Courting Danger with Mr. Dyer
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Georgie Lee
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Chapter One
London—1813
‘You must do it.’ Bartholomew Dyer banged Frederick Chambers, Fifth Earl of Fallworth, hard against the wall, trying to knock the fight back into him. The unprovoked swing the Earl had taken at Bart gave him hope it could be done. ‘We need you.’
‘I can’t, don’t you understand?’ Freddy growled, fingers biting into Bart’s forearms. ‘I’ve given enough. I won’t give any more.’
‘Let go of him.’ The lady behind him punctuated her command by cocking a pistol hammer.
Damn. Bart cursed under his breath. She’d just made the weapon more dangerous. If she wasn’t competent with it, the ball would tear through him and the Earl under his elbow.
Bart took his arm off Lord Fallworth’s chest and stepped back.
‘Moira, it’s not what you think,’ Lord Fallworth choked as he leaned away from the wall and tried to wave his sister off.
Bart ground his teeth at the mention of Lady Rexford and the way it made his neck, and something much lower down, tense. A maid or the elderly aunt would have been preferable to Lord Fallworth’s sister, and his one-time fiancée, having stumbled in on them. The young Dowager Countess of Rexford was as stunning as she was a complication Bart didn’t need.
‘Then what is it?’ She kept the pistol pointed at Bart’s chest and her beautiful green eyes fixed on his.
She’d changed since he’d last seen her five years ago when she’d been a young lady new to London and he an ex-soldier beginning his career as a barrister. The innocent, uncertain tilt of her head was gone, replaced by a confidence he imagined widowhood and the deaths of her father and sister-in-law must have given her. It made her sharp cheekbones set in an oval face and framed by blonde hair more striking and more tempting. He knew better than to fall for it. He had no desire to hear again from her family how he wasn’t good enough for her or to have his official duties curtailed by her incorrect reading of this situation.
Bart bent into a bow. ‘Good evening, Lady Rexford. It’s a pleasure to see you again.’
‘I can’t say the same, Mr Dyer. If you weren’t one of the most celebrated barristers in England with as many magistrates in awe of you as the public, I’d put a ball through you and end your scourge on this house.’
He opened his arms to increase the size of her target. ‘Why not take the chance?’
She frowned at his defiance, the disapproving yet intriguing downturn of her mouth tempered by the still-raised weapon. ‘Since I have no desire to be hanged for murder, I demand you leave at once and never return.’
Any other day her order would have been charming. This morning it was merely irritating. ‘Your aunt used to make the same request and it didn’t work.’
‘I’d like to think I’m a touch more persuasive.’ She nodded at the still-raised pistol.
He admired her desire to protect her brother, even if it was woefully misguided. However, what had brought him here in defiance of her widowed aunt’s dictates was far more important than his or anyone else’s life.
‘Moira, it’s all right. Leave us be, we have business to discuss.’ Lord Fallworth took up his drink and drained it.
‘What business? Which gaming hell to visit?’ she challenged. ‘Don’t think Aunt Agatha didn’t write to me about what you got up to with Mr Dyer when you were in London two years ago. I won’t have you ruining yourself again a mere week after we’ve returned to town.’
Bart suppressed a growl of irritation. If Lady Rexford knew the real motives behind those nights out, she’d lower the pistol, throw her arms around his neck and thank him for his service to their country.
‘Freddy, I won’t leave you to the influences of a man like this.’ Lady Rexford waved her free hand at Bart. ‘Not with you already so vulnerable since Helena’s—’
‘You needn’t say it.’ Lord Fallworth snatched up the brandy decanter and refilled his glass.
Bart opened his mouth to tell Lady Rexford to step out of things she didn’t understand, then closed it again. With her brother slipping into a liquor-induced fog, his suitability for this mission waned while Lady Rexford’s possible involvement played on him like a hunch. She stood straight, one foot in front of the other to make her gown drape across her shapely thigh. The firm set of her full lips beneath eyes as focused as a fox’s made him take more notice of her than the pistol or her reluctant brother. No one would suspect a woman. Bart knew better. ‘You’re friends with Lady Camberline?’
A crease of confusion appeared between her shapely eyebrows. ‘Not friends so much as acquaintances. We’re both patrons of the Lady’s Lying-In Hospital.’
‘But you know her well enough to call on her and to receive invitations?’
