A Spy Unmasked (Entangled Scandalous) (8 page)

She turned and tilted her head up at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He eyed her speculatively. “You looked pale as death when Delmont greeted us.”

“It had nothing to do with Delmont,” she lied. “I don’t travel well.”

“Listen, Sophia. It’s one thing to act as my betrothed at the Cameron’s ball and another entirely to continue the charade under Delmont’s roof. Will you be able to carry out your part or do you need to leave?”

“I’m made of sterner stuff, my lord.”

“Nonetheless, avoid being alone with the viscount. I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

What is that supposed to mean?
She had the same feelings, but to hear it spoken aloud by Robert sent a shiver of revulsion down her spine.

“The viscountess is here. Surely he wouldn’t try anything with his own wife under his roof and risk—”

Robert’s tone turned cold. “Do not underestimate him. You of all people know what he is capable of.”

She swallowed hard.

“Where were you headed?”

“To the gardens.”

“I’ll escort you.”

“No!”

When his lips parted to protest, she said, “Please, I’ll be fine. We must follow propriety, remember? If you accompany me, then so must Jane.”

He remained silent, glaring at her intensely.

“Shouldn’t you return to the men before you are missed?” she pressed.

His eyebrows drew downward. “All right. But do not endanger yourself this week.”

“I hardly think a walk in the gardens is endangering my—”

His eyes glinted like fine steel. “Don’t think, just obey.”

Chapter Ten

“Lord Kirkland! I didn’t know you would be in attendance.”

Robert was conscious of the attention from the guests as he walked across the drawing room.

“Sir Falk, it’s good to see you again.” He extended his hand to a short, portly man with a full head of unruly jet hair.

Falk pumped his hand. “I was glad to hear that you remain at the ordinance department after your uncle’s and cousin’s passing. The government needs men like you.”

“Thank you. I understand your partner is present this week as well,” Robert said.

At the mention of Sir Maxwell, a frown creased Sir Falk’s brow.

“It’s true.” Maxwell, a tall, thin man with a pox-scarred face said as he approached. His bald scalp shone beneath the chandelier.

“How’s business?” Robert asked. He had worked with Maxwell and Falk in the past and knew they were issued a royal warrant as official stationers for the Crown. He had previously commissioned paper from them bearing the watermark of the ordinance department. From what he recalled, the partners were as opposite in personality as they were in appearance. The pair had always been amusing, but there was a definite tension between them tonight that Robert hadn’t previously sensed.

Two women came up and Sir Falk made the introductions. “This is Beatrice, my wife. Abagail is Maxwell’s wife.”

The ladies acknowledged Robert with nods.

The drawing-room door opened and Sophia and Jane entered arm in arm. They looked lovely, but Robert’s gaze lingered over Sophia’s form in the amethyst gown. She had changed from her plain traveling dress for the evening meal, and the hugging silk emphasized her feminine curves and willowy height. Her hair was fashionably upswept and revealed the graceful curve of her nape. Crystal beads adorned the bodice, drawing his eyes to the swell of her breasts.

He intended to act the polite gentleman, then mentally dismiss her and focus on the cast of characters in attendance, but he found his attention riveted. Sophia possessed indefinable qualities that gave her a unique aura, very different from the women he had encountered in the past.

What was it about her?

She was beautiful. But he had met countless women even more beautiful than Sophia, whom he had effortlessly resisted.

She was highly intelligent. Others were smart.

She was strong-minded, opinionated, and determined. Many men would deem these undesirable traits in a female.

She possessed courage and a charming vulnerability. Perhaps it was the odd combination of these two. He didn’t know. All he was certain of was his attraction toward her.

And tonight, she looked, quite simply, like an expensive courtesan, innocent and alluring at once, a deadly combination for a man who had battled the demons inside him for as long as he could remember.

He motioned for her and Jane to approach. “I assume you know both Lady Sophia and Lady Stanwell. Lady Sophia and I are to be married,” he said.

Congratulations were offered. He didn’t miss the appreciative glances of the men.

A footman announced dinner was ready and the guests shuffled into the dining room.

Robert escorted Sophia and Jane to their assigned chairs before taking his own seat beside Sophia. Her skirts brushed his thigh and her perfume, a subtle scent of roses, wafted to him.

The remainder of the guests had arrived, fifteen in all, including the wives. The elegant dining room could easily sit fifty, but the house party was intended to be an intimate gathering of the Inventors’ Society. He knew their numbers were greater, but Delmont had only invited a select group.

Why these men?
Robert thought.

The viscount was last to sit at the head of the table, and his large girth barely fit between the armrests of his chair.

