Rogue's Holiday (Agents of the Crown Book 5) Page 4

  The Powells were related to nobility on both sides of the family tree, which, together with their wealth, gained them invitations to every ball in London. The patronesses of Almack’s Assembly Rooms might adore the Powell men, but the young debutantes appeared to Robbie like frightened does. They could never hold their own among the remarkable women in the Powell family.

  “Mother,” Robbie gently chided, “I go to Brighton to enjoy myself. As the king told me, I deserve a holiday.”

  “One you have already begun if your failure to appear at the shipping office is any indication,” said his father, looking over his newspaper. “Recall that one of our six ships is yours.”

  “I have not forgotten,” said Robbie, “and I am weary of the Crown’s business. Claiming my home on the sea again appeals but there might be other options.” Robbie had been restless for some while. The adventure of spying for the Crown had held his attention for the last few years, but with Cato Street, he had come to the end of it.

  “So, what will you do now?” inquired his father.

  Robbie stared ahead but, seeing nothing, replied. “I have no idea.” Dropping his gaze to his coffee, he said, “I might return to the family business. Then again, how would you feel about one of your sons being destined for something on land?” One of the reasons Robbie had become an expert navigator was his fondness for charts and maps, which had fascinated him since he was a boy. He’d made good use of his skill in his work as a spy. Perhaps he could turn that into some worthy endeavor.

  His father smiled. “I suppose one of my sons could be an outlier. Your twin and his wife design ships in London and Scotland, only going to sea to travel between them.”

  Robbie let out a sigh. “I will think on my future while I’m away. It is possible I will return to my ship when Jack returns to his vineyards. But I make no promises.”

  “For the present,” put in Jack, “we take our vacances, non?”

  “So you shall,” said Simon Powell, “but let us know how you fare. Your father, Jack—my wife’s father, I remind you—and your mother in Guernsey will be anxious for news.”

  “Tell them we are to be the guests of the king,” put in Robbie. “They can find no fault in that.”

  His mother raised a dark brow. “Unless they recall his reputation.” She had never been overly fond of Prinny.

  That afternoon, as Robbie and Jack were leaving for White’s, a messenger arrived with a letter addressed in flowing script to Sir Robert Powell. Sealed in red wax was the Claremont coat of arms.

  A message from The Grand Countess.

  Robbie broke the seal and read the terse message: Please call upon me at your earliest convenience.

  It was signed Muriel Claremont.

  Muriel, Dowager Countess of Claremont, had been in Scotland with Robbie and his brothers last Christmas. During that time, he had grown rather fond of the older woman, hence the sobriquet “The Grand Countess”. He enjoyed her keen wit. She had kept them regaled with her quips and retorts when the snow forced them inside.

  What could she want?

  The next morning, Robbie reined in Zeus and Apollo in front of Claremont House. Four-storied and surrounded by gardens, the grand estate was the countess’ home in London.

  Robbie handed the reins to the groom, warning him of the spirited pair, and took the short flight of stairs leading to the front door.

  At the drop of the brass knocker, the door opened to reveal Cruthers, the countess’ always impeccably attired butler. “Good day, sir,” he intoned with a face devoid of emotion.

  “Sir Robert Powell to see the countess.”

  Robbie detected a flicker of surprise in the servant’s eyes, which quickly vanished. While Cruthers knew him from other visits, the butler might not be aware of Robbie’s new form of address. Cruthers bade him enter and took his hat. “Lady Claremont is receiving in the parlor, sir.”

  Robbie left the entry hall with its crystal chandelier and gilded staircase and followed the butler to the sitting room where the elegant older woman sat on one of two ivory sofas flanking a white marble fireplace that harbored a warming fire. The scent of flowers drew his gaze to a large bouquet of pink roses sitting on a table next to the far window.

  The countess beckoned him near. A woman of classic taste, she wore a dark gray gown set off by the ivory sofa. Around her neck hung her usual adornments, a long string of pearls and a quizzing glass on a gold chain. She was never without them.