‘No, Bart, don’t do it,’ Lord Fallworth warned.
Lady Rexford glanced back and forth between Bart and her brother. ‘I do.’
‘Are you attending her ball tonight?’
‘Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?’
‘I said don’t do it.’ Lord Fallworth banged his glass down on the table, making the brandy slosh over the sides.
Bart ignored the glowering Earl. ‘I need your help to—’
‘No, not her.’ Lord Fallworth grabbed Bart by the lapels and gave him a shake. ‘I lost my wife to plotting scoundrels. I won’t lose a sister, too.’
If Lord Fallworth were any other man Bart would drop him like a sack of flour, but the other man had sacrificed a great deal by helping Bart two years ago. Until today, Bart hadn’t realised how much it’d changed his friend.
‘What are you talking about, Freddy?’ Lady Rexford asked in a shaky voice. ‘What scoundrels?’
Bart exchanged a concerned look with Lord Fallworth. His sister didn’t know the truth about Lady Fallworth’s death, but then few people did. This wasn’t the moment to enlighten her.
‘Nothing,’ Lord Fallworth answered in a voice to convince no one. ‘I misspoke.’
Lord Fallworth eyed Bart with unease as he let go of him and shifted back. Bart studied him, aware of the pain he was causing his old friend. He would leave him in peace if he could, but this time, there was too much at stake. ‘If I don’t uncover their plans soon, the Government, the King could be brought down and Napoleon installed on the throne.’
‘What are you two talking about?’ Lady Rexford demanded.
‘Let me tell her and allow her to decide,’ Bart asked the other man in the same measured tone he normally used when delivering bad news to a client.
Lord Fallworth retrieved his drink, his signet ring clanking against the glass. Then he slumped down into his chair, the promising fight he’d shown when he’d lashed out at Bart gone. ‘Go ahead then, tell her.’
‘Tell me what?’ Lady Rexford lowered the hammer with impressive and surprising skill. Anyone else would have slammed it down and set the damned thing off. It was another mark in her favour.
Bartholomew took a deep breath. What he was about to reveal could place his entire mission in jeopardy if she whispered it around the wrong tea table, but with Freddy unable to assist him, Lady Rexford might be his only chance. She’d proven herself discreet in the matter of their debacle of an engagement, making sure no one outside of her family and his had learned of it. He was certain he could count on her prudence again.
Bart turned to her with the same deference he showed when approaching the bench. ‘I’m not just a barrister, Lady Rexford, but a stipendiary magistrate given power by the Alien Office to root out traitors working to undermine our country. I have a number of men under me, one of whom used to be your brother. The many nights I came here to collect him two years ago, the ones your aunt wrote to you about, weren’t to waste money at cards but to uncover a plot by Lord McCreery working on behalf of the Scottish Corresponding Society to assassinate the Prime Minister. We spent nights drinking and gambling with many of the men involved with the society in order to learn the details of the plot. Alcohol is a great opener of mouths. It makes people forget themselves.’ He cocked one suggestive eyebrow at her. The full lips he’d savoured five years ago drew tight at his reference to their past and the time they’d spent on Lady Greenwood’s balcony in each other’s arms. Bart ignored the appealing blush sweeping her cheeks and continued. ‘Thanks to your brother’s help, we stopped the plot, but now there is another. A group called the Rouge Noir, a collection of London aristocrats with ties to Napoleon, is actively working to undermine the Crown and install the Emperor on the throne.’
‘You expect me to believe titled gentlemen are plotting to bring down the Government?’
She crossed her arms, the gun dangling beneath one elbow as she stared at him in disbelief, as sceptical as he’d been when Charles Flint had first approached him on William Wickham and the Alien Office’s behalf. Even after his work uncovering fraud in order to protect his clients, and his time as a captain with the English army in Austria, the story had been hard for him to swallow. It must sound preposterous to a lady who’d been sequestered on a country estate for the last few years.
‘I know you despise those of our class, but I didn’t think you’d sink so low as to accuse them of treason.’
Bart narrowed his eyes at her, struggling to remain as collected as when he was arguing a case. She’d struck a nerve, one of the few people in a long time to do so. ‘I may not like a great swathe of the nobility, but I swore to protect them. I won’t see any of my countrymen, not the poor or the rich, trampled under Napoleon’s boots.’
