My Fair Lord. Wilma Counts
apprehension.
* * * *
Jake Bolton, as he was known on the docks, knew immediately who the two men in fancy dress were as they approached him. After all, the Blakemoor town house, along with certain other homes and establishments frequented by persons found to be of interest, had been under discreet surveillance for several weeks. Even before so many government leaders had departed London for the journey to Vienna, the Foreign Office had learned of efforts to undermine England’s position, first at the ongoing discussions in Paris, then at the Congress of Vienna, by leaking information to other participants. The whole thing was a rather delicate matter, for it possibly involved some very prominent people. Besides the Earl of Blakemoor, there were the Marquis of Trentham, the Earl of Hitchens, and Baron de Richfield, all of whom—like Blakemoor, his son and his brother—had varying degrees of access to sensitive information. Moreover, as was the case with many a member of England’s aristocracy, these all had strong ties of family or property in France.
“I leave it up to you and Fenton, then, Bodwyn.” Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary, had said in his last meeting with his chief agents before setting off for Paris from which he would continue to Vienna. “I cannot have my hands tied by that wily Austrian knowing what we are planning at every turn. Not to mention that infernal Frenchman!”
Jake knew Castlereagh referred to Austria’s representative, Prince Metternich, and France’s Prince de Talleyrand. In recent diplomatic communiques and in negotiations in occupied Paris, these two had often seemed able to counter England’s proposals even before they were offered. The explanation was clear: a dangerous leak.
Lord Jacob Theodore Bodwyn, third son of the Duke of Holbrook, had not been pleased when the Duke of Wellington, his commanding officer in the Peninsula, then the military leader of occupation forces in Paris, had informed him that he was to be seconded to the Foreign Office in London.
“But, sir,” Jake had protested. “I’ve not been in England for ten years.”
“That is the point, Major. We need someone who can slip into position incognito.”
“Incognito? In England? Let’s not forget that I attended school at Winchester with some rather well-known sorts, and during my years at Oxford, I was hardly what one would call a faceless wallflower.”
“I know all about your proclivities for fast horses and fast women, but in India and on the Peninsula too, you proved able to slip into any number of disguises and God knows how many native speakers you managed to fool with your talent for languages and dialects.”
“But, sir, that was not in England.”
“Castlereagh and I feel sure you will manage it at home too. Look, Bodwyn, you are no longer that fresh-faced ensign—a mere boy—who showed up in my command in India in 1802. That scar alone has effected a change in your appearance and you’ve probably added a couple of inches as well as a stone or two of flesh on those bones. People see what they want to see—or what you tell them they are seeing.”
In a characteristic gesture, Jake ran a finger along the scar that ran from the hairline at his right temple to his chin, a souvenir of the first battle of Badajoz. It occurred to him that a broken nose, another souvenir—this one from an altercation with some partisans—had also altered his appearance a bit, along with the added height and weight. He nodded his reluctant acceptance of the assignment. “Yes, sir.”
That conversation had taken place in Paris in late May when Major Lord Jacob Bodwyn had been summoned to the palatial dwelling the Duke of Wellington had occupied on his triumphant entrance into the city. Now, three months later, Jake “Bolton” was indeed back in England after more than a decade abroad, but unable to make himself known to any of his family or friends. So far, he and the team had followed dozens of tips and leads, with little success in ferreting out even one spy, let alone what might be an elaborate network of them. What little progress they had made suggested that the purloined information was almost surely being transferred via shipping activities that had resumed between England and France almost before the ink was dry on Napoleon’s abdication document.
Hence, Major Lord Jacob Bodwyn’s presence on an English dock in the guise of an ordinary dockworker.
Now he watched with a blend of curiosity and annoyance as the two younger males of the Blakemoor household approached.
“Might we have a moment of your time?” one of them said.
Jake paused and lowered a heavy bundle to rest at his feet; he lifted his cap briefly and wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve, then and stood with hands on his hips. “Sir?”
“I am Viscount Heaton, Blakemoor’s son,” the same man said. “This is my brother, Lord Richard Parker.”
Jake removed his cap and bowed his head briefly. “Your lordships.” He put the cap back on and looked the speaker directly in the eye. “Somethin’ you need?”
“We should like to discuss a rather delicate proposition with you,” Gerald said.
“What kind o’ ‘proposition’?”
“Perhaps a matter of different employment for you,” Gerald said.
“Something better than hauling goods on a dock,” the other one said.
Jake hesitated, trying to think what they might have in mind. Were they recruiting more spies? If so, this was rather a crude approach. “I kinda like this job,” he said. “Ain’t bin here verra long. Jus’ makin’ me way.”
“May we at least discuss our offer?” the viscount said.
“We gits uh half hour fer the midday meal. The White Horse has a backroom.” Jake gestured away from the docks.
“Bolton!” An imperious voice called.
Jake picked up the heavy bundle, perched it on his shoulder, and muttered, “Ye’re gonna cost me my job.”
“The White Horse at midday,” the viscount said.
Jake returned to his work puzzled about this meeting and the one that would follow. What did these two have in mind? What might their appearance have to do with his own search for spies? Certainly it was highly unusual that a member of an earl’s family should appear on the docks at all. The sudden appearance of two members of a family that was possibly connected to his investigation could hardly be dismissed as mere coincidence. And why had they come to the docks accompanied by women? He dumped his burden on a barge near the pier and turned for the next load. He shrugged, refusing to waste any more energy on the matter now.
At noon, he entered the backroom of The White Horse, bending his head at the low doorway. A long wooden plank table in the room would have easily seated twelve, but there were only two people on the bench at one side, the viscount, and, to Jake’s surprise, one of the women. They had half-empty glasses of ale in front of them.
“I took the liberty of ordering your meal and a tankard,” the viscount said. “May I introduce my sister, Lady Henrietta.”
Jake removed his cap and bowed his head briefly in acknowledgement of the introduction. He slid onto the opposite bench and laid the cap on the table next to a wooden bowl of stew and a hunk of crusty bread. “Ma’am. I’m Jake Bolton.”
“Please. Have your lunch as we talk, Mr. Bolton,” she said. “We know your time is limited.” Her voice was soft, but firm; he thought he detected a note of nervousness, but no hint of haughtiness. An earl’s daughter nervous around a working man? Perhaps it was the strangeness of the situation. Her gray-green eyes seemed both compassionate and alert, and wisps of brown hair had escaped a plain straw bonnet. “Nice,” he thought, wishing her cloak were not so effective at covering what might be very interesting other aspects of her person.
Careful to keep to the character of the man of lower rank he was pretending to be, he broke off a chunk of the bread, dipped it in the stew, and shoved it into his mouth. He took a long swallow of the ale, wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve, then asked, “Well, now, Guv, what’s this