My Favorite Marquess. Alexandra Bassett

she is not the type to endure hardship for any length of time—these merchant cits are deplorably dependent upon modern comforts in their abodes. She will doubtless flee the place at the first sign of hardship.”

      “And if she doesn’t?”

      Sebastian gave his companion a rather devilish smile. “Then I will have to ensure that during her brief visit to Cornwall she encounters plenty of trouble.”

      “More trouble is all we need.”

      Both men sobered as their thoughts turned to the current political scene. For a while it had seemed that with Napoleon exiled on Elba, Europe’s problems would soon be over. But here it was, almost a year later, and negotiations at the Congress were still ongoing. Not to mention, rumors abounded that in France the tide was turning against the King and antiforeigner sentiment was running high.

      Now Sebastian would have to waste valuable time ensuring that Violet Treacher did not interfere with the smuggler’s network operating near, and sometimes actually on, her property so that they could continue to receive such reports from France. His contact in Cornwall, Jem, would have to be alerted that Trembledown was about to be inhabited.

      Cuthbert looked soberly at the stack of papers on his desk, including an intercepted letter that hinted of an existence of a spy loose in the country, code-named Nero.

      Nero had made himself odious to Cuthbert during many years of the war with France. More than one of Cuthbert’s men’s lives had been lost as a result of this traitor. But Nero’s activities had stopped with the sudden suicide of a certain nobleman whose uncle was in a position of some authority in the government. It had been assumed that said nobleman was Nero himself. Now, Cuthbert and Sebastian were wondering if they had been mistaken and Nero had only coincidentally stopped operations at the time of Lord Waring’s death. After all, it had only been a short while after the disappearance of Nero that Napoleon had surrendered.

      “The situation on the continent is very precarious, Sebastian. It’s more important now than ever that we have an ear to the ground and that we find out who this Nero is and what he could be up to now—you’ll remember he had an uncanny knack of nosing out vital information during the war. According to my sources, Nero has been instructed to head to your area and keep an eye out for a certain famed Cornish smuggler—one Robert the Brute!”

      “That is quite interesting. I believe I can safely say that if Nero comes anywhere near Montraffer, I shall be there, waiting for him.” Sebastian grinned. “Or rather, that blaggard Robert the Brute will be waiting.”

      Cuthbert shook his head. He and Sebastian did not always see eye to eye on the necessity of Sebastian’s traveling about in the disguise of a smuggler—not to mention cultivating such a reputation as a cutthroat—but he had to admit that Sebastian and his connections had garnered results for the country back in the days of the war. They had also garnered a cabinet well stocked with smuggled French brandy for both of them.

      “I wish you would inform the local authorities of what you are doing.”

      Sebastian shook his head. “What if Nero is one of the local authorities? There’s no knowing for sure that Nero isn’t already ensconced in the area. A man in uniform can turn traitor as easily as anyone else. More easily, sometimes.”

      “And what if one of these local constables finally takes it in his head to catch Robert the Brute?”

      “That is a risk I take,” Sebastian declared. “But I only take it knowing the inefficacy of the local constabulary as well as I do.”

      “Be careful there, Sebastian, and mind you don’t get sidetracked by the Treacher woman.”

      Sebastian laughed. “That is unlikely.”

      “Temptations abound in this work,” Cuthbert said, sounding decidedly curatelike. “Remember Lord Hawthorne? He was supposed to be gathering information in Paris and instead ended up besotted with an opera singer!”

      “You needn’t worry about anything of the kind happening to me.” Sebastian chuckled. “There are no opera singers in Widgelyn Cross.”

      Not to mention, Sebastian was nearly as averse to romantic entanglement as Cuthbert was. Especially to the type of woman—Mrs. Percy Treacher and the like—who would marry a man for his title, as his own mother had done. His parents had endured twenty gloomy years of unaffectionate matrimony before both had succumbed to rheumatic fever one winter while Sebastian was at university. Watching his father’s conjugal misery had made him determined never to marry himself. There were several St. Just cousins to assume the title when Sebastian’s time was up.

      He kept his relations with women strictly on a business level and managed to enjoy himself in his own reserved way. Sebastian was known to be dedicated to a life among the highest ton. He enjoyed a well-cut coat, a spectacular piece of horseflesh, and other amusements of society. He took inordinate pride in his homes, his privileges, and his duties as a peer. No one understood custom and noblesse oblige better than Sebastian Cavenaugh. He was well aware of his reputation as rather cold and standoffish. In fact, he cultivated it. It made it that much easier to enjoy the double life he had made for himself, which was not only stimulating work but of great use to his country.

      “A woman doesn’t have to be an opera singer to be a nuisance,” Cuthbert said.

      “Never fear, John. By the time I am through with her, Mrs. Treacher will be happy if she never sees Cornwall, smugglers, or a marquess ever again!”

      Chapter One

      As the carriage and four trundled through inky darkness over the rutted moors of Cornwall, Violet thought, and not for the first time, that this journey had stretched on too long. Far too long. Agonizingly long. They were to have reached Trembledown by nightfall, but the driver, Hal, seemed to have misjudged the distance. Now the inhabitants of the carriage—herself, her manservant Peabody, and her cousin Henrietta Halsop—were all cold, hungry, and on edge.

      Violet, of course, was managing to control her own travel fatigue in an exemplary fashion. (True, she had brought Hennie to tears by calling her a tiresome magpie, but that had been a full hour ago.) Peabody and Hennie, unfortunately, were showing no such restraint.

      “It’s so frightfully dark out!” cried Henrietta, releasing one of the dramatic moans that now seemed to come out of her with the regularity of the cuckooing of a Swiss clock. “Woe betide us all if we should be overtaken by Robert the Brute on this black night!”

      Exhibiting heroic courtesy, Violet turned toward the curtain of the carriage’s window so her cousin would not witness the extravagant rolling of her eyes. Hennie had been prattling on about this Robert the Brute character since they had left the last posting inn, a horrid little hole with no private parlors. There Hennie had tended to linger whilst eavesdropping on the conversation of the uncouth characters milling about. No doubt tales of this smuggler were greatly exaggerated for the benefit of an impressionable spinster. But such was the gullibility of her cousin.

      Yes, it was as dark as pitch, and the fact that the road was riddled with pits and stones did nothing to soothe anyone’s nerves inside the carriage. But smugglers? Really! Violet feared the only thing in danger of being overtaken this evening was what was left of Hennie’s feeble brain.

      Until recently, Hennie had resided with her great-aunt Matilda, a querulous woman who had been the greatest nipcheese of Yorkshire. When the old lady died shortly before Christmas, the family discovered that she had amassed a sizable fortune in the funds. While the house that they occupied had been entailed to her husband’s great-nephew, the majority of the money went to Hennie. Some said that Matilda had only so favored Hennie to spite the nephew who, having no notion that a fortune was in the offing, had failed to ever once visit or even so much as write Matilda since her husband’s death.

      Thus it was that the heretofore penniless spinster, who was fast approaching forty, while currently homeless, need never worry about finances again if she was careful. Hennie was so pathetically grateful that she had ordered an extensive mourning wardrobe and planned to spend