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He glanced at Lady Agatha, Lady Wexham’s sister-in-law, a thin woman with a haughty expression and glittering jewels against her wrinkled neck. All he’d observed between the two ladies was a chilly formality.

His thoughts returned to Lady Wexham. For a woman who appeared friendly to all and courteous and considerate to even the lowest servant, Lady Wexham seemed to have no intimates. From Rees’s
observation she spent her days and evenings in a busy round of engagements only to return alone to a mansion, her only companions a sister-in-law who preferred her own quarters and a surly French maid.

A tug of compassion nipped his heart as he watched Lady Wexham smile at a guest. Was she deep down a lonely person?

But no, Lady Wexham’s aloofness was only further proof that she was a spy, he maintained.

Rees shifted his weight, his feet aching. He’d been up early after a restless night. After years of employment that required sitting for hours, he’d had to accustom himself to stand at attention, keeping his face expressionless. The latter should be easy, he told himself, having to practice the same tight control every day at the Foreign Office.

But those things were endurable. No, what he found most exhausting this evening was his dual role of butler overseeing the other servants’ comings and goings and undercover agent for the British government.

Not that it was the least tiresome to keep watch over Lady Wexham. He’d never met a lady like her before. He’d
read
about them, certainly, in the few novels his sister had pushed on him and the occasional social column of the newspaper, but he had never actually been around one.

Enchantress. The word came to him. Observing her interact with her guests, he saw her captivate the gentlemen around her. Their age mattered little, from the pimply faced young Baron von Klemperer, who hailed from the Duchy of Saxony, to the septuagenarian colonel. They all sat enthralled by her words.

Yet she listened more than she spoke.

The longer he observed her, the harder it was to put it down to merely looks or charm. There was a keen intelligence behind those expressive eyes.

Rees ticked through the list of facts he’d memorized from the dossier kept on Lady Wexham and all French émigrés of any consequence living in the British Isles.

Widow of the late Earl of Wexham. Age twenty-eight, born in the southwestern French province of Périgord but living in England
from the age of seven, when she and her mother had escaped the Terror. Her father, the late Marquis de Beaumont, had perished under Madame Guillotine in September of 1792, only a few months before his king.

But the dry facts told Rees little about the lady behind those brandy-hued eyes and that generous smile.

It was one thing to read the bare bones of a person’s life history, but quite another to behold the person in the flesh. Nothing had prepared him for that, and he began to doubt that his particular skills would avail him for this job.

On the surface, it would seem that, having lost her father to the fanatical tyrants of the Revolution, Lady Wexham would be a die-hard royalist. And having spent her formative years in Britain and married a wealthy peer of the realm, that she would have become a loyal British subject.

Rees looked over the long table of guests, hard-pressed to know why he wasn’t satisfied with the logical conclusions to be drawn.

There were, for instance, those nine months Lady Wexham had spent in Paris with her mother during the short Peace of Amiens in ’02. Of course, she’d been only seventeen and not even presented yet. She’d returned to London at the renewal of hostilities between the two countries, and made her coming out at eighteen.

The announcement of a brilliant match at the end of her first season had been testimony to her beauty and charm, since, as to portion, she was but an impoverished émigré, despite being of noble birth.

Oglethorpe had merely laughed when Rees had pointed out this short interlude. “A mere chit then. What could she know about anything? No, dear man, you are grasping at straws. If she is a spy, it is of recent origin, as an independent widow of means.”

Rees’s attention went back to Castlereagh, who was speaking gravely to Lady Wexham and showing her marked deference. Lord Castlereagh was known to be devoted to his wife. His head would not be easily turned by a mere pretty face. He clearly respected Lady
Wexham’s opinions. Rees heard snatches of conversation about the European continent and its future division in a post-Napoleonic world.

This was the discussion he longed to participate in. Instead, he must stand mute as a post, pretending he hadn’t an idea in his head beyond counting the silver and pouring the port.

At least Castlereagh had not recognized him from the Foreign Office—or if he had, had made no sign of it. Earlier, Rees had allowed the two footmen to do the honors at the door and had tried to stay in the background, overseeing everything between foyer, drawing room, and now dining room, hoping to efface himself as much as was possible for someone of his height.

His ears caught the words of William Wilberforce, member of the House of Commons and leading evangelical of the day. Rees had been surprised by his inclusion in Lady Wexham’s guest list. After years fighting in parliament for the abolition of the slave trade, he was now in failing health, his eyesight poor. But he was a man greatly admired by Rees, and it had been an honor to help him up the stairs.

The elder statesman was addressing Lady Wexham with a smile. “My dear, I know your skepticism, but it is only in the Gospels that we find the eternal truths that enable us to carry on through life’s struggles.” He gently thumped the silver handle of his knife against the white linen cloth. “I am certain that it is their faith that gets our young soldiers through the horrors of war.”

Lady Wexham took a sip of wine before replying. “That may be, but I am sure the young recruits facing them on the other side of the battlefield are praying to the same God. How do you reconcile that dilemma?”

“Ah, but only One who died and suffered for all our sakes can understand the suffering of each one, regardless of which colors they are flying.”

“But why permit this carnage in the first place?”

“It is not God’s doing, but man’s greed and avarice.”

Someone else spoke, but Rees couldn’t forget the brief exchange
so easily. Lady Wexham had raised a valid point. No matter that Napoleon had been the aggressor, dragging a generation of young men to their death on the battlefield. Had she lost someone dear to her? Was that what caused the trace of cynicism in her tone when asking about God’s role in all this?

For a brief moment Rees wished he could reveal himself and offer Lady Wexham the kind of solace that Wilberforce was able to. Rees could tell her about sorrow and loss and finding the answers in eternal things.