  “Do come in,” she said. And then to Cruthers, “Some brandy for Sir Robert and sherry for me, if you will.”

  The butler bowed, walked to the sideboard and poured the requested drinks.

  Once Robbie had his brandy in hand, Muriel raised her glass of sherry. “A toast to you for your daring and courage that has saved the Cabinet and perhaps the king as well.”

  “How did—”

  “You forget, Sir Robert, the king and I are old acquaintances. He simply told me. Quite proud of you he was, too.”

  Robbie dropped his gaze to his amber drink, a fine cognac. “It’s not generally known I was involved.”

  When he looked up, there was a twinkle in her gray eyes. “Yes, yes, I am aware. You have no cause to worry that I will say anything. I asked you here to congratulate you on your service to the king. And to beg a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “The king tells me you are bound for Brighton. A holiday at the Royal Pavilion, as I understand it.”

  Robbie nodded, wondering what she had in mind.

  “My very good friend, Agatha, Lady Sanborn, lives in Brighton on the Old Steyne near the Pavilion. She informs me she is to have a guest for the summer season.” The countess paused, and then added, “Her grand-niece, Chastity, is a lively girl in need of watching.”

  “Chastity?” Images of a pious young girl warred in his mind with a hoyden who “needed watching”.

  Between sips of sherry, the countess said, “Miss Chastity Reynolds of Northampton, to be precise. Lady Sanborn tells me Chastity is an accomplished horsewoman even at her young age.”

  Robbie’s brows drew together, puzzled. An accomplished horsewoman at such a young age? “What is it you want me to do?” Muriel dabbled in matchmaking with some notable successes. But surely a child was not among her projects.

  “I want you to keep an eye on the girl, to make sure she does not find trouble or come to any harm. She cannot very well ride hell-for-leather across Brighton by herself. Perhaps you might escort her to a play or a ride along the shore. A handsome fellow like you would hold her girlish attentions.”

  “Is there no nursemaid or governess?” Robbie had no desire to assume either role.

  “No. She comes alone, although I understand she may be bringing a friend, a girl of a similar age. But Chastity is the one that must be looked after.” With a twinkle in her eye, she added, “Think of her as your ward for the Brighton Season.”

  When he didn’t reply, the countess gazed up at him with a hopeful look in her soft gray eyes. “Won’t you do this for me?”

  Robbie did not wish to be saddled with a rebellious child, but his family adored Muriel, who was a grand dame in London society. Moreover, he liked The Grand Countess. Perhaps he could indulge her. After all, how much of his time could a young girl take? A ride in his curricle, a walk along the seafront…he could manage those. “Yes, dear Countess, I will do it for you.”

  “Splendid.” Muriel returned him a satisfied smile. “Now, how about another brandy?”

  Chapter 4

  Grillon’s Hotel, Albemarle Street, London

  “I’ll return in a moment,” said Chastity as she rose from the table where she and Rose dined in their shared room.

  Rose looked up, her fork paused in midair. “Are you going out…alone? You’re not dressed for town.”

  Chastity considered her plain brown gown that she had changed into thinking she would remain in their room. “No one will see me save the desk clerk to whom I will direct my inquiry.”
The carriage ride to London had been plagued with muddy roads and much rain, and the drafty lobby had left her chilled. The fire kindled for them had begun to warm her but a glass of sherry would go far to complete the process.

  “Do you wish me to accompany you?” Rose cast a look of longing at what remained of her braised veal.

  “Nay, finish your meal,” Chastity said, crossing the room to the door.

  “Hurry back,” urged Rose. “I peeked under the silver dome that hides the sweetmeats. A most delectable selection.”

  “They will go well with what I have in mind.” As she reached for the door handle, Crispin, who had been curled up before the fire, raised his head and opened his golden eyes briefly considering her before returning to his nap. The bumpy carriage ride to London had not been to his liking either.

