Against the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 2) Page 6

  “Well, there’s nothing for it, then. The hunt continues. With your skills, you will certainly find her,” Ormond encouraged. “Just allow the matter some time.”

  “It seems I’ve no choice—but I worry about her,” admitted Martin. He worried about her all the time. Against his will, the auburn-haired beauty haunted his thoughts. “Particularly with the new development.”

  Ormond and his wife abruptly ceased eating and turned expectant gazes upon him.

  “The man she thought she killed,” Martin said. “The Earl of Rutledge…”

  “Yes?” Lady Ormond prompted, her expressive green eyes focused anxiously on him.

  “He’s alive.”

  “Oh, my.” She sounded disappointed, and her lips formed a pout. “No wonder the papers have said nothing. I was rather hoping she killed the beast. He well deserved it.”

  “Really, darling.” Ormond scowled, though it seemed to Martin he only feigned disapproval. “The fellow may be despicable, but I did not wish him dead. You sound like one of my drinking cronies, ever seeking duels and blood.”

  “Ormond, she was attacked. I want to slay the man myself, and I don’t even know the dreadful cur.”

  “At least she will not be facing a murder charge,” said her husband. “Though she may have had a valid defense, a trial before the Lords would be most unpleasant.”

  “Yes, well, there is that,” Martin agreed. “All the same, being the kind of man he is, based on what you told me, he will likely be seeking revenge at the very least. Worse, he may still think to take her by force. Thwarted once, he will pursue her again, only this time with more vigor.” Martin imagined his kitten fleeing before the crazed earl bent on possessing her, and the thought drove him mad. “I must find her to warn her, must protect her from him.”

  Ormond and his wife exchanged a glance.

  “What?” Martin’s eyes darted from one to the other. “I mean only to see the woman remain unharmed.”

  “Just so,” said Ormond, a wry smile spreading across his face. “As would any man who cared for a woman.”

  Lady Ormond shook her head. “You’re teasing the man, darling. I say, let him alone. Martin’s playing the gallant, and I, for one, applaud his coming to the aid of a damsel in distress. After all, he is an honorable knight of the realm.”

  At the reminder of that relatively new honor, Martin smiled inwardly. Only once had he returned to England in all the years he’d been in France: the day George, the Prince Regent, awarded him the Order of the Bath. He remembered the droll smile that crossed the monarch’s face while conveying the mark of distinction. Prinny was a sly dog, phrasing his justification for the grand gesture in suitably vague language. No one observing would have guessed Martin’s real work for the Crown involved espionage, but the award had been presented all the same.

  He was a knight indeed, and a baronet.

  * * *

  A week later Martin found himself none the wiser regarding his kitten’s whereabouts, and his desire to find her had not dimmed one bit as his eyes drifted up to a huge chandelier, one of six hanging from the ceiling above him in the ballroom of the Dowager Countess of Claremont. While this ballroom provided a most elegant setting for what Ormond promised would be a high point of the Season, it seemed an unlikely locale for a woman trying to escape notice. No, he would be surprised to find her here. But then, that had not been his reason for coming.

  In the crush of lavishly attired men and women Martin could see little of the floor, but the few glimpses he’d caught displayed an impressive blond hardwood that had been chalked in patterned designs for both beauty and the dancers’ sure footing. All done according to exacting standards, he surmised. Gilded mirrors covered one wall, reflecting a thousand candles. Tall columns stood at one end of the room like giant soldiers guarding a palace. A small palace, perhaps, but a palace nonetheless.

  He’d already located the four exits, including the one to the terrace with stairs leading down to the gardens. Several hiding places off the main ballroom had caught his trained eye, and though no one else would notice, he’d identified each of the armed footmen scattered about the room. Old habits of his days as a spy would be with him forever.

  “You are certain they will be here?” he whispered to Ormond, who was standing next to his wife. The marquess had taken care with his appearance this evening; even his dark brown hair, usually a bit tousled, had been tamed. Martin assumed this was owing to Lady Ormond’s influence, just as was Ormond’s claret brocade waistcoat. Ormond’s wife was herself a vision in silk the color of her sparkling green eyes.

