She had turned down exactly twelve offers of marriage in the last four years. Any girlish notions of romance and love had been shattered for her at the age of seventeen. The truth was all her suitors saw was her large dowry and impeccable social connections. Not one was interested in knowing who she was, her interests, or her dreams. Caroline glanced around, looking for options for escape. At the end of June, she would turn twenty-two, and the portion her father left her in his will would release to her. It was more than enough to live comfortably on. She would prefer to be a wealthy spinster then shackled to some man who would control her money, her body, and her children.
Andrew had asked her to take some time to consider Devonshire’s offer before turning away yet another gentleman. And she had agreed to be agreeable. He really was the best brother a girl could have. But she had no intention of saying yes. She just had to avoid the parson’s noose for two more months.
She scrunched her nose. She was in no mood this evening for a proposal or wooing of any kind. She turned sharply to the right to head toward the door leading out into the hall instead. On the other side of the door, instead of the brightly lit front hall, she found herself in a dim corridor. Blast! Her hand still on the doorknob, she glanced back into the ballroom and saw Devonshire determinedly wending his way through the crowd.
She pulled the door shut and hurried along the carpet to where the corridor ended at a rather large painting of what appeared to be Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. Tall and fierce, she had one foot pinning a stag to the ground and in her hand amassive bow. Caroline glanced left. At the end of the hallway was a narrow staircase. To the right, at the other end, glass doors to the veranda stood ajar. A cool breeze rippled down the hallway tempting her with its promise of fresh air. Only three steps in the direction of freedom, and she heard a door squeak open. She froze. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her skirt. Then she gathered the silk up and slowly made her way toward the French doors.
“Lady Caroline?” Her name echoed down the corridor. Double blast.
Caroline looked behind her judging the length of the passageway. She would never make it. Praying for well-oiled hinges, she opened the closest door. She crossed the threshold, quickly shutting the door behind her. The sitting room with its shadowed sofas and chairs was only a temporary haven. She needed to get back to the party. Luckily, the veranda lay at the far end of the room.
As she stepped outside into the cool night air, she took in a breath, and her lungs fought against the ties of her stays. That had been too close. She knew better than to flee the ballroom all alone. An old panic had taken over her as she saw Lord Devonshire approach. He was harmless; she reminded herself. She rested her hands on the stone balustrade and tipped her face to the night sky. Her domino slipped down her nose, and she ripped it off. Staring down at the glittery mask, a familiar feeling of suffocation stole over her. She flung it into the darkness.
Chapter 2
Sounds of laughter and the strains of Braham’s spilled from the open doorways of the ballroom. From this distance, everything looked bright and shiny. Small knots of guests congregated on the veranda, and he could see the glowing ends of cheroots flare like fireflies. There were no torches placed along the garden paths, and the darkness felt cool and damp where he sat in the wisteria-covered arbor. Silently a shadow approached, the soft crunch of pebbles barely audible. Cage stood to his full height and waited for the man to enter the privacy of the arbor.
“Winters.” He nodded to his superior at the Foreign Office.
“Morgan. It’s nice to see you dressed appropriately for once.”
Cage ran his hands down the lapels of his formal jacket and smiled. “You said to look pretty, so here I am trussed up like a pig to market. What’s the job?”
“I don’t believe pretty was the term I used.” Winters chuckled. “Regardless, I need you to blend in with that crowd in there, so whatever makes you feel pretty…” He smirked.
Cage began to have the uneasy feeling his joke was about to turn on him. Winters’ expression settled into grim lines. He sat heavily onto the curved bench. Cage settled next to him, setting one ankle across his knee, he waited. Winters never spoke without full deliberation.
“The Duke of Gilchrest came to me with a request. He received several letters threatening his younger sister Lady Caroline. The first letter’s messy script and lack of a proper seal caught his grace’s butler's attention, who brought the letter to duke instead of to Lady Caroline. She doesn’t know about the threats, and his lordship wants to keep it that way.”
Cage frowned. Threats against the sister of a duke were serious business.
“His Grace has asked me as a favor, to assign someone to watch over Lady Caroline. And to investigate who is sending the letters. Since you are currently in between missions and here in England, I want you to do it.”
It wouldn’t be the first time Cage was assigned to be a bodyguard. Usually, it was to ferry political spies safely to headquarters. But the duke’s brother Jack Langdon was a good friend. He saved Cage’s life many times over the years as they worked for the King as undercover agents. Jack retired from the service several years ago and lived with his wife in the Bahamas.
“Anything for Jack’s family. I know he would want to be here himself.” Cage nodded.
“The duke wrote to him. He and his family will be heading to England as soon as they are able. But that will take time, and I would like to wrap this up quickly. His Grace doesn’t want to alert any possible suspects that she is under protection, so you will need to blend into the crowd at social functions. As an unmarried miss, she is not allowed to go anywhere unchaperoned, so it should be easy to know where her comings and goings are as long as we have a copy of her social schedule.”
Following around a debutant to parties and teas sounded dead dull. But Cage was glad to have an assignment that would keep him in England. He had his own mystery to solve, one on which he couldn’t afford to lose focus. “Are there are suspects?”
“Yes, but I will let His Grace fill you in on the details of the threats and the possible suspects. I will introduce you tonight. I don’t believe you met properly last time. And you can meet the girl, observe who she interacts with. Here is your invitation, Lord Wrotham.”
His head snapped up at the name. “No. Not like that.” He’d be damned if he would use that bastard’s name.
“Morgan, we cannot concoct a name this time. We need the title to be recognized immediately. The mysterious heirreappears into society. That’s your entre. You have to be able to attend the same functions as Lady Caroline. Besides, according to your invitation, you are Wrotham.” His expression brooked no further argument.
Cage reluctantly took the card held out to him. “You are a real bastard, you know.”
“Think of it as just another alias. No more than any other skin you’ve slipped on. See you inside Lord Wrotham.” Winters disappeared into the night as silently as he had arrived. Cage slipped the invitation into his pocket and stood. All of a sudden, his perfectly tied cravat felt as though it was strangling him. Damn it, why did it have to be Wrotham?
Over the years, he took on the role of a cast of different characters: wealthy lord, innkeeper, highwayman, footpad, sailor, horse breeder. He could copy any accent, any demeanor—his ability for mimicry discovered by his lieutenant by accident one night. Cage had been entertaining his fellow soldiers with an impression of the French commander Napoleon. His value as an undercover agent was immediately recognized.
Cage strolled down the pebbled path, walking parallel to the long stone veranda. The din from the ballroom lessened as he made his way to the far corner of the house. The invitation with Wrotham’s name burned against his chest like a hot coal. The name only brought with it regret. Grace. He wanted to throw back his head and yell her name into the night. Not that it would help him find her. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes, hoping to find some inner calm. A soft thud echoed in his ears as something whacked him in the head. He looked down to see a mask, its jewels winking at him from the grass.
He bent down to retrieve the mask, and when he straightened, he glanced around for the owner. Stepping out of the shadows, he looked up at the veranda lit by torches. A woman stood at the railing, her face tipped to the sky, hereyes closed. Mahogany hair framed an oval face, with a small, pointed nose and high cheekbones. Dark lashes lay against luminescent skin. An emerald-green gown encased her lush figure. Torchlight created flickering shadows across her face giving the illusion of a tortured expression. Drawn to her, he stepped forward.
“I believe this belongs to you.”
