Caroline wanted to ask Grace more questions about their childhood. She was greedy to know more about Morgan’s past, but the tight lines of sadness around Grace’s eyes when she turned from the window stopped her. “Perhaps you could ask Morgan. He must have been back since your father’s death. If just to settle things with an estate manager.”
Grace nodded.
“Why do you always refer to him as Morgan?” Emma asked. “I thought the family name was Blakely.”
“He prefers it.” Caroline shrugged.
“It’s his mother’s maiden name. His mother was Wrotham’s first wife. That is why there is ten years between us. Wrotham is not a name we relish to hear.”
Caroline’s mother let out a lowmmm. “I was not acquainted with your father or either of his wives.” She caught Caroline’s eye. “But perhaps a fresh start with you and the opportunity to build a family of his own will change how your fiancé feels about his title.”
Caroline smiled weakly. Knowing she had already released Cage from their engagement and that soon she would have to face her mother’s disappointment again caused her stomach to roil. All her earlier hopes she could make Morgan love her, that their friendship had blossomed into something more, were dashed by the truth that her brother hired him to keep her safe. She had once again misjudged a man’s true intentions.
She would head into her twenty-fourth year a wiser woman. She would stick to her original plan to be a wealthy spinster who does good for others and does not have to temper her goals for any husband. She would be fine. Everything was fine.
Chapter 39
Cage took a long drag from his cheroot, inhaling the smoke, then blowing it out in a satisfying stream. He usually did not smoke, but today he needed the calming effect the tobacco provided. Leaning against the brick wall behind him, he watched the door to the gaming hell across the street—what a shithole. The narrow building’s paint peeled in dozens of places, the brick steps leading up to the scarred front door crumbled at the edges, and a faded sign proclaiming it had the best beef stew in London swung in the breeze.
From his reconnaissance, Cage knew that inside a half dozen tables ran games twenty-four hours a day. They did not sell beef stew anymore, but they did serve plenty of booze to lubricate play. In the basement, a dogfighting ring drew a crowd every Tuesday. And upstairs, the enterprising proprietor rented rooms by the night or week to sailors passing through.
Next to him, Winters sneezed. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and blew his nose. “Sorry, the spring weather bothers me every year.”
Both of them were dressed in rough black wool trousers and white linen shirts. Leather braces and loose jackets completed the half-dressed look of a dock hook. Cage admired how at ease Lord Winters looked loitering on a street corner in Wapping. Many years ago, Winters explained that the trick to fitting into any situation was less about how you look and more about body language. Cage pulled down the wide brim of his hat and took another pull on his cheroot.
“Morgan, I have an offer for you. I need to bring in another man to work with me at the office here in London. Someone who knows what it’s like to be in the field and who can help advise on the high-level strategies. I could use another gentleman tostand up with me in the House of Lords on issues that affect the Foreign Office’s work.”
Cage straightened and turned to face his mentor. He could not believe what he was hearing.
“Now that you have inherited the title and you are about to be married, it would be a good opportunity for you to stay on English soil and still serve your country. Of course, now that you are the Earl of Wrotham, you cannot be an undercover agent. The King wouldn’t hear of it. But you could still be part of our campaign against Napoleon, just in a more political and advisory capacity.”
He couldn’t be an undercover agent? Winters wanted him to stay in England? Cage hadn’t really fathomed what inheriting the title would mean for his career in the military. Plenty of officers were highborn lads, although most second and third sons. Without an heir, it didn’t surprise him that the King wouldn’t want him to serve in dangerous missions anymore. Damn it, what was he supposed to do with himself now? “I don’t know what to say, sir.”
Winters slapped him on the back. “Listen, we are men of action. I understand what you are feeling. But you are not a boy running away from his father anymore. You are a man with new responsibilities. Think about my offer.”
Cage nodded. He glanced back across the street. The door to the Rusty Anchor opened, and Holt Benedict walked out. He met Cage’s gaze and nodded once before turning to walk away. “That’s our signal. Valentine is inside.”
Cage had spent the past two days asking his bow street contacts if they had seen or heard of Valentine’s return to England and contacting Valentine’s old friends and lovers to see if they had heard from him. In the end, it had been Benedict’s network of informants that had found the man. They hadn’twanted to tip him off, so Benedict offered to go in and find out if Valentine was in the gaming hell.
They crossed the street and entered the hell. The stench of body odor and stale beer filled Cage’s nose. It took only one glance around to spot Valentine. Gilchrest had described him perfectly. Thin, long nose, a shock of ginger hair. The man looked more gaunt than thin, and prominent dark circles under his eyes gave his face a hollow look. Gilchrest had described him as a real fop, always in the first stare of fashion, but this man wore his silk vest and jacket open, his cravat hung loosely around his neck. Perhaps he had been gambling all night. A cordial glass sat next to his elbow.
There was one sure way to see if it was him. “Valentine,” Cage bellowed.
The man looked up in surprise.
Cage pointed a finger at him. “Did you think we wouldn’t find you, you bastard?”
Valentine shoved his chair back as Cage stalked closer. His eyes wild, tracked back and forth as though looking for the nearest exit. “Who are you?”
Cage reached him and grabbed hold of the front of the man’s shirt, pulling him to his feet. “I am Wrotham.”
Valentine’s head shook violently back and forth. “No, no, no…she’s mine. She mine!”
All of the rage Cage had carefully hoarded the past two days froze into ice as he thought about the pain this man caused Caroline. Valentine was not in his right mind. This made him the most dangerous kind of snake, the kind that would strike out without any sense of right and wrong. The other players at the table scrambled up and scurried away like rats. Winters walked over to pick up Valentine’s glass and sniffed it. “Opium drops. I recognize the smell.” He shook his head.
Valentine glanced between the two men. “You tell her I love her, tell her how much I need her. She’ll come back to me, you’ll see. You tell her!”
Cage turned to exchange an incredulous look with Winters. “May I?”