Sophia stiffened at the sight of their host. Candlelight gleamed in her chestnut curls. She looked uneasy, and he knew she was having misgivings. Despite her impetuous nature, she was struggling, and he felt himself wanting to ease her.

Damn. At a time he needed to concentrate on the guests seated before him, he was entranced by the lady beside him.

His fiancée.

He wanted to laugh at the thought. She was no more his than any of the countless women he had bedded before meeting Gwendolyn.

Robert leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Don’t look at him.”

She raised wide jade eyes to his.

“Look at me if it helps.”

She shook her head slightly, and her lips parted.

He gave her no opportunity to speak, but squeezed her thigh beneath the table.

She sat up stiff as a statue.

“Remember, we are a loving couple,” he reminded her.

He knew his tactic worked when her eyes flashed with green fire and color flooded her cheeks. He would much rather deal with an impetuous, bold Sophia than a fearful, vulnerable one.

He was not the only one to notice the change in her demeanor. Jane leaned forward and shot him a disapproving glare.

“Welcome guests,” Delmont’s voice boomed from the head of the table. “The viscountess and I have planned an exciting week of entertainment. There will be no musicales or dances. We are inventors, and we will celebrate our creative natures.” He raised his wineglass. “But first we eat.”

There was a collective nod from the guests as they raised their own glasses.

The dining room door opened and a line of liveried footmen in gold brocade carrying platters of beef, pork, fowl, salmon, and accompanying sauces marched into the room like a well-trained militia. The steaming platters were set upon a long sideboard laden with a dozen silver chafing dishes. Once the food was ready to be served, each footman stationed himself behind a couple.

Delmont’s personal footman must have been accustomed to his master’s demands, for within seconds his plate was heaped with meats and an assortment of buttered vegetables; his own basket of pastries sat beside the overladen plate. Expensive wine flowed freely, and the footmen ensured a guest’s glass was never empty.

For a few minutes there was silence but for the
chink
of plates and cutlery. Robert took the opportunity to study the men.

Beside Delmont sat Lord and Lady Cameron, whose ball Robert and Sophia had waltzed at days ago. Maxwell and Falk and their wives were seated nearby.

As for the other guests, they were a mix of titled men, landed gentry, and wealthy merchants. The Society did not discriminate based on title, but all the inventors here were men of wealth, whether their money was inherited or earned in the London Stock Exchange or in business. Robert understood that inventing took capital, no matter the source of the money.

He wondered if the mastermind was present. Or was he an anonymous ringleader who issued orders from afar and did not participate openly with the group?

The viscount set down his fork. “It’s my pleasure to welcome new members, Mr. George Brass and Mr. Henry Heinz. Mr. Brass is a successful silversmith and jeweler who is a talented engraver. Mr. Heinz has recently moved from Germany, and he owns several patents for fast burning gunpowder as well as his innovations to Joseph von Fraunhofer’s spectroscope.” Delmont glanced at Robert. “And I am happy to announce that Lord Kirkland has petitioned for membership. May you find this week’s activities further pique your interest.”

Robert smiled blandly, then proceeded to scrutinize each man. Brass looked to be in his late sixties, his face a battlefield of wrinkles and dark hair peppered with gray. His wife, on the other hand, appeared to be less than half his age. She was pleasant enough to look upon with brown hair and eyes, but her coloring was bland and her features plain. A man would not consider her beautiful, and she paled in comparison to both Sophia and Jane. Mrs. Brass must have sensed this for her lips thinned and her eyes narrowed whenever she looked in their direction.

Heinz, on the other hand, was in his thirties, with a head of thick brown hair and wire-rimmed spectacles that gave him the appearance of an Oxford professor.

“I’m especially pleased Mr. Brass has joined our group,” Delmont said. “I’ve been after him for quite some time and I do believe he will find membership quite advantageous.”

Mrs. Brass’s painted lips smiled knowingly, and she nudged her elderly husband’s arm. As the guests raised their glasses and offered congratulations, Delmont cast a glance not at Brass and Heinz, but at Sophia. His dark eyes boldly appraised her and rested on the swell of her breasts in the rounded bodice.

Robert’s gut clenched, and myriad emotions churned within him. For one, Delmont desired Sophia. Robert didn’t like it. The viscount was dangerous and cunning. Most likely a cold-blooded murderer. Second, the woman was a distraction to his mission, and for the hundredth time, he wondered what had addled Wendover’s brain when he insisted they work together.

At last dinner drew to a close. Robert expected the men to stay and drink port and smoke cigars while the women waited for them in the drawing room. But custom did not take place here.