  “I was assured Sidmouth’s cohorts would be attending. Neither Foreign Secretary Castlereagh nor Chancellor Eldon should be terribly difficult to find. They might not attend all the events of the Season, but they would not fail to be seen at this one. The dowager countess can be a formidable ally or enemy, and neither would dare offend her.”

  Martin waited as Ormond scanned the room, but before either could sight their quarry, their hostess approached like a ship under full sail. Clothed in a cream brocade gown with matching feathers shooting up from her silver hair and jewels sparkling from her neck, the buxom countess reigned as a veritable queen.

  “Good evening, my lord, my lady.” The dowager countess smiled graciously at the Ormonds, and Martin thought her voice quite deep for a woman. The voice of authority. But those soft gray eyes suggested a kind heart beneath the finery and formal greeting. “So good of you to attend.”

  “Countess,” Ormond said, bowing. “My wife and I were most pleased to accept your invitation.”

  The woman paused for Ormond to finish then quickly turned her attention to Martin. Raising a bejeweled quizzing glass, she slowly perused him, as if inspecting a new horse for her stable, while directing her words to the marquess. “Who is this dashingly handsome man you’ve seen fit to bring with you tonight, Ormond? And where”—she paused with dramatic emphasis, allowing her quizzing glass to drop on its chain—“have you been keeping him?”

  Martin chuckled. “Sir Martin Powell at your service, Countess. And, to answer your question, I have been living on the Continent. However, I am most grateful to be included in your lovely soirée this evening.”

  “We can always use another knight to attend our many damsels, Sir Martin. I’m delighted you’ve come.” The countess raised a silver eyebrow. “Do I detect a hint of the French in your voice?”

  “Very perceptive, my lady.” He gave her a mischievous grin. “Yes, you might.”

  He said no more, and when it was clear he would not, the countess offered her hand. Without a word Martin took it and bowed low. When he glanced up, it was to see her eyes shining with apparent delight. He really did love older women of great character, and he suspected that the countess was one of these, formidable in all things with a well hidden soft heart. The smile he gave her was sincere.

  Straightening, he gave her a wink, to which she returned a “Humph.” At least, that’s what it sounded like. But the older woman seemed to enjoy his impudence, just as he’d thought she might.

  “I must be off, children. See that you dance with the young maidens, Sir Martin. I expect they will all be gawking at you. Perhaps having been in France you can manage that new dance the Prince Regent introduced at Court last year, that outrageous waltz. I’ve avoided it as long as possible, but with all the fuss I’ve had to include it in tonight’s repertoire.” Then the countess dipped her head at the threesome and turned to leave. Glancing over her shoulder at Martin, she glided away just as he thought he heard another “Humph.”

  “It appears you’ve made a conquest, Martin,” Lady Ormond said with a small laugh, “one that will serve you well in London society. If my eyes did not deceive me, our intimidating hostess was quite taken. It’s rare to see her so enamored with a man. Few impress her.”

  “She reminds me of my mother, another grand lady,” Martin noted as he watched the countess sail smoothly away. His mother was one person Mar
tin had particularly missed while in France. Claire Donet Powell was a warm soul who tolerated many absences from the men in her life, from her seafaring husband Simon, who adored her, to Martin’s older brother Nick, both captains of their own ships, to his two younger twin brothers who often crewed for their father. And then there was Martin. Martin the spy. The outlier. He hadn’t seen his family since returning to London, but he would remedy that soon now that he was back in his father’s good graces.

  “Say, where is Griffen Lambeth this evening, Ormond?” Martin asked his friend. “I would have expected to see our colleague by your side, or at least somewhere in this crush looking for you.”

  “Mr. Lambeth is staying close to home these days,” said Lady Ormond. “Lizzy, his wife and my dearest friend, is very close to delivering their first child. He won’t leave her, which I think is most admirable.”

  “Another devoted husband. I feel surrounded,” Martin said, and he began to wonder if it was fate’s campaign to convert him. He was looking more like the lone bachelor as each day passed.

  Ormond smiled broadly. “Careful, old thing, it may be catching.” But Martin could see his friend was only too eager to bring him into the fold.