‘It’s true, Moira,’ Freddy concurred. During their interrogation of the Scottish Corresponding Society conspirators, there’d been whispers of the Rouge Noir but never anything solid, until recently.
She turned her shock on her brother. ‘It can’t be.’
‘It is,’ Bart insisted. ‘The Government is weak, with no strong prime minister and a handful of colourless men running things. The King is mad and his son a worthless dandy. If the Rouge Noir can wipe them out it will bring this country to its knees, allowing Napoleon to sweep in and restore order through tyranny. I and my network of informers were able to ferret out a number of lesser members of the Rouge Noir some time ago and we thought we’d disrupted the group enough to stop them. Then, last week, a courier was caught in Dover with a message for Napoleon telling him to prepare for the coming of the Rouge Noir. I believe something is going to happen and soon, but I don’t know what and I don’t know where but I must find out. I suspect some in Lady Camberline’s circle to be involved, but I have no way to get close to them without drawing suspicion.’
‘If you think Freddy will help you, you’re wrong.’ She crossed her arms and stepped between Bart and Lord Fallworth, as if protecting her brother. ‘He isn’t well enough to have any part in your scheme.’
‘I’m not asking him to have a part in it. I’m asking you.’
* * *
Moira dropped her arms to her sides. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be, but the hard angles of Mr Dyer’s chiselled face and the steeliness of his dark eyes told her it was. ‘Me?’
‘Lady Rexford, I need you, England needs you,’ Mr Dyer pleaded. This was the first time they’d spoken since the morning five years ago when she’d called off their engagement with fumbling words about her duty to her father and upholding the Fallworth reputation. He hadn’t taken it well, railing at her about the misguided priorities of the aristocracy and her failure to stand up for what she wanted. She’d tried to make him understand her father’s concerns for her and her future, but he’d refused to listen. They’d parted with no small amount of bitterness on each side, and when Aunt Agatha’s frantic letters about Freddy had begun to arrive, Moira had thought she’d avoided a bad mistake. Yet all along Bart had been fighting for something more worthy than bragging rights about a card win. ‘You can get close to Lady Camberline and many of those in her circle, especially the ones I suspect.’
‘You’re Baron Denning’s fifth son, so why not use your own connections?’ she protested, unsure how to answer him. Surely she was not so important to the security of the Government.
‘My work as a barrister and my father’s railing against it—’ the lines at the corners of Bart’s brown eyes tightened, then relaxed ‘—have prejudiced too many against me and his rank isn’t high enough to garner the notice of a dower marchioness and her marquess son. However, you can use your familiarity with the Camberlines to gather information on suspects.’
‘Who might kill me if they discover what I’m doing.’ She knew little about plots and schemes, but she’d read enough stories about them in the newspapers to understand what happened to those who dabbled in intrigue.
‘If you choose to help me, I promise to do all I can to protect you, but I’ll be honest and say there are no guarantees.’ He shot Freddy an apologetic look to make her brother sink deeper into his chair, the darkness of the last two years shadowing him again.
Moira wanted to throw her arms around her brother and comfort him the way she had when, still in mourning for her own husband, she’d come to Fallworth Manor to help take care of Freddy and Nicholas, her nephew, and usher them through the darkest time of their lives after Helena’s death. Now Mr Dyer was asking her to place herself in danger and risk having her steadying influence on Freddy and Nicholas ripped from them, leaving them to flounder as they had when Helena had been killed by a cutpurse. ‘I can’t help you.’
‘Do you understand what’s at stake? My parents and brothers will all be sacrificed to Rouge Noir’s great vision of Britain and so will you, Lord Fallworth and your nephew if they succeed. With your help, we can stop them.’
‘I do understand what’s at stake, Mr Dyer, but while you ask me to risk my life for king and country there’s a little boy who sleeps without his mother.’ She tossed the pistol on the table besides her and it hit the wood with a rattle. ‘I can’t abandon them any more than you can leave this Rouge Noir to hurt England. My reason may not be as gallant as war or spies, but it’s a good one.’
He straightened a touch, his stoic expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. With his impressive height and piercing eyes beneath dark brown hair cut short, he was an imposing man and clearly used to getting what he wanted. She braced herself for more arguments, expecting him to continue pressing her the way her family did whenever she resisted their plans for her. To her amazement, he didn’t.
