Prologue
Spring, 1808 ~ London
Rhys McNaught, formerly a spy for the Home Office, was miserable!
He had become disenchanted with the profession that had at one time brought excitement, fear and danger but soon reduced him to being nothing more than an eavesdropper.
It began when he was assigned to the Alien Office and tasked with finding French spies in London. His immediate supervisor was convinced that anyone who came from France, or knew anyone in France, must be a spy and Rhys spent countless hours listening to conversations as well as intercepting letters and messages to translate, before seeing that they were sent on. He’d had liaisons with French women who were once of their aristocracy, as well as dressmakers and maids.
In the two years that he had prowled London and visited bedchambers, not one French spy was discovered.
He’d rifled through desks and dressers, followed and listened, seduced and danced and finally concluded that those he worked directly under in the Alien Office were paranoid. His supervisor, who happened to be a pompous arse, younger son of a lord who had been forced to go into trade, had hoped to make a name for himself and thought himself to be superior to those he saw as beneath him.
Just because someone was French did not mean they were in England on behalf of Napoleon.
Rhys was also just as certain that there were likely some French spies in London. They had just never crossed his path because had they, Rhys was confident that he would have discovered the truth. Nobody had ever slipped by him.
When Rhys had asked to be reassigned, it was promised but never given and that was the reason he had resigned a year ago.
Since, he had considered politics or becoming a diplomat. It was the course his uncle had strongly pressured him to pursue, but it was no more exciting than listening to women compare silks in a dress shop owned by a French modiste.
A wife wouldn’t cure the tedium either, which had been another suggestion from his uncle.
Yet, he had to do something.
He took another drink of wine and stared out over the ballroom filled with the titled and untitled, privileged and shallow, all enjoying themselves as if England was not at war and men were not losing their lives in battles far away.
Why was he even here?
“I do not believe I have ever witnessed anyone as miserable as you in a ballroom.”
“Ennui,” Rhys responded to Leander Ashby, Duke of Lionston, as he approached.
Lionston had once served the Crown but when he unexpectedly inherited the title, he was forced to return to England and step away from intrigue and espionage.
The two had crossed paths in France and they had worked together on occasion. That was before Rhys had been assigned to listen to gossip in London.
“There are far more interesting places you could be.”
“I am very much aware and the reason I plan to leave England behind me.”
“I had heard.”
Rhys narrowed his eyes on the duke. How could he possibly know that he intended to sail to Antigua. He’d not mentioned it to anyone…Yes, he had, just last month when he was talking with an old and close friend, Oliver Sellars. They had met in Boodle’s, their preferred Gentleman’s Club for the very reason that it was less political.
This was proof that one must always be careful of what was said in public because one might never know who was listening. He should know. That is what he used to do for a living.
“Come with me.”
“Where to?” Rhys asked.
“Away from here.” Lionston groaned as he looked over the dancers as if he had little tolerance for simpering misses and spoiled lords.
Intrigued, Rhys set his glass aside and followed his former colleague from the ballroom where the duke hailed a common hackney.
Perhaps Lionston hadn’t given up his habits of being inconspicuous.
He stepped inside while the duke gave directions, not that Rhys could hear him but assumed they were off to White’s or Boodle’s since they were members of both.
