David obviously considered the matter closed. “Cook must be beside herself waiting for us to enjoy her latest masterpiece. And we have a dinner party to plan. Let’s go to it.”
Chapter Nine
The Horse Guardsclock sounded the quarter hour when Brynn passed the massive gateway to the parade grounds and strode around the corner to a modest door that led to the orderlies’ quarters in the massive stone building. He attacked the stairs with uncustomary vigor and gave no sign that he heard greetings, his mind preoccupied with a vision of auburn hair and haunted green eyes.
He was meant to begin work on the ongoing study of port facilities in the Mediterranean basin, but the only well-engineered structure he cared to think about was the duchess’s trim figure. The woman guarded her secrets as closely as the Ottoman sultan guarded his, and Brynn longed to know what caused her sorrow, longed to fix it and make it cease. She had told them some of her story last night but not all. Far from it. He was certain of that.
Above stairs, he wandered a maze of corridors to a set of offices in an obscure corner, offices that reflected the man who oversaw the work there. The location ensured few casual passersby would stumble on them without intent, and no sign alerted visitors to their purpose. Isolated and yet near enough to the secretary of war’s office, the rooms, like all of Rockford’s enterprise, had no particular name or charter.
He nodded in response to the private, more guard than greeter, who screened arrivals.
“Is Lord Rockford in this morning?” he asked.
Informed that his lordship was out, Morgan knew better than to ask for more information. He would have to approach him about Glenmoor another time. If anyone had the information that mattered, it would be Viscount Rockford.
The desk assigned to Brynn was located in a dim, little office he shared with another analyst, a logistics expert who rarely spoke. As on most days, a pile of reports awaited his evaluation. The first was about a conversation overheard at an alfresco party at Richmond he dismissed out of hand. The fortifications described by the Prussian attaché struck Morgan as unlikely at best and most probably a foolish attempt to impress a lady.
He worked through the stack steadily for three hours until he came to a report from the embassy in Constantinople about the crumbling state of naval installations along the Bosporus. Impressively detailed, it would take him time to analyze. He rose and peered out the door to see the office he knew to be Rockford’s firmly shut. Morgan had yet to figure out how one requested a meeting with the man. Benson had told him one did not.
The building clock chimed the hour of five when Brynn, frustrated that he’d been unable to speak with Rockford, straightened his desk. He locked the Ottoman report in a drawer and carried finished work to Private Fuller, the orderly who oversaw the records room. Brynn had promised Benson a ride in Hyde Park before dinner, and he was already late.
An impulse had him turn back at the door. “Do we keep files on individuals?”
Fuller blinked at him and didn’t answer. Brynn sighed. Keeping files on England’s peers would likely exceed even Rockford’s charter.
He reached the door before Fuller murmured, “Not in this room.” By the time Brynn had spun around, the private was studiously adding files to the cabinet.Not in this room. Rockford’s private files? Rockford’s prodigious mind, more likely.
*
“At times likethis, I almost miss life in Ashmead!” Benson shouted to Brynn cantering alongside. “Don’t tell Lucy, or she’ll begin packing for home.” Only true love had brought Lucy Benson, a country woman at heart, to London.
Brynn sympathized. The fashionables had departed, leaving the park to those who wanted more vigorous exercise. Still, fading light in a city park made it difficult to ride at a much faster gait than a good canter, certainly not at the neck-or-nothing gallop they enjoyed in the country.
They rode in companionable silence a while after slowing their mounts to a walk, each man lost in his own thoughts.
“What do you make of Glenmoor?”
Benson frowned, and Brynn wished he could swallow the question back.
“Her Grace’s in-laws weigh on you, Morgan? She had a visit from her macaroni of a stepson. He seems a harmless fribble.”
“Something troubles her. She’s fond of the fribble. What do we know about him?”
Benson ignored Brynn’s presumption ofwe. “Not the brightest example of ducal splendor. More hair than wit as they say. Rich as Croesus.”
“You wouldn’t know it from her situation. He provided for her poorly.”
“We’ve been over that before, Morgan—you take it in offense?” When Brynn didn’t retort, Benson went on, “David tells me he raised as much hellfire as he could at the time, but Maddy wanted only her dowry—pitiful as it was—and refused any effort on Glenmoor’s part to settle more on her. Glenmoor was little more than a boy when the old duke died, but David said he argued with his guardians and tried to be generous. She slammed the door, not only refusing to allow Glenmoor and David to overrule her but standing up to her witch of a mother. Damned if I understand why. Another woman would have asked for as much as she could get after a miserable marriage.”
“She’s determined not to be dependent on the goodwill of any man.” Brynn knew that to the marrow of his bones, though he wasn’t entirely certain how he knew. “Perhaps it is the lesson of her time with Glenmoor.”
“Maybe. She tried to erase her marriage from her life entirely. It’s why she doesn’t want the trappings of her title. She calls herself Lady Madelyn Caulfield when she can. Glenmoor brought it all back.”
Several more minutes passed in silence. They reached the path to the gate and turned as one to make one more circuit.
Curiosity about something else bothered Brynn. “Where did all that money come from? Even well-managed estates don’t always bring that much cash.”
Benson sent another pointed gaze. “You won’t give it up, will you? She won’t thank you for mucking about in her life.” When Brynn didn’t respond, he speculated on the question. “I’m not entirely certain. Sugar plantations?”
