A Wicked Liaison. Christine Merrill

them, and Tony went back to his drink.

      As he sipped his whisky, he reached into his pocket to remove the letter and his reading glasses. He absently polished the spectacles on his lapel before putting them on, then settled his chin in his hands to read.

      Dear Uncle Anthony,

      We are so sorry that you were unable to attend the wedding. Your gift was more than generous, but it does not make up in my heart for your absence on my most happy of days. I hardly know what to say in thanks for this and so many other things you have done for my mother and me over the years. Since Father’s death, you have been like a second father to me, and my cousins say the same.

      It was good to see Mother finally marry again, and I am happy that Mr Wilson could be there to walk me down the aisle, but I cannot help but think you deserved the position more than he. I do not wish my marriage or my mother’s to estrange me from your company, for I will always value your wise counsel and your friendship.

      My husband and I will welcome your visit, as soon as you are able.

      Your loving niece, Jane

      Tony stopped to offer a prayer of thanks for the presence of Mr Wilson. His sister-in-law’s discovery of Mr Wilson, and marriage to same, had stopped in its tracks any design she might have had to see Tony standing at the altar in a capacity other than loving brother or proud uncle.

      Marriage to one of his brothers’ widows might have been expedient, since he had wished to involve himself financially and emotionally in the raising of their children, but the idea always left him feeling squeamish. Not an emotion he sought, when viewing matrimony. Seeing the widows of his two elder brothers well married, in a way that did not leave him legshackled to either of them, had been a load off his troubled brow.

      And the wedding of young Jane was another happy incident, whether he could be there to attend or no. With the two widows and only niece comfortably remarried, all to gentlemen that met his approval, he had but to worry about the boys.

      And, truth be told, there was little to worry about from either of his nephews, the young earl or his brother. Both were settled at Oxford, with their tuitions paid in full for the duration of their stay. The boys were sensible and intelligent, and appeared to be growing into just the sort of men that he could wish for.

      And it left Tony—he looked at the letter in front of him. It left him extraneous. He had hoped, when at last he saw the family set to rights, to feel a rush of elation. He was free of responsibility and the sole master of his own life. Now that the time had come, it was without joy.

      With no one to watch over, just what was he to do with his time? Over the years, he had invested wisely for the family as well as for himself, and his forays into crime had been less and less necessary and more a relief from the boredom of respectability.

      Now that he lacked the excuse that there were mouths to feed and no money in the bank, he must examine his motivations and face the fact that he was no better than the common criminals around him. He had no reason to steal, save the need to feel the life coursing through him when he hung by drainpipes and window sills, fearing detection, disgrace or, worst of all, incarceration, and knowing every move could be his last.

      No reason save one, he reminded himself. There was a slight movement in the heavy air as the door to the tavern opened and St John Radwell, Earl of Stanton, entered and strode purposefully towards the table.

      Tony slipped the letter back into his pocket and tried not to appear too eager to have employment. ‘You are late.’ He raised his glass to the earl in a mocking salute.

      ‘Correction. You are early. I am on time.’ Stanton clapped Tony on the shoulder, took the seat that Edgar had vacated, and signalled the barman for a whisky. St John’s smile was mocking, but held the warmth of friendship that was absent from others Tony typically met while doing business.

      ‘How are things in the War Department?’

      ‘Not so messy as they were on the battlefield, thank the Lord,’ responded St John. ‘But still not as well as they could be.’

      ‘You have need of my services?’ Tony had no wish to let the man see how much he needed the work, but he itched to do something to take away the feeling of unease he experienced as he read the letter. Anything which might make him feel needed again.

      ‘I do indeed. Lucky for you, and most unlucky for England. We have another bad one. Lord Barton, known to his companions as Jack. He’s been a naughty boy, has Jack. He has friends in high places, and is not afraid to use those connections to get ahead.’

      ‘Dealing with the French?’ Anthony tried not to yawn.

      St John grinned. ‘Better than that. Jack is no garden-variety traitor. He prefers to keep his crimes within the country. Recently, a young gentleman from the Treasury Department, while in his cups and gaming in the company of Lord Barton, managed to lose a surprising amount of money very quickly. Young men often do, when playing with Barton.’

      ‘Does he cheat?’ Tony asked.

      ‘I doubt he would balk at it, but that is not why the Treasury Department needs your help. The clerk’s efforts to win back what he had lost went as well as could be expected. He continued to gamble and lost even more. Soon he was facing utter ruin. Lord Barton applied pressure and convinced the man to debase himself further still, to clear his debt. He delivered to Barton a set of engraving plates for the ten-pound note. They were flawed and going to be destroyed, but they are near enough to perfect to make the notes almost undetectable.’

      ‘Counterfeiting?’ Tony could not but help admire the audacity of the man, even as he longed to ruin his plans.

      St John nodded. ‘The clerk regretted his act almost immediately, but it was too late. Barton is now in a perfect position to destabilise the currency for his own benefit.’

      ‘And you need me to steal your plates back.’

      ‘You will be searching his home for an excessive number of ten-pound notes, paper, inks and, most especially, those plates. Use your discretion. Your utmost discretion, actually. This must not become a public scandal, but it must end immediately, before he begins circulating the money. We wish to break him quickly and quietly, so as not to upset the banks or the exchange.’

      The earl dropped a full purse on the table. ‘As usual, half in advance and half when the job is completed. Feel free to take an additional payment from the personal wealth of Barton and any associates you might need to search. He has homes in London and Essex. But it has been less than a week since the theft. I doubt he has had time to get the plates out of the city.’ As an afterthought, Stanton added, ‘You had best search his mistress’s home, as well.’

      ‘A criminal’s mistress?’ Tony grinned. ‘You are sending me off to search the perfumed boudoir of some notorious courtesan? And paying me for the privilege.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I fear what may become of me, if I am discovered by her. I had no idea that government service would hold such hardship.’

      St John sighed with mock-aggravation. ‘I doubt there will be any such threat to your dubious virtue, Smythe. The lady is of good character, or was until Barton got his hooks into her. The widow of a peer. It is a shame to see such an attractive young thing consort with the likes of Jack. But one never knows.’ He scrawled an address down on a scrap of paper. ‘Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Wellford. Constance Townley.’

      Tony felt the earth lurch under him, as it always did when her name rose unexpectedly in a conversation. But this time, it was compounded by a thrill of horror at hearing it in the current context.

      Oh, my God, Connie. What has become of you?

      He took a careful swallow of the whisky before speaking. Any hoarseness in his voice could be attributed to the harsh spirit in his glass. ‘The loveliest woman in London.’

      ‘So they say,’ St John responded. ‘The second-loveliest, perhaps. She is a particular friend of my wife and I’ve often had the opportunity to compare them.’

      ‘Night