Elizabeth Powell (3 page)

Everly shook the proffered hand and was surprised by the firm, calloused grip. He returned the earl’s polite nod. “Not a hero, my lord. We all must do our duty in time of war.”

Everly guessed the Earl of Carlisle’s age to be within two or three years on either side of his own thirty. To the casual eye, Carlisle appeared every inch the Corinthian: tall and handsome in a rugged way, his sable hair cropped in the fashionable “Brutus” style, his clothes of such precise cut that Weston had to be responsible for their make, his well-made top boots with nary a scuff or scratch on their glossy surface. He gave every impression of being nothing more than a bored society blade. Everly wasn’t fooled.

Much of Carlisle’s demeanor reminded the captain of a hunting cat. He had walked into the room with the stealthy grace of a leopard—indolent, yet prepared to spring at a moment’s notice. His body was that of an athlete, his slate gray eyes those of a predator—watchful, calculating, evaluating eyes that stripped Everly of all pretense and assessed his worth in the span of several heartbeats. Hairs rose on the back of Everly’s neck, and he matched Carlisle’s gaze with his best disciplinary stare.

“Do I meet your expectations, my lord?” he asked softly, in a tone that bordered on belligerent.

Some of the intensity left Carlisle’s face, and he smiled. “You exceed them, Captain. May I introduce my associated, the Honorable Grayson MacAllister. He will be working with you on this assignment.”

“Scotchmen,” St. Vincent growled. “You would have to bring one of
them
into my home, Carlisle.”

Everly ignored his patron’s prejudice and shook the younger man’s hand. Unlike his superior, MacAllister was slightly built, with a shock of pale blond hair. He regarded the captain with serious sea green eyes.

“This is an honor, sir.” He spoke without a trace of an accent, and smiled enigmatically at Everly’s surprise.

“Mr. MacAllister has worked for me for a number of years,” Carlisle explained. “For all his apparent youth he is an experienced agent, and adept at assuming any role required of him.”

“A Scotchman is a Scotchman,” the admiral stated, scowling. “I don’t approve, Carlisle.”

Carlisle shot the older man a warning look. “I’m not interested in your approval, St. Vincent. We have a job to do, one which requires my most talented men. If you wish to challenge my authority, I suggest you take it up with Lord Castlereagh.”

St. Vincent glared back. “No time for that. Sit down, all of you, and let us get on to business.” He lowered himself into his seat.

Everly did the same. Carlisle and MacAllister pulled lyre-backed chairs close to the admiral’s desk.

“I assume one of you will explain what all this is about,” Everly said. The tension in the room almost made him forget the pain in his leg. He regarded each man in turn, his patron last of all. “To what ‘assignment’ do you refer, my lord?”

St. Vincent frowned and grumbled something unintelligible. He waved a hand in Carlisle’s direction. “Tell him.”

The earl nodded. “There is no delicate way to explain, Captain, so I will be blunt.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “There is a traitor in the Admiralty.”

Everly’s eyes went wide and he stared at Carlisle as if the man had suddenly produced a French flag and started singing “La Marseillaise.”

“A traitor,” he repeated. The very concept was unthinkable. Unconscionable.

“Important orders have gone astray or vanished. Supply ships have been ambushed and their cargos taken. Our fleet movements in the Mediterranean are anticipated with frightening accuracy. The clues point to the same source.”

A red haze misted Everly’s vision. “Who would dare—” he choked.

“We don’t know, but whoever it is must be well-placed.” St. Vincent’s face was haggard. “Damned blackguard.”

“Ordinarily this would be a matter for my agents,” Carlisle continued. “But the navy is uncommonly close-knit; a stranger introduced into the Admiralty would be suspect. We cannot conduct an effective investigation. That is why we come to you, Captain.”

St. Vincent shifted in his chair. “We want this traitor flushed out as quickly as possible, Everly.”

“With all due respect, my lord, why did you select me for this mission? I am no spy.” Everly’s leg began to throb anew.

“True,” Carlisle interjected, “but you are uncommonly resourceful. You are a decorated officer, well known to the Admiralty staff. I am certain the traitor would not suspect you.”

A spy? Everly blinked. The word conjured up images of cloaked figures skulking in alleyways, exchanging illicit information. The very concept was foreign to him. He was a naval officer—what did he know of intelligence work?

“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.”

I
f Amanda were the fainting type, she would have collapsed in a puddle of emerald silk right there on the grand staircase. All the assemblies in Dorset could not have prepared her for one evening amidst the
beau monde.
Not only was the crowd much larger than that found at a country house party, but Amanda had never seen such a profusion of titles as she had this evening. Earls brushed shoulders with commodores, admirals conversed with marchionesses. And this was just the receiving line. In her borrowed gown, with no jewelry or adornments, she felt very small, very out of place … and very afraid. What if someone recognized her?

She glanced up at Harry, resplendent in his dress uniform, but he appeared as discomfited by the august crowd as she was. Small wonder—Harry was more at ease in the wardroom than the drawing room. She gave his arm an awkward pat.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he muttered. He tugged at his jacket. “Half of London society must be here.”

“I’d say more than that,” she replied. A shiver of revulsion seized her. All the wealthy and titled, come to see
him.
The source of her family’s misery and shame.

Harry noticed her bleak expression and waxed sympathetic. “Steady on. It’s not as bad as all that. You’ll be fine.”

“Of course.” Amanda hid her grim thoughts behind a bright, forced smile. Oh, Harry—if only you knew why I really asked to come here …

As they neared the head of the line, Amanda began
to tremble; against all logic, her nerve-fired imagination convinced her that Admiral Locke would recognize her. Her hands grew clammy inside her long kid gloves. Her heart slid upward to lodge in her throat. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. There were too many people on the stairs, too great a crowd between her and the front doors; as much as her body screamed at her to flee, she had come too far to turn back now. She straightened her shoulders and tried to swallow around her dry tongue.