The Enigmatic Rake. Anne O'Brien

      ‘Marianne?’ His lordship’s voice was soft, dangerously so. ‘Our security was appallingly suspect when dealing with that lady. You may have conveniently forgotten the details. But I cannot.’

      ‘Marianne is dead!’ The slight flush along Wycliffe’s cheekbones might have hinted at embarrassment if one did not know him better. Lord Faringdon watched him with a sardonic twist to his mouth. His Majesty’s spy master clearly did not wish to prolong any discussion of Marianne, the lady who had once had the honour of being Lord Faringdon’s vivaciously attractive wife. ‘The most crucial matter, since you are so concerned with our next step, is that your value, in this investigation at least, has been destroyed.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘I think that you should go home.’ On firm ground again, Wycliffe relaxed and allowed himself a more generous smile. ‘Regain your strength. Pick up the reins of your life in England and let the dust of this particular storm settle. I will contact you when things become clearer here and we may see a way to using your services once more. Besides, if Bonaparte dies—and it is my understanding that his health is poor and declining—our work here will be at an end and we shall simply close down this operation. So, as you can appreciate, there is no reason why you should not return to London until the dust clears.’

      ‘I suppose I could.’ Lord Faringdon showed no particular enthusiasm. He made to cross one leg over the other, remembered and came to a halt, fingers digging into the screaming muscles of his hip. ‘It is true that I have a motherless daughter who will no longer recognise me if I stay away longer. It is over a year since I last saw her.’

      ‘Well, then. Go and see your family.’ Wycliffe leaned forward persuasively.

      ‘Very well. You have more confidence than I that I shall be made welcome. I fear that gossip and speculation has made free with my name. I have it on the best authority that my mother considers my remaining in Paris to be of considerable benefit to the family in general and herself in particular, so that she does not have to make excuses for the scandalous behaviour of the head of the family.’ His lips curled to show his teeth, but his eyes were cold and flat, accepting of the situation that he had himself created as a prerequisite for his present occupation. Brows raised in polite enquiry, he looked again at his employer. ‘How do you suggest that I explain my physical state—considering that I have been here on a private visit of debauchery and excess, and am now returning with an obviously incapacitating injury?’

      ‘Oh, that’s easy to explain.’ The main business out of the way since Lord Faringdon had, it would seem, agreed to leave Paris, Wycliffe rose to pour two glasses of port, one of which he carried over to his guest. ‘I am sure that you can concoct some tale of a jealous husband who disapproved of your attempts to seduce his young and innocent wife. Disapproved sufficiently to dissuade you with a show of force. As you say, you have a reputation that is not inconsiderable—such a tale will be accepted by all. And if you can see your way to it being spread around the fashionable drawing rooms …’

      ‘Why not?’ A jaundiced shrug and a bland expression signified agreement. ‘It is not a résumé that I would have chosen, but I should have expected no less. I suppose I will have to tolerate the fact that, given my injuries, the jealous husband was able to beat me to within an inch of my life. How ignominious!’ His laugh had a brittle edge. ‘But who am I to cavil at being branded a ravisher and seducer of innocent—or not so innocent—girls? Government service demands a high price indeed.’

      ‘The cause is great, Joshua.’ Wycliffe was not unsympathetic. ‘Your efforts will not go unrecognised or unrewarded.’

      ‘I am not looking for a reward. I believe in what we are attempting to achieve. A stable government in France—a democratic monarchy with no repetition of revolution or the overthrow of law and order to unsettle the peace of Europe. I need no reward if we achieve such an outcome.’

      ‘Then let us drink to our success.’ Wycliffe raised his glass and the two men drank.

      ‘I shall leave next week,’ Lord Joshua stated, his decision made.

      ‘Excellent! I expect that you will play the role with your usual panache. If I might make a suggestion?’

      ‘Well?’

      ‘I suggest that you take the Countess of Wexford with you. She will not be unwilling and will reinforce your cover—your, ah, libertine tendencies. I believe she has more than a tendre for you.’ Wycliffe’s tone was dry as he noted the glitter of suppressed temper in Lord Faringdon’s eyes. ‘It should give the town tabbies all the ammunition they need to destroy your character and mask any further queries concerning your sudden return or the reason for your incapacity. You can embroider on the situation and your liaison with the fair lady as you see fit. There will certainly be no difficulty in persuading her to accompany you. No one will question your arrival in London.’

      ‘No. But my family might question whether they wish to associate with me! The Countess of Wexford. God help me! A more voracious woman I have never had the misfortune to meet.’

      ‘But Olivia is very beautiful.’

      ‘As well as self-seeking, manipulative and unprincipled. She would like nothing better than to get her claws into me and her fingers on my purse-strings. You have given me a hard path to follow, sir.’

      ‘I have every confidence in you, Joshua.’ Wycliffe rose to his feet, intimating the end of the conversation. ‘Take Olivia Wexford with you.’ It was more command than advice.

      Lord Faringdon duly drained his glass and dragged himself to his feet, rescuing his cane, cursing as his limbs had stiffened.

      ‘On second thoughts …’ Wycliffe stretched out his hand, his frown deepening again. ‘About Marianne. I think that—’

      ‘No.’ The white shade around his lordship’s lips owed nothing to physical pain. His words and the manner of their delivery were harsh. ‘As you intimated so forcefully some few minutes ago, the subject of my wife is not up for discussion, Wycliffe.’

      ‘Even so—’

      ‘As you said, Marianne is dead.’

      ‘Very well.’ Wycliffe accepted the finality in the statement, if reluctantly. ‘I must wish you a speedy recovery, my lord. I know that you will do everything necessary to protect yourself. The identity of The Chameleon must not be allowed to suffer further revelations.’

      Lord Joshua Faringdon left the British Ambassador’s home, lingering on the front steps to take a breath of fresh air. The Chameleon! A changeable thing, a creature of caprice, of quicksilver versatility. How fanciful. An identity acquired from those who saw only the glamour, the allure of a life dedicated to espionage. Yet, in reality, how sordid. Of course he could play the role of rake and libertine—had he not done so for years?—but that did not mean that he would enjoy doing so. If he needed to spread the gossip in London before his arrival, his sister Judith could be relied upon to do so. But he most certainly would not dance to Olivia Wexford’s avaricious tune or welcome her into his bed. He hoped, fleetingly, that the Prince Regent realised the sacrifices being made by some of his subjects to bolster the traditional monarchies of Europe in his name.

      But he doubted it.

       Chapter Two

       Autumn 1819—London

      ‘Judith, I really must not—indeed, I cannot—live on your kindness any longer!’ Or on your charity!

      Two ladies sat at breakfast in one of the elegant and supremely fashionable town houses in Grosvenor Square. A gentleman, the Earl of Painscastle, hid with deliberate concentration behind a copy of the Morning Post and determined to stay there. This was not the first time that such a statement had ruffled the early morning calm. Given the decisiveness in the tone on this occasion, matters were about to come to a head.

      The two ladies, one his wife, the other his guest, faced each other across