‘You’re wrong, Lady Rexford, I do understand your importance to your family and I appreciate all you’ve done for Lord Fallworth in his grief,’ he offered in the deep voice she’d once heard in her dreams before the wedding bells had silenced it. ‘You’re right, your place is here with your loved ones. My apologies to you both. If you give me your word you won’t repeat to anyone what we’ve discussed, I’ll leave you be.’
Moira’s shoulders settled at his admission and the reverent compliment in his words. He hadn’t been so accepting of her refusal five years ago, but the situation had been so poorly handled by her aunt, and her, she couldn’t blame him for the way he’d reacted. He was nothing but a gentleman today and she must meet his honour with her own. ‘I promise not to say anything to anyone.’
‘Thank you.’ He bowed and, without another word, left.
She should have been happy to see the back of him, but she wasn’t. In his eyes had been the night at Lady Greenwood’s ball when, for the first time since before her mother’s death when she was fourteen, she’d acted recklessly and free of constraints. She wished she could have held on to the young woman who’d briefly blossomed under Bart’s admiration, but marriage to Lord Rexford had made it impossible.
Parting with Bart was for the best, she told herself as she had so many times before. She fingered the cold wooden handle of her father’s duelling pistol on the table beside her, pointing the barrel away from her. Her father had viewed marriage to Lord Rexford as a way to ensure she would be taken care of after his death and she’d gone along with it in an effort to ease his anxiety so he could die without worry. Instead of a young and robust husband, she’d wedded an old man whose failure to give her children had ensured almost everything he had went to his nephew at his death. There’d been no reason for her father to think things would not work out as he, and even Moira, had thought they would.
Freddy heaved a weary sigh and pushed himself out of the chair.
‘Perhaps you should go upstairs and rest,’ she suggested, not liking how haggard he appeared this morning. It’d been a long time since he’d looked this low and she feared the events of this morning had ruined all the progress he’d made in the last few months.
‘No, I must speak with Miss Kent about Nicholas’s clothes and the Falkirk party.’
‘I can speak with her if you’d like and remind her to be mindful of the cost of having the clothes made up.’
He reached out and clasped her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, but I think it’s time I took more of a role in my son’s care.’
‘Of course.’ She covered his hand with hers, encouraged by his willingness to handle matters. Perhaps it meant the dark times were finally fading and he wouldn’t be as dependent on her as he had been before. The thought heartened and troubled her.
Nicholas’s laughter followed by the high voice of his young nurse echoed through the house. The sound of it seemed to brighten Freddy even more and he let go of Moira.
‘I’ll speak to her now.’
Moira followed her brother out of the study and into the hall, glad to see him walking with his head up, at last thrilled to greet his son instead of displaying the uninterest in him, his estate and everything he’d shown after Helena’s death. Even before their father’s passing, Fallworth Manor had been in some straits due to a number of bad harvests. Freddy ignoring it all after Helena’s death had made matters worse. It’d taken a great deal of hard work by Moira over the last two years to make it finally turn a profit instead of sinking deeper into debt. However, there was still a long way to go before any of them could live comfortably on the income.
They reached the entrance hall, met by the drumming of small footsteps down the back hall and the dark hair of her nephew as he rushed to meet them.
‘Here’s my sweet angel.’ Moira knelt down and held out her arms.
‘Aunt Mara.’ Nicholas threw himself against her and wrapped his chubby arms around her neck.
She rose, holding the squirming three-year-old who smelled of milk and wet dirt. ‘How is my little love today?’
His deep green eyes widened with excitement. ‘Birdy day.’
‘You saw a bird today?’
He slipped two chubby fingers into his mouth and nodded.
‘Nicholas and I just returned from the park,’ Miss Kent, the young nurse, explained when she approached. Only eighteen with a round face and petite figure, she was the youngest daughter of a baronet who lived near them in Surrey. With few prospects in the country, she’d come to Moira to offer her services and had proven an excellent choice for Nicholas’s nurse. ‘We took some old bread to feed the ducks.’
Freddy took Nicholas from Moira and held him firm against his chest. ‘Perhaps Cook can give you a few more crusts and you can feed the birds in the garden.’ His suggestion made Nicholas clap with delight. Freddy smiled at the boy and then Miss Kent, who blushed and stared at the floor. ‘Miss Kent, if you’ll come with me and Nicholas to the nursery, we can discuss Nicholas’s new clothes and the Falkirk party.’
