Beauty and the Spy (3 page)

"Sir, I know what I said was inexcusable, and I hope you realize it was uncharacteristic—"

The earl snorted. "'Uncharacteristic?' Like the incident with Millview?"

Kit paused. There
had
been an incident with Millview, hadn't there? Lord Millview. An incident so… objectionable… the earl had in fact threatened to reassign Kit to a government post in Egypt as a result of it, a potent threat indeed, given Kit's passion for London. Kit had questioned Millview's, er… parentage.

"I apologized for that," Kit said stiffly. "We'd all been drinking, you see, and… Well, I apologized for that. And I intend to apologize to Chisholm, too."

"Don't you think you've been doing rather a
lot
of apologizing lately, Christopher?"

Kit knew better than to attempt to answer a rhetorical question. His father was about to answer it for him, anyway.

"
I
do," the earl said. "And you've acquired quite a reputation for womanizing, too."

Have I, really
? Part of Kit was impressed. The other part was appalled that he actually had a "reputation," let alone one with a name.

"Notice, at least, it's womanizing, sir," he attempted feebly. "Not
womanizing
. Just one woman."

"One woman at a
time
. And the latest is married."

"She
isn't!"
Kit feigned shock. Though he'd awakened in time for this meeting only because said married countess had been hissing at him to get dressed and leave
now
, before her husband came home from the bed of
his
mistress. The countess wasn't terribly interesting, but she was beautiful, spoiled and difficult, which had made the pursuit, at least, interesting.

The earl ignored this; for some reason, he began marking off a list of sorts with that deuced quill. "You've distinguished yourself in battle, Kit.
Tap
. You saved the life of your commanding officer while you were wounded.
Tap
. Served bravely and well by all accounts."
Tap
.

Kit listened, puzzled. He'd merely been himself on the battlefield and in assignments beyond; none of those things had ever seemed particularly heroic to him.

Ah. Then he grasped his father's point:
You aren't exactly making me proud
lately,
Christopher
.

Kit redefined heroism then and there as managing not to squirm while waiting for his father to reveal his bloody agenda.

"To the matter at hand. Though you've distinguished yourself in many ways, as you know, Kit, in the wake of the war, we've less and less call for the sort of work agents do. In fact, I was informed this morning that James Makepeace is dead, and we don't intend to replace him. So I've decided to—"

"James Makepeace is
dead
?" Nothing like a bit of startling news to burn away the fog of a pleasant debauch. Why Kit had seen James just last—

And suddenly all the little hairs on Kit's arms rose in portent.

"How did James die, father?" He managed to ask this calmly enough. He suspected he knew the answer.

"Cutthroats. He was robbed; pockets were empty. It's a shame, and I'm sorry for it. Now, on to the business at hand. As I said, there's less and less call for the work agents to do, so I've decided to send you to—"

"Sir, I think James was murdered because he was pursuing a suspicion about Thaddeus Morley."

It was a blurt, really. And once the words were out of his mouth, Kit realized how mad they sounded, particularly in the bright daylight of his father's office, instead of the soft lamp-and-smoke haze of White's, where James had first told Kit the tale. Certainly the expression on his father's face confirmed this.

But murder cast the tale in another light altogether.

A week ago, Kit had arrived at White's to find James Makepeace sitting alone, staring at a glass of whiskey as though wondering what one actually
did
with a glass of whiskey. The alone part wasn't unusual; James was often alone. The whiskey, however, struck Kit as odd; James was employed by the Alien Office, and on the occasions Kit had worked with him on matters of foreign intelligence he'd never before seen James take in anything more controversial than tea. In fact, James Makepeace's most striking characteristic had always seemed… well, his striking
lack
of characteristics, apart, that was, from quiet dignity, rare flashes of dry wit, and an unswerving competence that inspired trust, if not warmth. He owned a town house in London, Kit knew, and a country home; he had a daughter. That was the extent of Kit's knowledge of the man, but he had long ago decided he'd liked him, partly, he suspected, because James was difficult to know. This intrigued him, and so little else did anymore.

So Kit had wandered over, thinking perhaps if James didn't plan to drink his whiskey, he'd do the job for him. But when James greeted him with, "Tell me Grantham, what do you know of 'Christian virtues'?" Kit had, half-jokingly, smoothly turned on his heel and began walking back the way he'd come.

But then James had… laughed.

If one could call the bleak little sound he'd made a laugh. Which drew Kit back to him out of perverse curiosity.

"Don't worry, Grantham, I'm the very last person to lecture someone about morals," James had said then, which was interesting enough. But then he added, "I've a story to share concerning Christian virtues… and a certain Mr. Thaddeus Morley."

And James, who had lived in Barnstable so many years ago like Kit and his family, and knew a little of Kit's past, knew Kit could no more turn away from a discussion of Thaddeus Morley than a hound could from a hare.

So James had told his story, and Kit had listened, more entertained than convinced. And then John Carr and a few of his other friends had swept Kit away before James could finish his mad tale, but not before Kit could finish James's whiskey.

His father was grim-faced, displeased at the interruption. "James was pursuing a suspicion about Morley? The Whig MP? What
sort
of suspicion?"

"It was last week… James told me he believed Morley was involved in the murder of Richard Lockwood some years ago. He said…" Kit paused, willing the returning fog in his head to move aside so James's words could return accurately. "He said that Lockwood had been gathering evidence—documents, apparently—proving Morley had sold information to the French to finance his political career. And so Morley arranged to have him murdered."

For a moment, his father said nothing. And then, like a man slipping into a coat, he donned the expression of exaggerated patience that Kit had known and loathed deeply since he was a child.

