Chapter One
Spring, 1822
Shite.
Sir Kenneth Fraser, devilishly handsome rake and all-round rascal, was far too consummate a professional to slam the last drawer of his host’s desk as he finished rifling through the private contents, but the impulse was there. No receipts for mysterious influxes of income, no letters from Bonapartists, not even a sternly worded condemnation from his vicar or an unpaid bill from his baker.
Standish must keep evidence of his treason elsewhere in his study.
Frowning, Kenneth straightened, his gaze going to the large bookshelves bracketing the rear of the desk. If the evidence the Crown needed was kept within that multitude of books, he was going to be here a long while.
Well, best get to it.
As the music for a quadrille rose in the background, he began to methodically pull the largest tomes down and riffle through them. The Standish Ball was one of the most anticipated eventsof the Season, and the best opportunity Kenneth had to search the study for the evidence his Crown superiors needed.
Three weeks ago, rumors began to surface regarding the Earl of Standish and his political ties abroad. There was no proof, but that’s where Kenneth stepped in. He needed to find the proof, and needed to do it before the end of this ball.
Maybe Kenneth’s superiors at the Home Office considered it suspicious that the man had gone forward with this ball, buttheydidn’t understand the way the minds of theTonworked; to cancel the ball would be tantamount to admitting defeat, and thus guilt. OfcourseStandish and his wife were out there laughing and drinking punch with their guests.
Scowling, Kenneth moved on to the next bookshelf, knowing his time was running out. He—or another agent—would have to return another night, assuming they were given the go-ahead for an infiltration. Snooping at a ball was one thing, especially when he was at ease among the guests—was a guest himself.
Ordering the break-in at an Earl’s home was quite another.
When he turned to slide this book back into place, his elbow nudged a strange little gold statue, and he had to twist to catch it before it hit the ground and brought a footman running.What the hell is it?Kenneth lifted the thing in the dim light and realized it was one of those Egyptian pieces everyone seemed so agog about since the campaign of two decades ago.
A glance around the room reminded him that every surface was covered in such trinkets—some small, some large and glittery. Real gold? Thoughtfully, he placed the statue back. Was it possible Standish’s antiquities collection was somehow related to the rumors of treason?
Distant heavy footsteps had him freezing, cocking his head to one side.Fook, are those steps heading this way?Kenneth held his breath, listening. When he determined that aye, the man’scourse was in fact pointed toward the study, he cursed silently and leapt into action.
When the door opened, he was lounging in one of the large leather chairs beside the embers of the hearth, idly fiddling with his almost-untied cravat and gazing about with the happy glaze of the slightly intoxicated, one leg hooked over the arm of the chair.
“By Jove, what are you doing here?” Standish—because ofcourseit would be the host, the very object of Kenneth’s investigation—blurted out.
Kenneth made a show of blinking woozily at the lamp the man turned up. “Mmm?”
“Fraser?” Standish’s expression turned to confusion as he stepped closer. “What the—are you well? Do you need help?”
Why’d the bastard have to be so kind? Well, Kenneth had cultivated his ridiculous reputation for a reason, hadn’t he?”
“Ha—Hallo, milord.” His foot hit the ground and he sighed deeply. “Ye cannae help me, I’m afraid, because ye’re no’ the one I’ve been waiting for.”
The man blinked, looking around the room. “You’ve been waiting for someone? Inmystudy?”
Kenneth leaned in with a lewd wink. “A particularly-ly bonnie someone.” As he used his palms to draw a crude, curving silhouette of a woman in the air, he swayed slightly, bolstering the image of a drunken rake. “But alas, I have to assume she’s been detained.”
Standish’s nose wrinkled, and as he turned away Kenneth heard him mutter, “Or come to her senses, no doubt.”
The instinct to defend himself—and his skills when it came to pleasuring women—rose, but Kenneth swallowed it down, remembering the role he must play. His well-earned…or rather, poorly-earned reputation was useful at times such as these.
Standish had turned away with his lamp, seemingly searching among his collection. Kenneth didn’t want to pass up the chance to interrogate his host—ask him a few drunken questions about his interests abroad, that sort of thing—but before he could come up with how to play the conversation, the older man made a satisfied noise and scooped up something small and shiny.
“Here it is.” He turned, tucking the statuette into his pocket and stepping toward the door. “My cousin’s husband and I were debating the purpose of thewedjatamulet.” He frowned at Kenneth. “Come sir, since your rendezvous has clearly been canceled, allow me to escort you to the gaming room where you may…ahem. Show us your skills.”
Right.
Damn.
Unfortunately Standish was in no mood for a meandering conversation. He all but marched Kenneth down the corridor, depositing him in a comfortable chair in a smokey room full of bleary-eyed men at tables. Apparently, the Earl of Standish had no sympathy for rakes.
