Intimate Betrayal

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Authors: Adrienne Basso

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Outstanding praise for the novels of Adrienne Basso!
 
 
“Basso has a gift for creating stories tinged with
simmering passion and poignancy.”
—
Romantic Times
on
How to Enjoy a Scandal
 
“Sinfully sensual.”
—
Booklist
on
The Christmas Countess
 
“Basso charms with an unconventional heroine and
dashing hero who jump into a scandal.
A lively and touching love story.”
—
Romantic Times
on
A Little Bit Sinful
 
“Basso expertly combines subtly nuanced characters with
an impeccably crafted Regency setting and a revenge-fueled
plot deftly laced with danger and desire.”
—Booklist
on
A Little Bit Sinful
 
“Basso excels at telling stories with well-drawn
characters and attention-grabbing plots.
An entirely delightful romance.”
—
Romantic Times
on
How to Seduce a Sinner
Books by Adrienne Basso
HIS WICKED EMBRACE
 
HIS NOBLE PROMISE
 
TO WED A VISCOUNT
 
TO PROTECT AN HEIRESS
 
TO TEMPT A ROGUE
 
THE WEDDING DECEPTION
 
THE CHRISTMAS HEIRESS
 
HIGHLAND VAMPIRE
 
HOW TO ENJOY A SCANDAL
 
NATURE OF THE BEAST
 
THE CHRISTMAS COUNTESS
 
HOW TO SEDUCE A SINNER
 
A LITTLE BIT SINFUL
 
‘TIS THE SEASON TO BE SINFUL
 
INTIMATE BETRAYAL
 
NOTORIOUS DECEPTION
 
 
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Intimate
B
ETRAYAL
ADRIENNE BASSO
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
In memory of my mother Gloria DeStefanis Gambarani,
who would have been so proud.
 
And for my father John, who is.
Chapter One
Hampshire, England: 1813.
 
The sleek curricle traveled the dusty, rutted road at a clipping pace. The inferior road conditions and constant jostling did little to improve the mood of its driver and sole occupant. Morgan Edmund Harcourt Ashton, sixth Duke of Gillingham, stared gloomily ahead and concentrated on keeping his high-spirited bay geldings under control. The trip had been fraught with inconveniences from the start, and with darkness fast approaching, the duke grudgingly admitted he was lost.
“Damn Jason Cameron,” the duke swore under his breath, cursing his absent secretary. “At the very least the man could have gotten accurate directions to this bloody place.”
As the duke began mentally reviewing his rather limited options, he spied a young boy ahead, sprinting out of the woods on the right side of the road, a rope of impressively large fish strung carelessly over his shoulder. The duke urged his horses to an even faster pace as he keenly observed the lad’s progress over the embankment and across the road. In desperation, lest he lose this one chance at finding his elusive destination before nightfall, the duke uncharacteristically let out a loud, shrill whistle.
The boy’s head turned sharply at the unexpected noise. Seeing the huge horses rapidly bearing down, the boy moved swiftly off the road to avoid being trampled. His young face registered surprise when the smart-looking curricle unexpectedly pulled alongside him.
“Can you tell me”—the duke shouted to be heard above the snorting and pawing of the bays—“will this path bring me to the Hampton Gate crossroad that leads to Westgate Manor?”
“Yes, milord,” the lad replied respectfully. Pointing straight ahead, he added helpfully, “‘Tis just around the next curve.”
Nodding his thanks, the duke gave the horses their lead and expertly guided them into the turn. According to his secretary’s rather scant directions, another four miles would bring him to Westgate Manor’s front door. Allowing himself to relax a bit, the duke eased back slightly in his seat and let his mind replay the astonishing events of the past 24 hours.
 
