Mistress by Midnight. Nicola Cornick

ran a hand through his hair. “It is a pity that Farne saw you. He may start asking awkward questions. And he’s a dangerous man to cross. He worked for the War Office for years when he was in exile.”

      “As a translator,” Merryn said dismissively. “It’s hardly the front line.”

      “It is when you are translating between the British and the Spanish guerrillas,” Tom said dryly. “One might as well live on a powder keg. Farne was, and still is, a famed swordsman, a crack shot—” He stopped. “Sorry, that was tactless of me.” He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a file.

      “I have found out a little more information,” he said. “I checked out the seconds at the so-called duel. Farne’s second was a man called Gabriel Finch. He went to Australia as a curate. And your brother’s second was Chuffy Wallington and we all know what happened to him.”

      “He drank himself to death,” Merryn said. “I remember Chuffy. He was a frightful soak.”

      “Easily bought off, I expect,” Tom said. “As for the doctor, he is locked up in the Fleet prison for debt. I might well pay him a discreet visit.”

      “I’ll go,” Merryn said. “He will be more likely to talk to me.”

      “Possibly not,” Tom said, “when he knows who you are.” He closed the file softly. “I have to admit,” he said, “that it looks very bad for Farne. Three shots, two bullets, one in the back … Reports suppressed and rewritten, witnesses disappearing, no doubt paid off … And he runs away abroad and then his father fixes it all with the authorities so that he never has to stand trial and can come home a decade later with everything forgiven and forgotten …” Tom shook his head. He paused. “Perhaps we should reconsider. We’re stirring up a lot of trouble. All this was buried years ago. People won’t like it.”

      Merryn shivered. A little ripple of anticipation mingled with apprehension fluttered down her spine.

      “I’m not giving up now,” she said. “I want to know the truth and I want Farne to face justice. But if he finds out …”

       If Farne finds out there will be hell to pay …

      She remembered the ruthlessness she had sensed in Garrick Farne the moment she saw him. Tom had been right: he was no ineffectual scholar, he was a man with a dangerous past.

      Tom was watching her face.

      “You had better make sure he does not find out,” he said, “but if you are too scared to do it—”

      His tone was all the incentive Merryn needed.

      “No,” she said. “No, I will do it. It will be my pleasure.”

       CHAPTER THREE

      “I HAVE FOUND YOU an inquiry agent, your grace, Hammond by name.” Pointer, his nose twitching in a manner that indicated that he could not quite believe how low he had stooped, stood back to allow the ingress of a man into the library at Farne House. The late autumn evening was already drawing in, darkness dropping over the streets of London and creeping into the room. Garrick had forced himself to work for another four hours on the Farne estate papers, acquainting himself with all the dependents on the Dukedom, all the pensions to be paid, the widows and orphans, the servants, estate workers, the whole panoply of his fiefdom. It was terrifying how many people depended upon him.

      Despite the presence of a full branch of candles the room looked gloomy and bare, the bookshelves standing like sentinels. Garrick stood up and stretched, only now aware of how stiff he had become poring over the books for hours on end. He shook the newcomer by the hand and gestured him to a chair. The long mirror that stretched along one wall reflected back their images. It was easy to see why Pointer disapproved, Garrick thought. In the butler’s eyes the visitor would be categorized as most definitely not a gentleman. There was about him an indefinable air of seediness. It seemed soaked into his person, from the battered hat he held in his hand to the world-weary expression in his deep-set gray eyes to the cut of his clothes. He was the type of man Garrick had met on many occasions in his work in the Peninsular—the fixer, the intelligence man, for sale to the highest bidder, exactly the man Garrick needed now.

      “Mr. Hammond,” he said. “How do you do?”

      “Your grace.” The man did not bow. It was more a meeting of equals, Garrick thought. He needed a service Hammond could provide and the inquiry agent saw no need to be deferential.

      “A drink?” Garrick offered. “Brandy?”

      “Not on duty, thank you, your grace.”

      That, Garrick thought, argued a certain discipline. He nodded. “You will excuse me if I do?”

      Hammond’s smile indicated that he recognized this was merely a courtesy. He sat in one of the large wing chairs before the fire, his hat on his knee, politely waiting for Garrick to state his business. Garrick poured for himself—no sense in summoning Pointer simply to perform that function, although no doubt the butler would feel he should have preserved the formalities—and took the chair opposite, crossing one ankle over the other. Mr. Hammond raised an interrogative brow. Garrick paused, chose his words with care.

      “I need you to find a lady for me, Mr. Hammond.”

      Hammond snapped open a notebook with such alacrity Garrick jumped.

      “Is she lost, your grace?”

      “No,” Garrick said. “What I should have said is that I need you to identify a lady for me.”

      “Ah,” Hammond said. “Semantics.”

      “Quite,” Garrick said, warming to him. “There is a lady I have met, I do not know her name and I want you to find her and tell me who she is.”

      Hammond nodded. “Description?”

      “Small, fair-haired, blue-eyed …” Garrick struggled. A pocket goddess, beautifully rounded, soft, smooth skin, vivid blue eyes, hair like a tumble of golden corn …

      Get a grip on yourself, he ordered himself.

      “Age?” Hammond’s sharp gray gaze was unblinking.

      “Twenty-five,” Garrick said, “or so she told me.”

      Hammond nodded. “And you met …”

      “Here,” Garrick said. “She broke into my house last night. Or rather,” he corrected himself, “I believe she might have been staying here for a little time.”

      “Lady Merryn Fenner,” Hammond said.

      Garrick blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

      “Lady Merryn Fenner,” the inquiry agent repeated. “Sister to Joanna, Lady Grant, and Teresa, Lady Darent, and daughter of the late Earl of Fenner. Your grace.”

      Lady Merryn Fenner.

      Garrick felt as though someone had emptied a bucket of ice down his back. The woman he lusted for, the wraith who haunted his thoughts, was Stephen Fenner’s youngest sister. In a flash he remembered the initials in the copy of Mansfield Park, the entwined M and F. He remembered her eyes and saw the vivid blue of Stephen’s.

      “How the devil,” he said slowly, “did you know? There must be a hundred small, fair, twenty-five-year-old ladies in London. Two hundred. A thousand.”

      Hammond permitted himself a small, wintry smile that was nevertheless full of satisfaction. “Aye, your grace. Normally it would take me—” he paused “—oh, at least a day to come up with that information. But Lady Merryn Fenner works for Tom Bradshaw and we like to keep an eye on his business.” He waited, then as Garrick looked blank: “Bradshaw the inquiry agent, your grace. A rival company.” For a moment Garrick thought Hammond was about to spit but he clearly thought better of it in the ducal library. “Bradshaw’s a cocky