him another sidelong look, his lips
slightly pursed. So that was the reason behind this shared drive. He’d guessed it had to be something more than mere companionship and convenience. “I’ll bear it in mind, but I assure you, Bonham, you have no cause to worry about Aurelia. She’s my responsibility, and I don’t take such responsibilities lightly.”

“No…no, of course not.” Harry made haste to deny any such implication. He turned the conversation to mundane matters until Greville drew rein outside Bonham’s house on Mount Street.

“Thank you for the lift, Falconer,” Harry said, jumping down.

“Anytime.” Greville raised a hand in salute and drove the few yards back to South Audley Street. Outside his house he handed the reins to his groom, with instruction to take the curricle back to the mews, and went into the house. The man who emerged from a side entrance half an hour later bore little or no resemblance to Colonel, Sir Greville Falconer.

The man in a rough homespun jerkin, patched leather britches, his face obscured by a woolen hat pulled low over his eyes, seemed to slink up the street towards Grosvenor Square, hugging the shadows as if afraid of the light. Just before the square he turned right onto Adam’s Row.

It was a street much like any other in this part of Mayfair. Elegantly fronted tall row houses, white steps, gleaming black iron railings. He strolled head down to the end of the street, glancing around every now and
again as if on the watch for something. Few people were on the street, but those avoided him, even going so far as to cross the street at his approach. Everything about the man seemed to speak of a nefarious errand.

The afternoon shadows lengthened and a chill breeze rattled the branches of the plane trees where the pale green of early spring was beginning to show. Outside number 14, Greville’s step slowed as he cast a seemingly swift glance at the house. In fact he had taken in everything of note. Casually he crossed the street and leaned against the railing of a house some way down the street that still had a clear view of number 14 across the road. He took a clay pipe from his back pocket and stuffed it with foul-smelling tobacco, struck a piece of flint against the iron railing, and lit the pipe. He puffed reflectively, a cloud of noxious smoke surrounding him, as he watched the house. He looked like any laborer having a well-earned smoke and a rest at the end of a day’s work.

After half an hour his vigil was rewarded. The door opened and a man emerged, dressed impeccably in a fawn coat and cream pantaloons, his tasseled Hessians gleaming in the late-afternoon gloom. His complexion had an olive tinge to it and his neat spade beard was in the Spanish style. He held his cane under his arm as he drew on his gloves, standing on the top step of the house, glancing up and down the street. If he noticed the scruffy figure farther along on the opposite side of the street, he gave no indication. He took his cane
from his armpit and set off down the street, swinging it lightly.

Greville didn’t move, just watched closely. He could feel the fine hairs on his nape lifting with the conviction that he had seen the man before, somewhere, and in circumstances that were not at all pleasant. But he couldn’t chase down the elusive memory that was almost more of a feeling than a concrete recollection. It was something to do with the man’s posture, his walk, the set of his head.
Where had he met Don Antonio Vasquez before?

He was about to turn away when a movement at the side of the house caught his eye. Another man emerged. A short, stocky figure, dressed all in black, stepped into the street from the narrow passageway that separated this house from its neighbor. He had the appearance of a secretary of some kind, but Greville, watching closely, his eyes narrowed against the veil of smoke around him, knew the gait and the build of a fighter when he saw it.

He extinguished his pipe with relief. Though a useful prop, he disliked it intensely. He returned it to his pocket, feeling the heat of the bowl against his thigh, and set off after the black-clad figure. He made sure the man knew he was being followed, pausing when his quarry paused, hurrying after him when he turned abruptly into George Yard. The man stopped in the deserted yard and turned around sharply. Greville glanced around. No one was around; it was a perfect place for a little daylight robbery.

“Whatcha doin’ ’ere, guv?” he called out, stepping closer, feeling in his pocket for the short, weighted club he always carried in his present guise. “Lost yer way, ’ave yer?”

His quarry stood foursquare, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. “You’ll find me a hard man to rob, my friend.” His accent was heavy but his language fluent. His hands were balled into fists at his side as he waited for the would-be assailant to approach.

Greville swung the weighted club with clear menace, staring at his quarry malevolently, as if of two minds whether to initiate his attack or turn tail. The Spaniard saw the hesitation and, as Greville had hoped he would, took advantage of it. He sprang forward, two rigid fingers outstretched towards Greville’s eyes.
A street fighter,
Greville thought grimly, one who knew all the dirtiest tricks.