The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

Chapter Four

London, six weeks later...

Lord Fennimore’s message had come in the middle of the night, summoning all the King’s Elite to his study immediately. Seb arrived at the same moment his friend Flint did and the pair of them were none the wiser as to why. Another man was sat alone next to Fennimore’s desk. Tall and blond, he introduced himself as Hadleigh, treated them both to a very firm handshake and explained he had been appointed the Crown Prosecutor for their particular case, although why they needed a lawyer when they had no new or living suspects at present was a mystery. The last had been ruthlessly murdered by the same man who had shot Seb before meeting his own maker. Since then, all the leads in the Boss’s extensive smuggling network had led to nothing but dead ends.

‘There has been a development.’ Never one for preamble, their superior stalked into the room and handed out three sheets of foolscap. ‘We have intercepted a message which gives us two new names. If they are to be believed, then it seems the Earl of Camborne apparently controls the operation in Cornwall and Devon, and Viscount Penhurst holds sway over the Sussex coastline. It is the first credible lead we have received since our recent obliteration of the Thames contingent and I am inclined to take it seriously. It makes sense they would divert his entire operation to the south. Whilst it’s a longer journey across the Channel, it’s also sparsely patrolled by the Excise Men. Certainly, the amounts of contraband do not appear to have diminished in the last two months and, as we’ve long suspected, the Boss has merely adjusted his supply chain to accommodate the loss of the estuary route. There is also mounting evidence that the majority of proceeds are still headed to Napoleon’s supporters. The message was signed Jessamine—a common enough French name—but makes mention of the Comte de St-Aubin-de-Scellon who conveniently happens to be one of the most sycophantic of Bonaparte’s cronies. Such a link is too coincidental not to be of grave cause for concern. It also suggests that St-Aubin is keen to raise the amount of barrels of brandy that are entering the country illegally, when the black market is already flooded with them. The amounts of money involved do not bear thinking about, but if he is successful they are certainly enough to raise an army.’

‘It’s a big risk taking the word of one intercepted message.’ Flint said exactly what Seb was thinking. A smuggler’s word could rarely be trusted, even in a coded note. Yet they also knew the Boss used members of the British aristocracy to sell on the cargoes. Seb’s gut instinct told him there was no smoke without fire and these two peers definitely needed investigating.

‘Perhaps—but early intelligence suggests the information is sound. Certainly, both Camborne and Penhurst have recently enjoyed a significant lift in their previously ailing fortunes, both are well connected and both have estates which abut the shoreline.’

‘I agree. There are too many coincidences for us to ignore it.’ And Seb was chomping at the bit to get back in the field now that he was as fit as a fiddle. ‘I can have my men tracking the beaches by tomorrow night.’ Already his mind was racing through the logistics. Two simultaneous missions left the King’s Elite spread very thin.

‘I know Camborne. Our fathers were friends,’ said Flint, all business.

‘Which is exactly why I’m sending you home to rusticate in Cornwall. Infiltrate his circle and learn the lay of the land.’ Fennimore turned abruptly to Seb. ‘And I want you to befriend Penhurst.’

Seb commanded the Invisibles. Highly skilled operatives who lived in the shadows and watched. He preferred to blend in and never stand out. Never, ever stand out. ‘I don’t befriend people.’

‘This time you do.’

‘With all due respect, sir, Warriner is back from his honeymoon in three weeks. Wouldn’t it be better to wait for him? We have always worked to our own strengths. You, yourself, selected us based on them and he’s the one with the talent for befriending.’ Jake Warriner oozed charm and enjoyed society. Basically, he was the exact opposite of Seb. ‘Meanwhile, I can lay the groundwork. Infiltrate his staff.’

‘I’m well aware of his areas of expertise, Leatham, but we don’t have three weeks. Penhurst is hosting a house party for his friends in less than a fortnight and I need you to be there. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. You can poke around the grounds and pay close attention to the man and his comings and goings. Your particular area of expertise.’

