Courting Danger With Mr Dyer. Georgie LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
the moment, the best person to help him. ‘Thank you, Moira.’
She started at his use of her given name. He hadn’t intended to be informal with her, but it’d slipped out, her name as natural on his tongue tonight as when he’d proposed to her. He flexed his hands at his sides, refusing to dig up the past. It had no bearing on the present situation.
‘You’re welcome, Bart.’ She adjusted a comb in the tangle of blonde curls arranged high above her neck. ‘Now, who would you like to meet?’
‘The Comte de Troyen.’ Bart nodded at a dark-haired man with a long face and the longer nose of the Hapsburgs standing by the window with Prince Frederick. ‘He came over during the Peace of Amiens and is good friends with the Prince.’
‘You think he’s one of them?’
Her arm brushed Bart’s when she shifted on her feet to get a better view of the Frenchman. The charge arching between them was unmistakable. He didn’t flinch, but it threatened to rock him off balance as hard as when Mr Flint had first told him of the plot. He drew on the steadfastness of purpose he used in the court to keep opposing counsel from rattling him to put aside his personal feelings and focus on the Comte.
‘His friendship with His Highness gives him ease of access to sensitive information and he has the strongest connection to France.’
‘Most of the people here have deep connections to France.’ Moira levelled her fan at a group of elderly men and women chatting near the dance floor. ‘Mr de Rue’s father was the Chevalier de Rue. Lady Mortley’s father was the Comte de Boulogne. Lady Wortley’s parents were the Duc and Duchesse d’Oiseau. All of these people had aristocratic parents or grandparents who fled to England after the revolution and married their children to earls and dukes.’
‘What about Lord Camberline’s grandparents?’
‘They weren’t lucky enough to escape and were guillotined in France, but not before they spirited Lady Camberline to England to be raised by Lady Elmsworth. She was an old goat of a countess who used to give me the chills whenever Mother had her in for tea.’
Bart studied the clutch of ageing aristocrats. He rarely spent time in society or paid much mind to who did what unless it was pertinent to one of his trials or investigations. It left him at a loss and he didn’t like being without information. It was the reason he’d first approached Lord Fallworth and why he was grateful, if not surprised, to have his sister beside him, the creaminess of her smooth skin heightened by the candlelight. ‘Those are connections but they’re older ones, before Napoleon came to power. The Comte was in France until the Peace of Amiens and when Napoleon restored many of the old aristocrats’ titles and lands, the Comte de Troyen’s were returned to him as well, and no one knows why.’
‘Maybe Napoleon was trying to lure the Comte back to France to help bridge the gulf between the old guard and the new regime. I understand the Comte was an accomplished French statesman at one time. It’s how he survived the Reign of Terror.’ She touched her fan to her delicate chin. ‘It seems to me neither his title nor lands are much good to him in England. With the blockade, not even letters can get through, much less any payments.’
‘Given what I’ve seen of smugglers, it isn’t difficult to slip things through the blockade. If I knew why Napoleon restored his lands, it might answer a great deal to either his innocence or guilt, but the Comte is adept at keeping his business to himself, making him one of the more difficult men for me to investigate. The members of the Rouge Noir are a cautious lot.’ They didn’t gamble or drink to excess, making learning much of anything, including the identity of its members, difficult.
‘I can’t guide you on how to investigate his circumstances, but I can arrange the introduction. My father, and my husband, were well acquainted with Prince Frederick, making him one of the few people here I know. Follow me.’ In a flutter of dark blue silk, she made for the pair of men.
Bart followed, noting the sway of her dress around her hips and the tempting view of the smooth skin of her shoulders and neck beneath her high coiffure. He appreciated her assistance, but not the reminder of her connection to the Prince. He’d been disgusted when he’d learned she’d married Lord Rexford, a man thirty years older than her and in ill health. He understood personal sacrifice, his career had seen a bevy of it, but he couldn’t comprehend surrendering legally and in body to another person just because her father had wished it. He’d never allowed his father, or anyone above him in rank, to dictate his future, much to his father’s continued dismay.
They approached Prince Frederick and the Comte de Troyen, and Bart buried any distaste he experienced for either man. It was a skill he’d honed during his many trials when he’d faced down some of the worst men to see justice done by pummelling them with arguments and evidence instead of his fists. He could be as polite and engaging when the time called for it as he could be ruthless and unforgiving when it involved rooting out enemies of the Crown.
‘Your Highness, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you.’ Moira held out her hand to Prince Frederick.
‘Lady Rexford, my condolences on your husband.’
Prince Frederick bowed over her hand. He was balding and it added to the sloped forehead sliding into a long and pointed nose. The two small eyes fixed on either side of it focused more on her chest and the generous swell of her breasts above her bodice than her lively smile. Bart had to fight the urge to step in between her and the lecherous royal. It wasn’t his place to act as her chaperon.
‘Lord Rexford and your father were a great help to me in securing funding from the House of Lords for munitions during the War of the First Coalition and you’re too young to be a widow.’
‘Thank you.’
Bart noticed how Moira gritted her teeth at the mention of her loss, and the brief flash of pity in Prince Frederick’s eyes, but her charming smile didn’t fade. It appeared, like him, she’d developed a talent for hiding her thoughts.
‘He always spoke well of his days with you and I think he regretted giving up the service. I’m very sorry to hear what happened to you, losing your post as Commander in Chief of the Army. They were wrong to let a man of your talent go. Thankfully, they came to their senses and called you back.’
‘Bloody fools, but they haven’t got a brain in their heads, not between the lot of them and no real leadership,’ Prince Frederick blustered, the veins along the sides of his nose turning a deeper red. ‘How we manage to get anything done on the Continent is amazing. Why, one lethal fever among a few too many in the Government and the entire country would plunge into complete chaos.’
‘Mon ami, surely it can’t be so dreadful,’ the Comte de Troyen exclaimed as he laid his hand over his cravat. He was tall and lithe, a bit thick in the middle from age, but the man who’d cut a swathe through society ten years ago was still evident in his aquiline nose, air of divine superiority and attire. He wore more brocade than was fashionable and a black wig.
Prince Frederick tipped the rest of his champagne into his mouth. ‘It’s worse than you think. If we didn’t have Wellington leading the army, we’d be done for.’
Bart tried not to groan at hearing Prince Frederick bluster on about the weaknesses of the Government in front of the Comte. If he was this loose with his words while mostly sober at a ball, Bart could just imagine what secrets he let slip when he was drunk at private parties. The Comte or any other traitor wouldn’t have to work hard to garner secrets for Napoleon from Prince Frederick.
Moira looked back and forth between Prince Frederick and the Comte, silently soliciting an introduction.
‘Oh, forgive me, what with the scandal and all I’ve quite forgotten my manners,’ Prince Frederick mumbled. ‘Lady Rexford, may I introduce the Comte de Troyen. You were probably too young to remember when he was the toast of London.’
‘I might have been young, but I could never forget the dashing Comte. You’re even more handsome than either the pictures in the paper portrayed you, or my grandmother used to say.’