  “Oh, look, darling,” exclaimed Lady Ormond. “It’s Peter and Emily. Martin, you may not have met them. They are the Earl and Countess of Huntingdon. Ormond and I had only just met when we attended their house party over a year ago, though it seems like yesterday.” She gazed fondly at her husband, who returned her regard as if he, too, was remembering. “We haven’t seen them since Henry’s christening. Ormond, they are headed toward us. Come, Martin.” She tugged on his sleeve. “You will want to meet them. They are Henry’s godparents and dear friends.”

  Lady Huntingdon reached them first. She gave Lady Ormond a hug, running her eyes protectively over the younger woman like a hen examining her chick. “I see motherhood agrees with you, Mary. You are all aglow.” Turning to face Ormond, Lady Huntingdon inquired, “And how is our godchild, young Henry?”

  “Growing, my lady,” Ormond replied proudly.

  The earl leaned forward and shook his hand. “Glad to hear it. You must bring the lad to see us. A weekend in the country would do you all well.”

  “We will, sir. And soon,” replied the marquess.

  Mary presented Martin to the older couple, and he was soon drawn into the warm circle of friends. Lord Huntingdon was distinguished-looking with brown hair graying at the temples; his wife had the ageless appeal of a wise woman, her light brown hair curled at the sides of her face, her gray eyes reflecting contentment. They were a handsome pair, and Martin’s instincts told him they both could be trusted with secrets. Perhaps they had kept a few for Ormond.

  “Sir Martin,” Lord Huntingdon noted, “you must be one of our decorated war heroes. I had heard the Prince Regent was giving our most valiant on the battlefield some well-deserved knighthoods after Waterloo. I suspect congratulations are in order. Well done!”

  Martin always felt awkward when praised for battles won by other men, especially when the only reward for some of them had been a quick death. But he could not speak of his real work far from the battlefield, so his only response was a speaking look in Ormond’s direction and a quiet, “Thank you, but others did far more than I.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Huntingdon. “We know of Ormond’s work. Our mysterious—and for many years missing—marquess did much for the Crown. But his lady has helped him to retire from all that, hasn’t she?”

  “Just so, Huntingdon,” Ormond said. “Like you, I am now a country gentleman living in London during the Season with only my family and my business interests to tend.”

  “I wonder,” said Huntingdon.

  “Ormond,” Mary interrupted excitedly, and to Martin’s thinking it was strategic. “You must tell Huntingdon about your success with the breeding of Thoroughbreds.” To Huntingdon she added, “There is a splendid three-year-old chestnut colt from my husband’s breeding stock running in the Epsom Derby at the end of the month, this very May. Azor may not be as fine as my Midnight, but all the same he’s quite a worthy piece of horseflesh.”

  Ormond looked heavenward. “No horse will ever compare in my wife’s mind with that huge black Friesian stallion of hers. And I suspect she is needling me because, now that we’re expecting our next child, I won’t let her ‘ride with the wind’ as is her wont.”

  Emily Huntingdon gasped. “You two are expecting another child? So soon?” Turning to Ormond’s wife she inquired, “How are you feeling, my dear?”

  “I feel wonderful, Emily, really I do. Do not be anxious, or my husband will tether me to our home.”

  “A playmate for our godchild,” announced Peter Huntingdon with obvious delight. “Good job, you two!”

  Lady Ormond darted a glance at her husband, chagrined, then patted her flat stomach and smiled. “Well, now that the cat’s out of the bag, I expect I should qualify my dear husband’s announcement by saying our next little one won’t arrive till Christmas. I’ve months to ride Midnight yet.”

  Ormond rolled his eyes, and Lord Huntingdon laughed.

  Martin enjoyed the banter between Ormond and his wife all the more for having been there at the beginning of their love affair. But the warmth reflected in their many glances and furtive touches brought again to mind the woman he’d been thinking about since Willow House. Where in England was she? She had entirely eluded him, and it was unusual for him to run into so many blind alleys in a concerted search. His frustration knew no limit.

  “Darling,” said Ormond, “may I leave you with our good friends for a short while? I’ve just spotted someone I need to introduce to Martin. It concerns his business affairs.”

