Elizabeth Powell (26 page)

Authors: The Reluctant Rogue

BOOK: Elizabeth Powell

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“There is more, Captain.” Carlisle exchanged a meaningful glance with his young associate. “The information we have gathered so far indicates that this traitor is not working alone.”

“A conspiracy?” Everly demanded. “Outrageous. This muddle gets worse by the moment.”

St. Vincent nodded. “Indeed it does. D’you know Rear Admiral William Locke?”

A yawning pit opened at the bottom of Everly’s stomach. “I know of him, my lord. The papers call him ‘The Lion of the Mediterranean.’”

The admiral snorted and reached for the brandy bottle. “You know I don’t hold with such accolades, boy.” He poured himself a glass of the amber liquid.

“Yes, my lord,” Everly agreed. The press had a nauseating habit of awarding epithets to war heroes. His own was “Fair-Haired Jack,” a title he loathed.

“Over the past eighteen months,” continued the admiral, “Locke has not only paid off his creditors but he’s grown wealthy as a Cit. Prize money might account for some of this, but it still smacks of hugger-muggery. Add that to the fact that until recently he was acting commander of the Mediterranean fleet, and our problems there occurred shortly after he took up his post—you can draw your own conclusions.”

“Do we have any proof?” Everly asked.

Carlisle shook his head. “Nothing tangible, but then we haven’t been able to investigate without arousing suspicion. That is where you fit into this puzzle.”

Everly shifted in his seat. “Go on; I’m listening.”

“Admiral Locke is hosting a ball at his town house tomorrow evening. We wish you to attend.” Carlisle fixed Everly with piercing eyes. “Your goal is to find any evidence of Locke’s involvement in this conspiracy.”

Was the man mad? A muscle twitched at Everly’s temple. He abhorred social gatherings, and now Carlisle wanted him not only to attend what was sure to be the biggest crush of the Little Season, but to play a role he wasn’t sure he could handle. He struggled to form a reply. “What sort of evidence are you looking for?”

The earl shrugged. “At this point, we’d settle for anything. Follow him; see if he speaks to anyone suspicious. Eavesdrop on his conversations. If you have the chance, search his study. A wall safe or other hiding place would be the ideal place to conceal incriminating documents.”

“If he keeps such documents,” St. Vincent added over the rim of his glass.

Every aspect of this assignment went against Everly’s principles. They expected him to eavesdrop, to spy, to rifle through a fellow officer’s possessions? Worse yet, they wanted him to mingle with the
haut ton
, to exchange
witticisms and
on-dits
with fashionable fribbles. He was a frigate captain, not a society fop who delighted in dancing and gossip.

St. Vincent must have sensed Everly’s hesitation. He downed the rest of his brandy and set the glass down on the desk with a thud. “These are your orders. If you want another command, you’ll accept them.”

“With all due respect, my lord, that’s blackmail,” fumed Everly. He stared back at the three men who regarded him with expectant eyes.

The accusation did not deter St. Vincent. “So it is. Make your decision now, boy. Help us ferret out this traitor, or never hold another command.”

His patron had never been one to mince words, but hearing his options stated so baldly raised Everly’s hackles even further.

Carlisle spared a disgusted glance in St. Vincent’s direction, then favored Everly with a persuasive smile. “The admiral has told us of your intelligence and resourcefulness, Captain. The mere fact that you hold the rank of post-captain at your age marks you as a man of exceptional talent. You’re the only one who can help us. If we don’t discover the identity of this traitor soon, it will mean more damaging information falling into French hands, and the loss of more English lives.”

Everly balled his hands into fists and rested them on his knees. Was he up for such a monumental task, physically and mentally? He wasn’t sure, but if this was what he needed to do to win back his command, he would make the attempt.

“I’ll do it.” His assent sounded strained.

Relief swept the room in an invisible tide. St. Vincent rose and poured Everly a snifter of brandy; as an afterthought, he filled glasses for Carlisle and MacAllister, as well.

“Good. It’s settled, then. Confusion to our enemies,” he said, raising his glass in a toast.

Everly took too large a swallow, and the heady liquor clawed its way down his throat. He stifled a cough.

Carlisle set his glass aside. “I will arrange for you to
receive an invitation to the ball, Captain. The rest is up to you.”

“And what if I don’t discover anything?” Everly stared into the amber depths of his drink.

The dark-haired earl assumed a pose of studied nonchalance. “If you find nothing tomorrow night, continue your surveillance. Attempt to gain Locke’s confidence. After all, you are both well-respected officers who sailed adjacent waters. Do your utmost to find out how much he knows, and who else is involved.”

“And then?”

“Then we go after the leader of this treasonous cabal.”

Everly took another, more careful swallow of brandy. “How am I supposed to report what I find?”

“You may send word to me any time of the day or night by way of the admiral. Do not attempt to get in touch with me directly, for that might jeopardize the entire operation. I will also make Mr. MacAllister’s services available to you. This is a dangerous business, Captain; consider him your secondary line of defense, someone to watch your back. Place him on your staff as a groom or footman—someone who can come and go without attracting too much attention. He will know where to find me, should you need to report anything urgent. He will follow your orders, but remember that he answers to me.”

A “secondary line of defense” indeed, thought Everly with a wry twist of his lips. Well, at least Carlisle was diplomatic about it. He assessed the young Scotsman with a hard eye. True he might require assistance on this assignment. MacAllister also might have orders to keep watch on Everly, to make sure he did his job. Now Everly wasn’t sure if he could trust his initial judgment of the man’s character.

The others were waiting for his response. Everly cleared his throat. “I believe I could fit another groom into the stables. Are you any good with horses, MacAllister?”

MacAllister shook his head with a rueful grin. “Hopeless. My brother’s the horseman of the family, Captain.
More than likely I’d get kicked or bitten on a regular basis. If you wish me to fit in, I daresay I’d be better off in the house.”

Everly felt an answering smile tug at the corner of his mouth, though his suspicion was enough to quash it. “Very well, we’ll see how you do in livery. Present yourself to Hobbes, my butler, first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Of course, sir.”

Carlisle nodded his approval and returned his attention to Everly. “Remember, Captain, anything you observe may be of value. I wish to be apprised of everything you see or hear.”

It rankled to be given orders by a civilian, but Everly swallowed his indignation. “I shall not fail.”

This seemed to satisfy the earl. “Excellent. I will make sure that you receive your invitation to the ball before nightfall.”

“Hmph. Better have your man shine up the brass on your dress uniform,” St. Vincent said. “Mustn’t disgrace the Royal Navy.”

Everly would have rather faced down a full French broadside than attend a society function, but instead he managed to quip, “Quite so, sir. It should prove to be a very interesting evening.”

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Elizabeth Powell loves a good story, and a good Regency above all! A native of northern California, this 2004 RITA award finalist currently lives in the Midwest with her plush and pampered henchcat. When she’s not writing about the rogues and rapscallions of the
ton
, she enjoys reading, research, and raiding the sale racks at DSW.

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