“Love, as Winterbourne would say, makes fools of us all.” He thought of last night’s masquerade and dismissed the absurd idea that he was one of those fools.
“I see this marriage took place in France years ago. Where is she now? Was she a French spy?”
“Phineas claims he knows little, but he owes Stafford his life so he’s fairly tight-lipped. The woman was a merchant’s daughter, but her family were well-known Bonapartists.”
Indeed, the masquerade had been most revealing. The only downside was that Phineas had mentioned Stafford’s aptitude for disguise. Apparently, he could be peddling you a horse or flirting with your wife and you wouldn’t even know it.
Lord Rainham stood and paced, features taut with frustration and hurt. “I’ll send messages to France, see if we can establish any more. In the meantime, well done. You were right not to give up. I just…” He sat and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I liked and trusted Stafford,” he said, somewhat despairingly.
“We still don’t know if he is the traitor,” Rakecombe declared. “Why hasn’t the stolen information been used as yet? And Stafford has been in England for how long now? Four years or so? Where was his wife in that time? I’ve asked Bluey to continue snooping.”
“More questions than answers, as is usual in our work,” said Rainham, gathering the papers and bundling them into a folder. “Onto lighter matters, how is that lovely wife of yours? Lily very much enjoyed her company.”
“She’s…” He thought of her arched neck last night, arching for another man’s kiss, and yearned to punch something. “…content.”
“Good. You must dine with us when all this has settled. Actually, it might have to wait till Napoleon’s been put away again. The summer in all likelihood.”
A mite stunned, Rakecombe gathered his gloves and cane. He’d worked with Rainham for years and never once had he been invited to dine – must be his new lady’s influence. “When did you meet your Mrs Mereworth?”
“Over Christmas. You remember Major Lucas Mainwaring, don’t you?”
He nodded. A stalwart chap who had been horrifically burned in France, and when he’d last seen him three years ago, rather a wreck.
“Well, he’s happily married now, a keen-eyed lass, and Lily’s a distant relative of his wife’s.”
Was everyone blissfully wedded, he inwardly griped. Thank God for Winterbourne – at least that rogue could be relied upon.
He stood, having had enough of matrimonial chit-chat. It gave him a headache. “I’ll keep you informed.”
“Very well. And Rakecombe,” his leader called as he’d almost escaped the door, “don’t let work interfere with your marriage, hmm. They can co-exist. With safeguards, yes, but your wife is an intelligent woman. I’d lay strong odds that she has concealed talents.”
Barely managing a farewell, he stomped out, ramming his cane to the floor. Everyone was full of damn advice, but where had they been twelve years ago? Had they witnessed a beloved sister die from their own stupidity? He doubted it.
Advice could go to the very devil.
∞∞∞
“If you want my advice…”
Aideen didn’t.
Jack’s rules, as far as she could tell, only worked for Jack, the advice a tad biased towards the interests of the rogue and not the married lady.
“I don’t,” she grumbled from the window seat, but the marquess cast her a wounded expression and sipped his tea whilst perched on the striped blue sofa. Better soften her tone, so she smiled. “Your rules probably don’t work for ladies, ’tis all.”
“Oh, but they do,” Jack argued. “I’ve analysed all thirty-two of them and a mere three do not signify because you have different…apparatus.”
Not daring ask, Aideen sipped her own lukewarm beverage and pondered. Should she tell her husband she’d known it had been him at the masquerade? Or let him braise in his own juices over the fact she’d allowed a lace-clad Welsh scoundrel to kiss her?
Yes. Definitely the second.
“And how’s Miss Greenwood?” asked Jack, poking a fleur-de-lys shaped biscuit with suspicion. “Oakdean thanked me for looking after her at the ball but said if I as much as sneezed in her direction again, he would… Well, a possessive chap with an inventive mind. I’ve never thought about squirrels in that fashion.”
“I allowed Lord Oakdean to escort her back here from the masquerade, but she left this morning before I awoke. There was a note in the hall to say she would call later today with all her…news.”
Sighing, she nibbled her own unpatriotic biscuit, possibly the lone edible item in the ducal residence.
This week, she really must visit the kitchens and have a word. So far, she had felt it a little soon to interfere with the workings of the household, but they’d starve before too long.
