The Mysterious Lord Millcroft. Virginia Heath

a kitten. He’d never been much of a drinker and thanks to his injury hadn’t touched a drop in a month. Was it any wonder the strong spirit had gone straight to his head? ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to tell you that. I think those brandies have loosened my tongue. I’m not normally this chatty. Usually I’m shy around females. Painfully shy. I don’t suppose a fine lady like yourself would understand what that’s like, but aside from my mother I never really knew any women growing up... Why am I admitting that?’ It hadn’t just loosened his tongue, apparently it had also greased his jaws.

      ‘By the time I was grown I had no clue what women to go for. Being a by-blow you sort of sit on the fence between the two. I am neither a gentleman nor a peasant. I have nothing in common with the uneducated women and I have no experience of the merchant class, so never really understood where a man in my position hunts for women. And so many look down their nose at my situation, it’s rather put me off trying. Do you know, I can’t even flirt? Never dared try it.’ Largely because he didn’t want to suffer the inevitable reaction when they learned he was nothing better than a rich man’s bastard.

      Her multicoloured head leant closer. ‘Are you telling me that you have never...?’ Her words trailed off as her perfect cheeks blushed.

      ‘No! Of course not. There have been a few women, but fortunately, every woman has seduced me. Thank goodness. Else I’d be hurtling towards thirty with no experience whatsoever.’ Seb started to laugh at his own ineptitude. ‘The first time, I was so green I didn’t realise what was going on until I found myself in her bedroom. Probably shouldn’t have told you that either, but I’m very tired.’ He could feel his limbs getting heavier with fatigue and suspected he would sleep like a baby for the rest of the night. Lord, he was exhausted. So weary he could barely see straight. All she had to do was ask and he probably would confess all his secrets.

      Yet sat here with her in the candlelight, his tongue blessedly untied for once, admitting to his shameful lineage and his failings had been surprisingly easy. With her hair poking out of her head in rainbow tufts, jam stains on the front of her nightdress and one unnoticed sticky lump glued just above her lip, the Gem didn’t seem half as terrifying as she had before. There was something endearingly normal about her now and somehow he found this version far more attractive than he did the other incarnation. This woman was real. Vulnerable and much more accessible. Despite the pull of Morpheus, he wanted to spend more time with her. ‘Why do you want to marry a duke? Their privilege and upbringing make them very difficult men.’

      She inhaled deeply, then sighed it out, perching herself on the edge of the chair directly opposite him while she considered whether or not to answer. Then she shrugged. ‘He’s a duke.’

      ‘Who clearly makes you miserable.’

      ‘Why do you say that?’

      ‘Because I might be hopeless with women, but I notice things, Gem. Every time his name came up in conversation today, your smile wasn’t genuine.’ At least the brandy had numbed the pain even though Seb had to concentrate to keep his eyes open.

      ‘Dukes are fickle things.’

      ‘That they are. But they are still men.’ And untrustworthy ones at that.

      She swayed closer, within arm’s reach as she listened intently to his words. With staggering clarity considering his progressively inebriated state, and his increasingly heavy eyelids, he knew she had lost her confidence. Something which was as mind boggling as it was tragic. ‘Stop giving him power over you. Don’t let his elevated social standing and inflated sense of his own importance diminish what you are.’ Wise words he had tried, yet still failed, to live by. His hand stretched out and touched her cheek. It was soft. So soft. Absolute perfection. Her eyes lifted to his and they shared what he thought was a perfect moment. One he ruined with a huge, noisy yawn.

      She immediately stood up, her lovely face etched with concern. ‘You do look very tired, Mr Leatham. Shall I fetch someone to help you back up to bed?’

      He couldn’t face stairs. Not yet. And certainly not in front of her. ‘I think I’ll sleep here.’ In case she pushed the point, Seb stretched his long legs along the full length of the sofa and rested his weary head on the arm. It felt exactly like a cloud. ‘But I wouldn’t say no to a blanket.’ His eyes fluttered closed as he heard her moving around to get one, then enjoyed the sensation of her gently draping it over his body and tucking him in. ‘Are you sure you won’t read to me?’

      ‘Quite sure. Goodnight, Mr Leatham.’

      ‘Goodnight, Gem.’

      As she stepped away he grabbed her hand and tugged her closer until she kneeled at his temporary bedside, needing to look at her one last time without the usual awkwardness which always crippled him and wanting to chase away the uncertainty she was trying so desperately to hide. Possessed with a mind of its own, his suddenly bold, drunk index finger traced the shape of her lips.

      ‘You are a beautiful woman, Gem. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You are sharp and funny and hugely entertaining.’ He probably shouldn’t have confessed that truth either, knowing she’d likely use it against him in the morning when the Dutch courage had worn off and he was back to being shy again, but right now he didn’t care. ‘Any man, even a duke, would be lucky to have you. Don’t forget that. If he cannot see all the wonderful things you are, then he is also a fool and doesn’t deserve you.’

      The sunny smile which blossomed on her face had a similar effect to the brandy, making him glad he was lying down. ‘Thank you, Mr Leatham.’ She stroked his whiskers with her palm, then stood and blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. ‘I shall try to remember that.’

      The last thing Seb heard was the quiet swish of her nightgown as she left the room. But when he woke to bright daylight and the bustling noise of household activity, the Gem, her ridiculous hair rags and the carriage she had come in were gone.

       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,