  Chastity closed the door behind her and entered the corridor devoid of heat. Drawing her shawl tightly around her, she hurried downstairs to the lobby, dismayed to find no one at the front desk.

  A single footman stood just inside the hotel’s entrance. She hastened toward him. As she did, she collided with a hard body, the impact forcing the air from her lungs. Stunned, she backed away, trying not to fall. With her eyes downcast, she placed her hand over her racing heart.

  The first thing she noticed as she looked up from the tiled floor was a pair of black Hessian boots polished to a high gloss with a silver-white braid circling the top, ending in shimmering tassels. Boots that could only have been the creation of George Hoby, the first bootmaker in London, who had acquired a few of her father’s designs.

  From the boots, her gaze traveled up long, muscular thighs encased in tight buckskin breeches. Hands fisted on narrow hips and an impatient sigh suggested he thought she was in the wrong.

  Impudent man! Oaf! He had run into her!

  Her scrutiny continued up to the black coat he wore over a cinnamon suede waistcoat. His cravat was simply tied yet stylish.

  “Well, Miss, have you had your fill of me?” he said in an amused tone.

  Chastity met hazel eyes rimmed with green and pierced with shards of gold. A chiseled face with a strong jaw was framed by wavy dark brown hair and trim side-whiskers. Altogether an attractive man if she didn’t consider his smirk.

  She could not abide men who thought themselves desired by all females, which he clearly did.

  “What?” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “Is there to be no apology, no begging my forgiveness for nearly knocking a lady off her feet?”

  “A lady?” His gaze boldly traveled the length of her. “If you be a lady, you are a very pretty lady, indeed.”

  She glared at him, dismissing his compliment as insincere, one he likely gave to all women to whom he liberally doled out his charm. She would not be diverted by such undeserved flattery. “Pretty or plain makes no difference, sir. A gentleman who causes distress to a lady will make amends.”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, Miss, but whatever were you thinking darting across the lobby without a care of where you were going?”

  So, there was to be no apology. Worse, a scold. “I knew very well where I was going, sir. It was you who apparently did not.”

  “Very well,” he inclined his head, “if you insist. Allow me to make amends.”

  Without warning, he took her by the waist and forcibly drew her to his chest, pressing his lips to hers in a burning, invasive kiss that left her breathless and her lips throbbing.

  When he finally released her, she backed away, stunned, and covered her pulsing lips with her fingertips. Never had she been kissed in such a manner. And in front of a footman!

  Before she could say a word, the arrogant rogue turned on his heels, crossed the lobby and disappeared through the door to the coffee house. The scent of cigar smoke wafted to her nostrils, making her grateful she had no business there.

  Pressing her lips together, she fisted her hands and glared daggers at the door, imagining it was his back.

  A moment passed as she made an effort to restore her calm demeanor. She ignored the footman, who stood like a statue next to the door.

  At the front desk, she was pleased to see the clerk returning to his post.

  She had meant to ask for two glasses of sherry but her encounter with the cad made her choice clear. “Sherry, if you please, a full bottle, delivered to my room.”

  She would need more than one glass to forget the man’s arrogant kiss.

  Robbie reclaimed his seat next to Jack in the coffee house. “You missed a tasty bit of fluff dashing through the lobby. A lady’s maid, I should think, and strikingly beautiful.”

  Jack set down the newspaper he’d been reading and raised one auburn brow. “Oh?”

  Robbie couldn’t resist a chuckle. “I confess I was not looking when I ran into her. However, the collision was not at all unpleasant.” He recalled the warm softness that had met his hard body, her disquieting examination of his person and the glaring blue eyes that had confronted him after he gave her a sample of his excellent kissing skills. “Not much of a sense of humor, though, and a sharp tongue.”

  “You exchanged words?”

  “We did. Nothing as polite as an introduction. Didn’t even swoon when I kissed her.”

  “You dared kiss a strange woman?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said with a shrug. “Alas, I have no idea who the delightful creature is.”