Yesterday had begun badly. Morgan awoke much later than usual, hampered by a monumental hangover and only a dim recollection of the previous evening’s occurrences. He distinctly remembered arriving at his club on St. James Street, but could not recall precisely when or how he returned from an evening that included overindulging in brandy, gambling until the early hours of the morning, and spending several hours in the arms of the leading lady of Covent Garden’s latest production. Compounding the day’s problems was the necessity of attending a private luncheon at Carlton House with the regent, an event the duke sorely wished he could beg off from, and knowing that was impossible only worsened his mood.
Arriving at Carlton House barely on time, the duke was kept waiting, clicking his heels in annoyance, until the regent, corseted in his latest and thus far most splendid field marshal’s uniform, was ready to receive him. Even though the duke was too young to be a member of the raffish Carlton House set, the regent liked him and considered Morgan a special confidant.
At 35 the duke was 15 years younger than the prince, yet it was often the regent who asked for advice, especially in matters of money. The duke had a remarkable talent for making money, while the Regent was a known spendthrift, constantly in debt and living a life-style well beyond his income.
“Lady Hertford informs me you caused quite a stir at Almack’s the other evening,” the regent said as an elegantly garbed footman in scarlet livery served the turtle soup. “Rumors abound that you are considering marrying again.”
The duke paused with his gold soup spoon in midair and, giving the regent an amused grin, replied, “Heaven save us, sire, from the matchmaking efforts of Lady Hertford and the meddling patronesses of Almack’s.”
“Quite right, Morgan,” the regent laughingly agreed. “They spot an unattached man, titled, handsome, and rich and it sets them all aflutter. It’s unavoidable, I’m afraid. Can’t seem to help themselves, poor creatures. Must be in the blood.” The prince slurped noisily at his soup. “Still, it can’t be denied. You are an excellent catch.”
“You flatter me, sire,” the duke exclaimed, feeling genuinely uncomfortable at the truthful remark. Being considered a plum marriage prize and one of the most eligible and elusive bachelors of the ton depressed Morgan. He would never marry again. His brief marriage several years earlier had been a painful, dismal failure, and under no circumstances was he willing to subject himself to a second fiasco.
“I respectfully request a change of subject, sire. I find I am fast losing my appetite for this sumptuous meal.”
The regent, his own unhappy marriage to Princess Charlotte a disaster by all accounts, was glad to comply. “I must tell you about the new Dutch paintings Lady Hertford and I chose for my collection.” Breathing a sigh of relief, the duke listened politely while the regent spoke enthusiastically of his latest art acquisitions.
With luncheon concluded and the new Dutch paintings seen and admired, the duke was finally able to take his leave. Waiting outside Carlton House for his carriage to be brought around, he filled his lungs deeply with the cool fresh air, attempting to clear his muddled head and vowing to never again spend another night like the last.
“I am getting too damn old for this sort of thing,” Morgan muttered under his breath as he climbed into the waiting coach. However, he quickly pulled up short when he saw the carriage was already occupied,
“What the hell!” he exclaimed in annoyance. He felt two strong hands forcibly shove him inside the coach. Morgan instinctively thrust out his arms to keep himself from sprawling onto the carriage floor. The door was quickly latched behind him, leaving the duke only a few seconds to straighten himself before the vehicle began moving.
“Please excuse these rather unorthodox circumstances, Your Grace.” A man seated in the far corner of the coach spoke quietly, his features indistinguishable in the shadows. “It is imperative that our meeting be kept confidential.”
“Lord Castlereagh?” the duke queried in an amazed tone, thinking he recognized the stranger’s voice, yet finding it almost impossible to believe a government official as important as the foreign secretary would act in such a ridiculous manner.
“I am impressed,” came the reply. Lord Castlereagh leaned forward into the small band of light coming through the partially drawn shade. “Again I apologize for my rudeness, but we have been unsuccessful for the past few days in arranging a chance meeting.”
The duke shook his head in puzzlement. “I saw you at White’s last evening, did I not?”
“Ah, so you do recall. I thought you looked none the worse for wear, but my man informed me you were drinking for several hours before I arrived.”
“Things did get a bit out of hand,” the duke admitted ruefully. “It was a celebratory evening. My brother Tristan has recently become engaged.”
“Congratulations.”
Lord Castlereagh paused a moment before continuing. “First I must inform you I am here under the direct orders of the prime minister. Lord Liverpool and I have discussed this matter at length and have both determined you not only have the right to know, but ultimately may be able to assist us in discovering the truth.”
Pausing dramatically for effect, Lord Castlereagh announced somberly, “It appears, sir, according to our latest intelligence reports, you are using your considerable power to aid the emperor Napoleon.”
“What! I know the country has gone mad over this damnable war with France, but that is a totally ludicrous accusation.”
Pleased with the duke’s reaction, Lord Castlereagh held up his hand to stop Morgan’s tirade. “We have uncovered enough inconsistencies to know you are being deliberately incriminated, Your Grace. Yet the evidence against you is considerable and warrants an investigation. This situation is rapidly escalating into a major concern for the war department. For nearly two months, vital information has been moving both in and out of England through a network of French spies who are routinely receiving and sending couriers along a stretch of secluded private beach in Portsmouth, near Ramsgate Castle.”
“My private beach?”
“Precisely.”
The duke grimaced. “I find it difficult to believe my people are involved with French spies, Lord Castlereagh. Nearly everyone who lives at Ramsgate Castle has been with my family for generations.”
“At this point we have no concrete proof anyone from the estate is directly involved, except for the manufactured evidence against you personally. It is clear, however, someone who is very knowledgeable about the activities on your property is aiding these spies. And implicating you.”
The duke leaned back in his seat, unconsciously drumming his fingertips on the armrest. “I can’t think of anyone, but apparently no one is above suspicion.”
“The war department agrees, and therein lies the dilemma. All we know for certain is the person directing these activities is called the Falcon. We thought the inner circle of this organization was successfully infiltrated. Regretfully our informant’s body was found in a London brothel three days ago.”
The duke sat up abruptly. “My grandmother, the dowager duchess, is currently in residence at Ramsgate. Is she in any immediate danger?”
“I don’t believe the dowager is in any personal danger, but it might be prudent to move her elsewhere until this mess is resolved.”
“Clearly you are not acquainted with my grandmother,” the duke remarked dryly. The dowager duchess was not a woman to be “moved elsewhere.” Morgan seriously doubted there ever was a time when others told the dowager duchess what to do.
Addressing the current problem, Morgan asked simply, “What is to be done, Lord Castlereagh?”
The foreign secretary took a moment to scrutinize the man sitting opposite him. He was not personally acquainted with the duke, but the prime minister expressed complete confidence and trust in the duke’s abilities. “A plan has been devised to unmask the Falcon. Will you assist us?”
Morgan did not hesitate for an instant. “When do we begin?”
 