Reality reasserted itself and he exhaled silently, resigned to playing the role of butler, there to see that the dishes on her table were served hot and in the proper order.

7

I
n the wee hours, long after the last guest had departed, Céline sat at her escritoire writing, her script small and neat from her days at the fancy young ladies’ boarding school her mother had sold her jewelry to pay for. All to groom Céline for an advantageous marriage after they’d left France, her father killed, their wealth lost.

Shaking aside the past, she focused on the message she was composing. It had taken her a while to memorize the code, but she no longer had to keep checking for letters and numbers.

She sat back and set down her quill pen. That should do it. She hadn’t gleaned much at the dinner, but perhaps the different views of the war from the various members of parliament and the foreign secretary would give the French an indication of which way the wind was blowing from Prime Minister Liverpool’s administration.

She picked up the pounce box and sprinkled some of the fine powder over the paper to blot the ink. Then she shook off the excess and rolled it up, securing it with a piece of string. She rose from the desk, placing the small scroll in the pocket of her peignoir, and picked up the large India shawl from a chair.

Wrapping it around herself, she went to the door and opened it softly. Good, everyone was abed. She quickly stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. Listening another second but hearing
nothing, she made her way to the staircase. Enough lamplight from the street illuminated her way.

She paused at the entry hall. Everything was put back to rights. The dinner party had gone well, she thought. A good mixture of guests. She began to look forward to her young niece’s ball.

Céline headed to the back of the house, to the service stairs to deliver the ciphered message to Gaspard. Now, the going would be trickier, if a step were to creak, or a servant to still be about. She paused at the top of the narrower, uncarpeted stairs. All was quiet.

She stepped onto the first step then the next. Midway, she stopped, hearing the sound of footsteps.

They were heading away from her, toward the front of the house. Who could still be up? It had been almost three in the morning when she’d left her room.

She heard the sound of another door and realized the front service entrance was being opened. Quickly, she retraced her steps and made her way to the front door.

There she paused and inched forward. Keeping close to the wall, she peered out the lacy curtain covering the front window by the door.

A tall, shadowy figure appeared up the steps leading to the street. She drew back. Mr. MacKinnon. No one else was as tall as the silhouette she made out, not even Tom or William. Despite the cloak, she was sure it was her butler.

She inched back toward the sliver of window. He had reached the pavement and, with a quick look around him, made his way down the street, his stride long.

She stood, her heart pounding, hardly daring to breathe, until he disappeared around the corner.

Céline returned back to the service stairs, Valentine’s warnings about the butler coming back to her. What had seemed nothing more than spiteful tales from a spurned maidservant took on a more ominous cast. Who was this man who had so recently entered her household?

Where had he gone? Merely to a nearby tavern to have a drink
with his fellow servants after the rigors of his first dinner party in her household? But how many of his cronies would be up at such a late hour? She could not have asked for a better substitute for Rumford. MacKinnon had performed his duties flawlessly this evening, keeping calm, remembering everything that needed to be done.

He was everything that was dignified and unobtrusive, ever watchful, anticipating when a guest needed a glass refilled or a second helping from a dish beyond his reach.

Céline had been watching him, whether he realized it or not, during the dinner party, her maid’s words never far from her mind. She’d seen that barely visible nod of his square chin to William or Tom, and the footman would scurry forward to offer the guest what was needed.

He was a man who knew how to command without seeming to. What a waste for him to aspire to a mere butler.

And such a fine, distinguished-looking man. He looked more like a statesman than a butler. If he’d been in France . . . With the right clothes, this man would pass for a gentleman.

Where could he have gone at this hour? Céline’s thoughts strayed to another possibility. An assignation? Her frown deepened, not liking the thought.

But worse than those possibilities was the one she didn’t want to contemplate.

Could someone suspect her activities? Had they sent someone into her household to spy on her? Was MacKinnon related to old Rumford at all? But Rumford had written her himself . . .

She had known Rumford since she’d come to the earl’s house on her marriage. Even though the butler had intimidated her with his frosty manner, it hadn’t been long before she’d earned his respect . . . even his sympathy.

She trusted him. He’d never given her reason otherwise.

She shook her head. She could not believe that he would betray her. No, it couldn’t be. Her fingers clenched around her shawl. Could the old, stalwart butler have been bought off? Was MacKinnon even
his nephew? Both men were tall and broad-shouldered, but there was no other resemblance that she could discern. But how much would a man of nigh on seventy resemble one of thirty?

Having come to no conclusions, she arrived in front of Gaspard’s door and knocked softly. There was no response. Hoping he was not yet asleep, she knocked a little louder.

Finally, the door opened a crack. Her chef’s eyes sharpened at the sight of her, and he opened the door wider. “You have something for me?” he asked her in French.

In reply, she handed him the paper.

He took it without a word. A second later, he closed the door. Céline turned away and headed back up to her room.

It wasn’t until she was there that she realized she had not mentioned MacKinnon’s strange departure to Gaspard. She must do so at the earliest opportunity. He could keep a closer eye on her butler.

She and her compatriots would have to watch their steps even more closely within their own house.

“Well? What have you found?” the soft-spoken man, his gray hair half hidden by his low-crowned hat, asked Rees.

Rees sat facing his contact across the table in the tavern not far from the Thames. The man he knew only as Bunting sat hunched over his pewter tankard, the collar of his coat turned up around his ears.

Rees had only met with him once, right before taking on his assignment. “Nothing much,” he said quietly. “Lady Wexham is not the only French person in the household.”

The man merely raised a shaggy gray eyebrow, waiting.

Rees cleared his throat. “There is her abigail, one Valentine Simonette, and her cook, Gaspard Guignoret. They have both been in her service several years as far as I can ascertain. I was able to search both rooms.”