  Jack’s brows drew together. “Why is it you have all the fun? While you were enjoying yourself with the maid, I had to fend off Sir Bellingham’s inquiries about your new pair of grays.” Jack shifted his gaze to the very man sitting with Sir John Lade on the other side of the room. “He was most curious.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Only that they were a gift and you were delighted.”

  “He could hardly doubt that,” said Robbie.

  “By the bye, he tells me that he and Sir John are coming to Brighton for the Season along with Sir John’s wife, Letty.”

  Robbie grinned. “Oh, ho. That should make for some interesting rides. She’s an amazing horsewoman.”

  “And some interesting evenings,” said Jack. “You know how the Lades love to indulge.”

  “Aye, they are true friends of our new king, who will also be coming to Brighton at some point, or so he told me when he gifted me the grays.”

  “Do we leave tomorrow?” Jack was eager to reach Brighton and had kept Robbie entertained with stories he’d heard of Prinny’s evenings at the Royal Pavilion.

  “We do. Immediately after breakfast. We shall depart from the White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly. I’ve sent my valet ahead to Brighton with our baggage. He has agreed to serve us both while we are there.”

  “Most generous of him. Tiller ties a perfect cravat.”

  “I tie my own cravats,” Robbie corrected him. He glanced at the newspaper Jack had set on the table. Splashed across one column was a story about the Cato Street conspirators.

  “They are preparing for trial with a special commission,” said Jack. “Have you been following the story?”

  “All of London is following the story,” said Robbie. He did not wish Jack to know of the reason for his keen interest in the matter.

  Jack fixed him with an assessing gaze. “I have never known you to be overly interested in His Majesty’s justice being meted out.”

  “You have to admit this case is different.”

  Jack accepted more coffee from the waiter. “Well, oui, if only because of the ambitious nature of their plan. But according to one piece I read, the government was on to them early in the game. The king and his Cabinet were never really in danger.”

  “Hard to say. It could have so easily gone wrong. As it was, one officer was killed in making the arrests.”

  Jack picked up the newspaper and focused his attention on the story. “This article says they are still searching for some of the conspirators who have yet to be captured.”

  The hairs on the back of
Robbie’s neck stood on end and his coffee suddenly tasted bitter in his mouth. He’d believed all the conspirators had been taken into custody. Hoping Jack could not see beneath his feigned indifference, he said, “I’m sure the runners will find them. After all, ’twas one of their own they lost to that man Thistlewood and his followers.”

  “Insufferable oaf!” Chastity muttered as she slammed the door to her chamber. “Arrogant rogue!” Her blood boiled with indignation.

  “Who has you in such a state?” Rose inquired from where she sat nibbling on a tart.

  “A rude, conceited man who trampled me, but lacked even a smidgeon of good breeding to apologize.” She would not dare to mention the very improper kiss. The kiss that still had her lips throbbing.

  “My mother warned me against the London bucks. It seems you have met one.”

  Chastity huffed out her frustration and dropped into a chair. “Except we didn’t actually meet. He did not bother to introduce himself though, judging by his fashionable attire, he passes for a gentleman.” A picture of his long legs encased in buckskin breeches came to her mind. “Nice boots.”

  “Only you would notice his boots. Was the oaf handsome?”

  “Passably so,” she admitted, remembering his stunning hazel eyes and attractive face. “But what is that to a gentleman’s manners?”

  The sherry arrived. Chastity was glad to see a full bottle on the footman’s tray.

  “Shall I pour, Miss?” he asked.

  “Indeed, yes,” said Chastity. “A generous portion, if you please.”

  The footman poured two glasses and departed.

  Chastity soothed her ruffled feathers with a drink of the honeyed liquid and a tart from the pudding tray. Her peace slightly restored, she leaned back in her chair, contemplating. If fortune were with her, the man was not a guest in the hotel and she would never see him again.

  Crispin jumped into her lap and she stroked his ebony fur.

  A few minutes passed. “I have a thought…”