The viscountess stood, the feathers in her turban swaying. “We have planned an adventurous evening.”

“It’s a ship battle,” Delmont said.

“Oooh!” a group of ladies tittered.

The guests rose and followed the Delmonts through the open French doors leading to the back gardens. Vivian stopped beside a round, man-made pond, and the guests gathered around. Four model frigates floated in the water, two bearing the English flag, two others bearing flags of France and Spain.

Delmont joined his wife. “One of our members is working on improving the rigging on ships, and he has generously supplied the models. Mr. Heinz has supplied the gunpowder for our demonstration. The chosen war will be the 1805 Battle of Trafalgar.”

The viscountess held out a fistful of sticks. “Four gentlemen will draw straws to determine armies.”

One by one the chosen men approached to draw straws. Mr. Heinz and Sir Maxwell were pleased to have drawn the longest straws, which ensured them the model frigates bearing the English flag. Sir Falk and Mr. Brass frowned at drawing the shorter sticks, which gave them the French and Spanish frigates.

“Shall we commence?”

The spectators clapped.

Robert watched as the combatants used eight-foot-long poles to move their model ships around the circular pond, which was approximately twenty feet in diameter. Each model was equipped with three miniature cannons loaded with a trace of Mr. Heinz’s special blend of gunpowder with an extra pinch of saltpeter.

At first, the men walked slowly around the perimeter of the pond, learning how best to maneuver their ships with the unwieldy poles. Mr. Heinz, the youngest in the group, was quickest to catch on.

“When a captain is ready to attack, a footman will assist by handing each man a separate, lit pole to light the fuse for their cannons,” Delmont instructed.

Soon the spirit of competition took over, and the spectators cheered when the French frigate nearly collided with the Spanish. Wagers were immediately made.

This should be interesting,
Robert mused. There was nothing like a “friendly competition” to discern who was the most cutthroat among the group.

“Trafalgar was England’s most decisive sea battle off the coast of Spain. Admiral Lord Nelson was a genius!” Delmont shouted.

As if on cue, Sir Maxwell’s frigate began attacking Sir Falk’s at right angles.

“Nelson’s method of attack was similar. It was a new tactic,” Delmont said.

Sir Falk immediately tried to counterattack, but with his short legs and arms reaching as far as possible with his pole into the pond, he had trouble maneuvering his frigate. The pole slipped from his hand. His face glistened with perspiration.

Just then Maxwell lit his first fuse and seconds later, his miniature cannon blasted Falk’s rigging. The frigate lurched, but stayed afloat.

“Damn you!” Falk shot a black look at Maxwell.

I was right,
Robert thought.
They are hardly amicable.
The knowledge could be useful.

The crowd cheered at the first display of “drawn blood.” He watched Sophia lean over the water, her green eyes flashing in excitement, her full lips parted. A curl had come loose from her coronet and caressed the tops of her breasts above the beaded bodice. The hem of her gown was perilously close to getting wet as she enthusiastically cheered for her favorite.

Robert noticed Delmont’s large frame shift across the pond. The viscount’s hot gaze was not focused on the sea battle, but on Sophia, and he licked his lips. She seemed blissfully unaware of his prurient interest as she continued to shout out.

Bloody hell. Robert would have to do something about her. But what? Emotion had no part in his duties. He must act dispassionately in order to ensure the success of this mission. He had learned firsthand that emotions resulted in weakness that could easily turn deadly.

A shot from another cannon drew Delmont’s attention back to the battle. Robert watched as Mr. Brass blew a hole the size of a shilling in Mr. Heinz’s frigate. The English ship slowly sank in the murky depths of the pond.

The battle went on for an additional half hour. The tiny cannons were not designed to sink the frigates quickly and before it was over each remaining miniature ship had numerous holes above the water level. It was Maxwell’s last cannon blast that finally shot a big enough hole in Falk’s frigate to cause it to sink.

“England wins!” the crowed chanted, as winning wagers were paid.

“Back to the house for sweets and wine,” the viscountess said.

The group followed their hosts.

Robert pretended to follow last, but ducked behind one of the hedges. Hidden from view, he went still and listened.

“It was luck that you won.” Falk’s voice.

“Don’t be an ass. No one likes a sore loser,” Maxwell said smugly.

“You’re bitter because Delmont favors me,” Falk spat, then stalked off.

Robert waited until Maxwell huffed past before heading back to the house. Sophia was waiting for him beside the French doors. She studied him, her lips parted, petal soft and virginal pink. “The men are off drinking port in the library, and the women are in the drawing room.”