Lord Fennimore had clearly gone mad. ‘And how exactly am I supposed to befriend a total stranger and secure an invitation to his house in just two weeks?’ They all knew Seb had no standing in the ton. He’d always avoided it, for obvious reasons. He was a completely unknown entity and blissfully content to remain so. Stepping foot into the same elevated ranks as his father would make Seb uneasy. He hated the nagging doubts that went alongside not being born good enough and really didn’t need a reminder of his place in the world. He felt his hand automatically trace the scar on his cheek, the reward he had received the last time he’d openly set foot in Mayfair. Since that day, he had remained resolutely in the shadows where he belonged. ‘I know no one.’

‘Which makes you perfect for the mission. One thing we do know about the Boss is he likes his minions to recruit like-minded fellows into his network. He relies on that ready and waiting line of succession to slot in when the others fall by the wayside.’ A very polite way of saying those that displeased the as-yet-unidentified master of the dangerous organised smuggling ring, or had ceased to be useful to him, tended to wind up dead. ‘We’ve created an alias for you. Lord Sebastian Millcroft—originally from Lancashire because we all know few in society venture further north than is absolutely necessary and there won’t be enough time to check your credentials. But even if they have knowledge of the area, your family were minor gentry at most. You emigrated with them to the Antipodes as a babe, where they promptly died and left you to flounder by yourself. Only recently are you returned to English soil, your pockets stuffed with the huge fortune you have made on the other side of the globe from slightly dubious means, seeking interesting investment opportunities now that you are finally home.’ Fennimore pulled open the drawer in his desk and withdrew a pile of books. ‘Reading material to aid you in embellishing your new history.’

Seb stared at them with distaste. Not so much because of the reading, but because what Fennimore was proposing involved socialising. With peers. And ladies. Lots of ladies. He’d much rather be shot again. ‘But, sir...’

Fennimore held up his hand. ‘You make your first appearance in society tonight. As the honoured guest of the Earl of Upminster. He has been briefed on your mission and will give credence to your new identity. Penhurst will be in attendance and Upminster will introduce you. From there, it will be down to you. I trust you to do your duty and get into the man’s house!’

Seb looked to Flint for support, but his friend merely grinned. ‘I wish I could be there to see it.’ Because they both knew it would be carnage.

‘Hadleigh here has been drafted in so that we can act swiftly if and when the pair of you gather enough evidence for their arrests. We don’t want either to invoke Privilege of Peerage and avoid trial. As soon as we have proof of treason, Hadleigh will race through impeachment proceedings and have them stripped of their titles. Time is of the essence here, gentleman. If we work fast, we could make some serious inroads into the Boss’s supply lines. They have no idea we have intercepted the message. Within a few hours of receiving it, it arrived safely at its destination with the recipient none the wiser. As far as Penhurst and Camborne are concerned, it’s business as usual. For now, we watch and we wait. When we take them down, I want it to hurt the Boss significantly. I don’t want one packet or twenty. I want to obliterate his stronghold in the south just as we did the Thames. In the meantime, Hadleigh will assist me in scrutinising all aspects of their lives here in town and see if we can find out how they are moving the money while my two best men discover exactly how they make it.’

Seb didn’t share his superior’s faith in his abilities. ‘Perhaps there is another way I can get inside Penhurst’s house. Big estates always need workers. That is how I’ve always operated before.’ Playing the servant was much more Seb’s style. Working men, their aspirations and their mindset, he understood. Aristocrats, in the main, were a complete mystery.

‘Jobs for your Invisibles, Leatham. I need my most trusted field agents shadowing the ringleaders.’

‘But I don’t have anything to wear!’ Had that pathetic sentence just come out of his mouth? Judging by the bark of laughter from his supposed friend on his right, it had. As excuses went, even forlorn, last-hope excuses, Seb was prepared to acknowledge that one had been pretty dire. The King’s Elite had all been meticulously selected for their resourcefulness and adaptability. Two attributes he had always possessed in spades. As did his superior.

Lord Fennimore pinned him with an icy glare that would curdle milk. ‘Your attire has been taken care of. I assumed your measurements are much the same as they were last December when we had that footman’s uniform made for you and your fancy wardrobe should be winging its way to your new lodgings as we speak.’