  Speaking for Mary, Lady Huntingdon said, “Of course we’ll be delighted to spend some time with Henry’s mother.” The older woman looped her arm through Lady Ormond’s as if to claim her. “You two go off on your mission and leave her to us.”

  Martin and Ormond made their exit, and when Martin shortly thereafter asked why the sudden departure, his friend was quick to explain. “I saw Castlereagh and Eldon repair to the card room just a bit ago. It would be best to encounter them there, where we can share a brandy away from the crowd.”

  They made their way through the crush to the card room, which seemed more the province of men than of women though a few old dowagers lingered there. Small tables were artfully scattered about an expanse half the size of the ballroom, and the lighting was more subdued, reminding Martin of a men’s club. Well-attired servants scurried about efficiently refilling drinks for the guests engaged in games of chance.

  “Just there, Martin.” Ormond gestured with a nod of his head to two men standing in the corner. “Viscount Castlereagh and Baron Eldon sharing a drink and conversation. Let us join them.”

  Accepting a brandy from a passing waiter, Ormond sallied forth with Martin in tow. Soon they drew up in front of the two men, and addressing the more senior man whose bushy white hair gave him a distinguished look, Ormond courteously interjected, “Eldon, may we join you? I’ve someone I’d like you to meet.”

  “Why, of course, Ormond. Haven’t seen you around the club much of late. You know Castlereagh, of course.”

  Martin studied the viscount as Ormond acknowledged him. Castlereagh was somewhere in his fourth decade but still quite young-looking with dark eyes and wiry red hair tinged with gray. So, this was the leader of the House of Commons who had introduced the bill to suspend habeas corpus at the urging of the Home Secretary. Perhaps Castlereagh had also been the one to send out spies at Sidmouth’s biding. Martin had a hard time believing such actions of the older man. Lord Eldon had been a distinguished barrister and member of the House of Lords long before he accepted the role of Chancellor. However, Martin knew well the lengths to which some men would go if asked to preserve the government.

  “Allow me to present my friend of many years, Sir Martin Powell.”

  “Powell…” Eldon drew his brows togeth
er. “The name is familiar. Are you any relation to Simon Powell? Captain Simon Powell?”

  “My father, my lord.”

  “Ah, yes.” The older man’s eyes gained a sudden light. “His Majesty’s government employed your father with great success during the war with France. As I recall, he made some excellent raids as a privateer in His Majesty’s service. Were you a part of that, good sir?”

  “My father and older brother, I suspect, my lord. I have been away for many years. But in the last few, I believe Powell and Sons has confined itself to the work of merchants on the high seas.”

  “To earn that knighthood,” interjected Castlereagh, “you must have served on the Continent.”

  “Yes, my lord, I was employed opposing Napoleon for the Crown.” That was the most Martin could say. They would assume, of course, that he had been a soldier or a naval officer, not a spy for Prinny living as a Frenchman in Paris. Few in the government had any idea of Martin’s role, and fewer still would know his face.

  As Castlereagh opened his mouth again, Martin was spared further inquiry by Ormond’s timely comment. “I hear you are working with Sidmouth to stem the tide of protests that have arisen this spring.”

  Seizing on a subject that obviously stirred his passion, the red-haired statesman plunged in. “Quite right. That bit of bad news is causing us all much worry. We don’t want the fires of the French Revolution to spread to England, now do we?”

  “Is that really something the government fears?” asked Martin, hardly believing it. “The political climates are quite different.” Personally, he believed England had suffered her revolution under Cromwell, centuries before, and was in no danger of another.

  “Unfortunately, the fear is sufficiently real to clamp down on the freedoms the populace would otherwise enjoy,” said Eldon, regret showing in his dark eyes. “I, for one, hate to see the gains of the past lost, but it appears it must needs be for now.”

  “The press is contributing to the unrest with their articles glorifying the protestors and printing caricatures criticizing the leaders of government,” Castlereagh growled in his own defense. “They are only reminding the rabble of the current economic situation. I assume you heard about that appalling incident in Manchester they are calling the ‘March of the Blanketeers’?”