"Christopher, you know full well that powerful men provoke jealousy, even myths, and Morley has perhaps drawn more than his share because of his humble beginnings."

Kit sucked in a long impatient breath. "Sir, James told me that Lockwood hid the evidence incriminating Morley in a place that had something to do with… Christian virtues. Some place… 'whimsical.' That was the word he used—'whimsical.' But Lockwood never told James precisely where. And he was murdered before this evidence came to light."

The earl burned a dark frown into his son. Kit met it levelly.

And then all at once the earl's face cleared, as though he'd reached some sort of satisfactory conclusion. "Was James drunk when he told you this? Were
you
drunk?" Fatherly suspicion lit the earl's face and he leaned forward, forehead furrowed in scrutiny, and gave a sniff. "Are you drunk
now?
Did you drink your breakfast, Christopher?"

"Oh, for God's sake, father. No, I did not drink my breakfast." At the moment, the very idea of food or drink, in fact, made Kit's stomach lurch beseechingly. "And I've never seen James drunk in my life."

"Hmmph" was the earl's grunted opinion of James's alleged sobriety.

"And the very last thing James told me, father," Kit continued doggedly, "was that he thought he finally knew where to find those documents incriminating Morley. And now he's dead. That's two deaths now. Two murders. Both former soldiers, both of whom were ostensibly investigating Morley."

"Two deaths seventeen years
apart
, Christopher." And then the earl slapped two exasperated palms down on his desk, which made Kit's brain shrivel in pain. One of his eyes rolled up into his head.
Shouldn't have had the bloody whiskey, too
. "I fail to see the connection. And James most certainly wasn't
authorized
to pursue any sort of suspicion about Morley, if indeed, that's what he was doing when he was murdered.
Furthermore
... " the earl drawled, "witnesses put Lockwood's mistress at the scene of his murder, and then his mistress disappeared—never to be seen again. London was in an uproar for months. Sketches of her in the newspapers, a mad search for her all over the country…" The earl gestured broadly, illustrating the mad search, perhaps. "… and then the whole thing inevitably died away. It's really a very simple, if somewhat sordid tale,
and
a testament," he concluded, in a return to what appeared to be the day's developing theme, "To the potential danger of mistresses."

The potential danger of mistresses
? Kit was briefly distracted as he considered these. Last night, the countess had been in danger of wearing out his—

"And let me ask you this, son, Why would James Makepeace choose to confide his… delusion… in
you
, in particular?"

Bloody hell.

And as Kit knew he couldn't answer the question without incriminating himself, he remained stubbornly silent.

And finally his father leaned back in his chair and sighed a long-suffering sigh, the sound of confirmed suspicions. "Christopher, just a few days ago, Mr. Morley asked me—very delicately, mind you—whether he'd done something to earn your dislike."

This was a surprise, and yet not a surprise. "His impressions are unfortunate, father," Kit said stiffly, "but I can assure you I've done nothing to inspire them."

But Morley, Kit was certain, knew precisely what he'd done. It went back to an evening nearly two decades ago, to a party at his father's house in Barnstable, to a rivalry between two friends that had almost turned deadly. To a beautiful, reckless young woman. To the first time Kit had met Thaddeus Morley.

And the last time he'd seen Caroline Allston.

A stalemate's worth of quiet ensued, and a breeze nudged the curtains at his father's window into a languorous motion that set Kit's stomach pitching and rolling again. With effort, he kept his eyes focused on his father's face, rather than closing them, which is what he very much would have preferred to do. So like his own face, the earl's was, but gentler, its lines more harmonious and pleasing. Handsome, everyone said. His son, with his grandfather's arrogant arch of a nose and long angular jaw and his mother's disconcertingly vivid blue eyes, had never been directly accused of being handsome. 'Unforgettable,' however, applied.

Or so he'd been told by any number of women. In tones ranging from infuriated… to satiated.

"Father," he tried again quietly, because it simply wasn't in his nature to surrender, "What motive could James Makepeace have possibly had for telling me such a story? Doesn't this at least warrant—"

"Christopher." His father's voice was terse now. "Leave it."

"Why?" Kit almost snapped the word. "Because investigating Morley would be awkward for you politically?"

Oh,
that
was a risky question, and Kit immediately regretted asking it His throbbing temples were allowing unfortunate words to get through. He seemed to recall champagne now, too. Hadn't the countess poured some into her navel, and then hadn't he—

"That
should
matter to you, son," the earl said quietly.

Kit fell silent, chastened. His father did deserve his loyalty; his father, in fact, unquestionably had his loyalty. And he knew he could never fully explain to his feelings about Morley to his father. Just as he would ever have the words to explain Caroline Allston.

"Well then," his father said crisply. "We've wasted enough time with this nonsense. To the business at hand, Christopher, in light of recent events, I've decided to send you to Egypt, as we previously discussed."

Kit's lungs froze. He parted his lips a little; nothing emerged.

His father stared back at him with a sort of detached interest. A scientist, awaiting the results of an experiment.

"You've…" Kit finally croaked. The rest was too horrible to repeat.

"… decided to send you to Egypt?" his father completed gently. "Yes. Today. A ship leaves in two hours. I've arranged for your trunks to be packed."

Kit had lost use of all of his faculties. His limbs had turned to marble. He certainly couldn't form a sentence. He stared at his father, waiting for shock to ebb so he could strategize.

The earl was still watching his son, but his face had gone steadily more pensive.

"Or…" his father mused.

Kit clung to that 'or' the way a sailor clings to the splintered mast of a wrecked ship. He waited. He tried a bit of a smile, as though nothing had ever mattered to him less than what his father was about to say next.

"… you may repair to Barnstable immediately to work on your folio."

The smile vanished. "My
what
?"