‘New lodgings?’ Things were going from bad to worse. Seb liked his secluded little apartment in Cheapside, sandwiched between the rich and poor of London. It was the perfect place to blend in and to escape from his work. Like him, it fitted somewhere in between both classes so he didn’t have to pretend to be one or the other. Which he wasn’t and never would be. Unease began to churn away in his belly. With his background, surely Lord Fennimore wouldn’t...

‘Of course you have new lodgings! You’re supposed to be in possession of a huge fortune. A fortune to lure money-grabbing criminals to crawl out of the woodwork! You have full use of a town house in Grosvenor Square.’

Still Mayfair, but at least not Berkeley Square. That was a little too close to his past for comfort. Then the perfect excuse struck him. ‘And what if my dear brother sees me?’

‘Thetford? He hasn’t clapped eyes on you in what? Fifteen years?’ Almost to the day. Seb still remembered his mother being evicted from the hunting lodge on his father’s estate just hours after the man had been declared dead. His long and terrifying journey to Mayfair alone to plead for their home. He’d been a boy. Only thirteen. His childhood had come to a shuddering halt soon after, but he had learned a valuable lesson. A man of his status could never trust the aristocracy. ‘I doubt he’d know you if you spat in the fool’s eye. It’s hardly as if you were close. I hate to be callous, Leatham, but with men like that, it is most assuredly a case of out of sight, out of mind. To him you no longer exist. You ceased to exist the day he inherited his title. Besides, he left town yesterday and is not expected back until September. I pride myself in foreseeing every potential complication, Leatham. You know that. Many of the house staff have been replaced with some of your own men as I knew you’d want them close by. I’ve even made Gray your valet.’

‘Why can’t Gray be Lord Millcroft?’ As a real lord, albeit a disgraced and impoverished one, his second-in-command was much better qualified.’

‘Gray doesn’t have your years of experience or your level head. This job requires both. It is too important to palm off on a subordinate.’ Lord Fennimore wound the wire frames of his reading spectacles around his ears and picked up a piece of paper, his usual signal that the meeting was done. ‘Get yourself to Grosvenor Square and begin your preparations, Leatham. And shave off that damn beard. That’s an order.’

Sensing his discomfort, Flint patted him on the back. ‘This is no different from pretending to be a groom or a docker or a bare-knuckle fighter. You have always been a chameleon, Seb. Once you’re wearing the clothes, the character will come to you as it always does. Remember that time you posed as a French Chef de Bataillon? Your accent and manner were so flawless, your new regiment were too scared to question why their previous commanding officer had suddenly disappeared. You did that for three weeks undiscovered! If you can pose as a foreign officer undetected, then an English toff will be child’s play. Nobody expects you to be the life and soul. They expect you to be rich and heartless. Your customary silence will be interpreted as haughty disdain. Trust me, you’ll be admired for it. Simply stand straight, look down your nose at everyone and be free with your money.’

‘It couldn’t hurt to make the odd disparaging remark about taxation and the royal family either.’ This came from Hadleigh. ‘Those scoundrels will lap that up.’

Seb felt sick. Trapped and, for the first time in years, completely out of his depth.

‘Why are you all gossiping like old women? We have a job to do.’ Fennimore’s eyes narrowed. ‘Make haste, gentlemen! Your country needs you.’

* * *

The Duke of Westbridge’s name was pencilled in for the second waltz. The final dance of the evening. Clarissa had made sure of that the moment she had stepped into the ballroom, wearing another of her daring new gowns. Gowns which no fresh-faced debutante would dare wear. Age did have its advantages, and, imbued with her renewed sense of purpose, she was jolly well going to utilise it. The red was bold—purposefully so, because Lady Olivia wore pastels—and enviably stylish and form-fitting. The single red rose woven into her curls was a mischievous touch, because Lady Olivia staunchly wore the family tiara to every event, letting everyone know she came along with plenty of money. The deep-red petals popping against Clarissa’s blonde hair gave her an air of casual confidence, which was far more alluring than the call of money—and she thumbed her nose at her Duke and his now staunchly pink weekly bouquets.