‘Of course, my lord.’ She dipped a curtsy to Moira then started upstairs after Freddy, who carried Nicholas, asking more questions about the park and what he’d seen.
Moira brushed little dusty fingerprints from her skirt, trying to ignore the twinge of jealousy in her chest. She loved the boy as much as she did her brother, but no matter how much she took care of Nicholas, he was not hers. She had no child to comfort her in her widowhood. It was the largest regret of the many she carried from her marriage.
‘You spoil Nicholas,’ Aunt Agatha remarked, entering the hall from the sitting room. She wore a copper-coloured morning dress which followed the curve of her ample and well-concealed bosom before flaring out to drape her stout form. Tight curls pinned to the sides of her head were touched with grey and further decorated by a turban of yellow silk pressed down over her coiffure.
‘I can’t help it.’ Moira attempted to straighten the rather lopsided arrangement of lilies in a vase on a side table.
‘Some day, you’ll have your own to spoil. After all, I don’t see why you shouldn’t. Some gentlemen prefer a lady of, shall we say experience.’
‘Aunt Agatha!’ She wasn’t sure what astonished her more, Aunt Agatha’s bluntness or how little experience Moira had garnered with Walter before his heart troubles had taken him. Intimate relations were the one aspect of marrying again she did not look forward to. She’d never cared for the deed the few times Walter had bothered her, but she’d done her duty as a wife, praying each time it would result in a child. She stilled her hands on the lilies. This sacrifice had been the most bitter because it’d been for nothing.
‘It’s true. After all, with your husband’s estate and the bulk of his wealth having gone to his nephew, gentlemen won’t pursue you for your fortune,’ Aunt Agatha proclaimed and Moira snapped a brown lily off its wilting stem and laid it on the table, biting back a few choice words. Her aunt’s candidness was growing more vexing with each passing year. ‘Besides, with Freddy ready to face society again, I don’t expect him to remain unmarried for long and then you will be nothing but the widowed aunt, and we can’t have that. But let’s not fret about it now. We have the whole Season to worry about it.’
Having dropped her truth, and careless of the craters it left, Aunt Agatha patted Moira’s arm, then headed down the hallway.
Moira stared at the blue willows painted on the vase, the reality she’d suspected since leaving the country revealing itself a little too loudly for her liking. If Freddy did remarry, his new wife would become the mistress of Fallworth Manor and Nicholas’s care would become her responsibility, and not Moira’s. Should Moira fail to take this Season, she might find herself without purpose at Fallworth, with no real place and nothing but endless and lonely days to fill. Having Aunt Agatha state it with her usual bluntness didn’t help ease her concerns. Neither did seeing Mr Dyer again.
She frowned at the memory of Mr Dyer rather than the tilting flower arrangement. When she’d crept along the hallway, her heart racing while she’d carried the weapon after hearing the raised voices downstairs, she’d never imagined it would be Mr Dyer she’d meet. Moira’s cheeks reddened at the memory of her aunt, in this very hall, laying out to him in blunt terms how his lack of station made him an unsuitable suitor. During her aunt’s tirade, Moira had stood by, unable to meet Mr Dyer’s eyes. With her father’s health failing, she hadn’t been willing to cause him more grief or to throw the house into further turmoil by defying him or her aunt.
Except her father was gone now and Mr Dyer had returned. The flicker of life which had been dormant for so long flared inside her, growing brighter at the thought of him.
He didn’t come here to court me. She walked back to the study to retrieve the pistol and return it to its box, trying to put the encounter, and his proposal, out of her head, but she couldn’t. What he’d told her, like his confession about his work, had changed everything she’d come to believe about him since their failed engagement.
In the study, Moira slid the pistol off the table and turned it over in her hands, admiring the fine scrollwork on the metal. Even after she’d treated him like a common thief, he’d had enough confidence in her to believe she could assist him with something as important as saving England.
I wonder if I could help him? It wasn’t her habit to deny anyone seeking her assistance, but she couldn’t involve herself in something like this. She’d returned to London to re-enter the world, not to entangle herself in the affairs of state, but if Mr Dyer was right, then even innocent diversions had the potential to embroil her in a great deal of danger.
No, I can’t get involved. Her place was here with her family, not out pursuing traitors. Turning on her heel, she made for upstairs. Helping Mr Dyer was a ludicrous idea and one she could not shake.