A sudden jolting of the curricle as it hit a deep rut jarred the duke back to the present. He was relieved to discover he had successfully reached the drive to Westgate Manor. All was quiet as he drove up the gravel drive. Halting the energetic bays in front of the stone portico, the duke waited expectantly for a servant to emerge from the house and offer assistance. He was traveling without the benefit of servants because his secretary, Jason Cameron, had taken ill that morning, and Morgan wanted no one in his household aware of his comings and goings.
An unusual set of circumstances brought Morgan to Westgate Manor on this brisk February afternoon. Early last week, Lord Jeremy Carrington, the Viscount Mulgrave, created quite a stir as he stood atop a table in the middle of White’s dining hall.
“Your attention, gentlemen,” Lord Carrington shouted. “It is my intention to sell off, this very instant, to the highest bidder, my country estate known as Westgate Manor. ‘Tis a fine property, located in the county of Hampshire. The sale I now propose shall include the manor house, its furnishings, and all surrounding properties. Who will be so bold as to give the opening bid?”
After deciding Lord Carrington was not in his cups and was perfectly serious, Morgan entered the impromptu auction and at the conclusion of the heated bidding found himself the new owner of Westgate Manor. Viscount Mulgrave accepted Morgan’s chit with a distracted air and enthusiastically returned to the gaming tables.
Morgan gave no further thought to the estate until several days ago when his secretary produced the deed of ownership. Acting on impulse, Morgan decided to stop at Westgate Manor before continuing on to Ramsgate Castle in Portsmouth. Sitting alone in the biting wind, the duke was now regretting that impulse.
He stomped his feet vigorously on the carriage floorboards to stay warm and took a good look at his new property. It was a pretty house, large in size, yet not overbearing. There were symmetrical leaded glass bay windows, carved corner posts, and high gables proclaiming its Elizabethan origins. At one time it had been an impressive property, but the peeling paint and falling brickwork attested to the fact it had been neglected for some time.
Morgan was not surprised. Jeremy Carrington did not strike him as a man who would spend his money on the upkeep of a country estate. Overall, the house appeared to be in better condition than Morgan had anticipated.
“Damn inconvenient,” Morgan muttered, his impatience growing over the lack of servants.
Before he was able to give a rather undignified yell to gain some attention, the heavy oak door slowly creaked open. A man Morgan could only classify as well advanced in years descended the three stone front steps in a measured, dignified manner. Looking at his formal attire and stiff demeanor, the duke correctly surmised he was the butler.
“Can I be of assistance, my lord?” the older man asked tonelessly.
The duke favored him with a chilling stare, but the stouthearted butler stood his ground. With a grunt of admiration, the duke jumped gracefully down from the curricle, tossing the stone-faced butler the reins.

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