Her lack of jewellery continued below her chin. Instead of hiding her skin under chunky necklaces, she now showed more of it. The plain gown was cut low at the front, lower still at the back, and the small capped sleeves hung tantalisingly off her shoulders. Every male head had turned as she had sailed through the door, including her Duke’s, yet she had still had to go to him to receive any sort of greeting. That slight grated, but she ignored it because he had wrapped her arm around his possessively and spent several minutes telling her about his week as they stood in full view next to the refreshment table. Even more pleasing, he insisted she accompany him while he went to talk to his cronies, leaving the furious Lady Olivia silently seething on the other side of the dance floor.

As the men excluded her to discuss gentlemanly things, Clarissa happily drifted to the edge of the group to stand with some of their ladies. Lady Penelope, Viscountess Penhurst, was her oldest and dearest friend. They had come out together, then become inseparable. That was before Penny had married and become far too busy with her new life in the country to engage overmuch with society. Clarissa saw her in town maybe two or three times a year now, but regularly visited her in Sussex. They always picked up exactly where they left off. As a married lady, Penny also acted as her friend’s chaperon whenever possible, something which gave Clarissa significantly more freedom than she enjoyed with her over-protective parents at home. Freedom she needed to secure her Duke.

‘I cannot believe Westbridge has still not offered for you,’ Penny said quietly behind her fan. ‘The way he has been dragging his feet and flirting with that Spencer chit makes my blood boil.’

It made Clarissa’s boil, too. Though the anger felt considerably better than the sadness which she had initially experienced at his indecisiveness. Where the sadness had made her run and hide, the anger spurred her to fight fire with fire. For six weeks, she had waged war against the simpering younger usurper who threatened to ruin her one chance at happiness, outcharming, outflirting and outshining the young woman at every event they attended.

The Duke of Westbridge couldn’t ignore her. Clarissa had made sure of that. She was always in his line of sight. Front and centre in his mind. ‘When I have him all to myself in a few weeks, I intend to change that.’ Out of the bonds of loyalty, Lady Olivia had not received an invitation to Penelope’s forthcoming house party, which gave Clarissa five days to force the issue before the Duke retired to the country for the summer. If the initial gentle hints did not work, she fully intended to issue him with an ultimatum. A stark one. If he failed to put a ring on her finger before he left, then Clarissa was determined to walk away and find another protector to hide her failings behind. An older gentleman or a less impressive younger peer who would be easily impressed by her connections. Unaccomplished Incomparables couldn’t be choosy. Any husband was better than none and once they were married he’d be stuck with her and duty-bound to keep her secrets.

Obviously, she sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Without the constant physical reminder of the younger Incomparable, she planned to reacquaint the Duke with all the reasons why he was first attracted to her—but enough was enough. A stand had to be made for the sake of her own sanity and for her tenuous reputation. If Westbridge didn’t want her, then she would have to swiftly find a suitable peer who did. By hook or by crook, she fully intended to be a married woman by Christmas. In the New Year she was twenty-four and the sad shelf of spinsterhood loomed on the horizon. Besides, all this additional effort was wearing her out and her poor nerves were so frayed by the constant and growing fear of her secret being discovered, she was coming to doubt they would ever return to normal.

‘About that...’ Penelope couldn’t meet her eye. ‘Penhurst has insisted she come. I had to send Lady Olivia an invitation this morning. I’ve already received her acceptance.’

The floor suddenly whipped from beneath her feet, all Clarissa could do was gape. ‘But you promised, Penny!’

‘I know I did and I feel awful, but Westbridge specifically asked my husband to include her and, as his friend, my husband refused to hear my arguments. You know Penhurst can be a beastly tyrant when riled.’

As Clarissa had seen the occasional bruises on her gentle friend’s arms which were testament to that fact, she took pity on her. She’d never liked Penhurst, not from the outset, and had cautioned her friend not to accept his proposal all those years ago. As her dear papa had always said, a man who has to resort to raising his hand to a woman was no man and Penny’s dictatorial viscount was everything Clarissa despised. A pompous, selfish, nasty bully. On more than one occasion, she had prayed for her friend’s early widowhood and would continue to do so until Penhurst was mouldering in the ground. ‘It doesn’t matter, Penny.’ But it did. She would have to rethink all her plans now. ‘I know you tried your best and it’s nothing catastrophic that cannot be fixed.’ The simpering Lady Olivia might miraculously find her own gentleman in the interim and leave Clarissa’s in peace.