All Men Are Rogues

London, England
1813

“Y
ou cannot just kill the girl,” Justin argued impatiently.

“Why not?” The colonel shrugged, sipping from his snifter of brandy.

Justin pressed his lips, staring down at the heavyset figure sitting deep in the leather armchair before the fire. It always amazed him how a man so callously devious could look like your most doting grandfather. Between his shaggy mane of snowy white hair tied at the nape of his neck, his broad nose, wide, thick lips, and big bushy brows, the man could easily pass for Father Christmas. He was only missing the sprigs of holly in his hair.

“She could be a complete innocent in the matter.”

“War has its casualties,” the older man commented negligently.

The fire’s heat against Justin’s back could not suppress the sudden chill crawling down his spine. Caught in the flickering light from the candles, the colonel’s ridiculous collection of miniature porcelain goblins and ghouls mocked him from the mantel above the fireplace. With their beady eyes, rapacious mouths, and thorny talons, they seemed to take rapt delight in the ruthless conversation.

Justin ran his hand through his short hair. “I still say it’s not a sound strategy. To eliminate her means we lose any opportunity of using her as a source of information.”

Colonel Wheaton scratched his long white sideburns, staring into his brandy as if to discern all the world’s secrets. “She’s the daughter of a traitor. As far as I’m concerned, it’s dangerous not to eliminate her.”

“He was not murdered by one of our operatives. How can you be certain that he had turned? He could have uncovered the plot and been trying to stop it.”

Justin paced before the mantel, wondering why the fire added no warmth to the elegant chamber. Frustrated, he threw on another log, and sparks flew up, dancing in the flames. The scent of cloves drifted into the room. For as long as he could recall, the colonel had always added spices to his hearth. And each of the past four winters, since Justin had begun working with the man who managed the great network of spies, he had received a bag of spices from the colonel for the holidays. As if to say, Although I deal in unpleasant matters, I still appreciate the small pleasures in life. Justin always gave the expensive seasonings to his man of affairs. He did not want that scent or any other part of these clandestine activities to enter his home.

Wheaton shifted in his seat. “All signs point to Amherst, and we cannot take any chances with his daughter. Napoleon’s stratagem is set for seven weeks from now. We must do everything we can to halt that chain of events.”

“Exactly. Which is why we must discern anything the girl might know. Can you imagine how much she has ascertained living with Sir Phillip Amherst and Sullivan?”

“Granted, Sullivan is still out there.”

An idea took shape in Justin’s mind. “He may yet attempt to contact her.”

The older man pursed his lips. “Hmmm. Now, there’s an interesting possibility.”

“She could be the perfect lure,” Justin offered enticingly.

“But how do we get the chit to cooperate?”

Justin repressed his shudder, recalling some of the colonel’s previous efforts to extract information from unwilling informants.

“Don’t be so squeamish, Barclay. Makes me think you’re losing your edge.”

Justin shifted his shoulders, careful not to let the old man see how sharply his comment had cut. When it came to the nasty games of intrigue, a man’s actions bore more weight than ten titles, something Justin appreciated, despite the devious scheming. Although few had the colonel’s audacity to breathe the words, some with the Foreign Office, Justin knew, wondered about his sense of duty simply because he was a peer of the realm. It was appalling and did not speak well of England’s nobility.

Justin kept his voice level. “You’re the one ready to cut off your nose to spite your face. I know that you and Amherst have a history. And it does look like he turned. But we have a potential catastrophe on our hands, and now is not the time to settle old scores. We must cover every corner. Hedge every bet.”

The other man’s steely blue eyes narrowed. He did not take kindly to criticism.

Justin sat down in the chair opposite him and leaned back, assuming a pose of ease and confidence, when he was feeling anything but. He stared at the glowing embers of the fire. His work with the Foreign Office was all his own, and earned on merit, wholly separate from his birthright. Still, he was growing weary of the twisted maneuverings, the often senseless bloodletting. He sometimes wondered how the old man was able to sleep at night, sitting in judgment as he did. It was sensible to learn everything the Amherst girl knew. There was so much at risk, and they had little enough information to go on.

“Gain her trust. Bring her back to England. Let her believe she’s returning to the safety of home.” Justin sipped his drink nonchalantly. “She will not even know that she’s cooperating with the authorities while we use her to trap Sullivan. In the meantime, we get her to tell all she knows.”

Wheaton smoothed his beard thoughtfully with his meaty hand. “The girl’s been dragged halfway around the world with her accursed father and Sullivan for years. It’s not like she’s just going to start blabbering to the nearest fern about secrets and plots to destabilize the British economy.”

“All the more reason she will want some security, some constancy in her life.”

Wheaton sniffed. “Still no word from Simon?”

Justin shook his head.

“Well then, it’s up to you.”

“Peterman is much better suited to the job. He’s charming enough to talk the unmentionables off the vestal virgin.”

“He has other fronts to man. You gain her trust and get the information. In the interim, try to draw Sullivan out.”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

Justin clenched his fist, trying hard to extricate himself from this tangle. “I cannot befriend the girl. It is impossible to get near her without raising Polite Society’s attention. She’s the daughter of a knight, for heaven’s sake. It’s unseemly—”

“A young lady of marriageable age and good connections,” Wheaton interrupted. “Your mother will be in heaven.”

That was exactly why Justin did not want to get near any lady who was not a gray-haired matron. His mother was difficult enough without giving her something to chew. He glared. “I will not do it.”

Steely blue eyes locked with his. “Then you are signing her death warrant and losing your own proposed golden opportunity to stop the conspiracy. No one else is better suited to the task, and I need you handling it. Our premiere spy has gone missing. Another turned traitor, and you want to hand the job off to someone else? I think not.”

A cloak of righteous anger settled around Justin’s shoulders. He had never before allowed his covert activities to leak into his private life. Yet the colonel always knew which levers to press.

“Fine. But if she is a traitor, I will handle it.” No one would dare claim that he had gone soft.

“Good.”

Tense silence enveloped the room, save for the crackle of the fire.

The old man set his glass on the table. “She arrives in Southampton two days hence.”

“Where is she planning to reside?”

“I have made arrangements for her to stay at Belfont House.”

Justin’s simmering anger flared. “You presumptuous bastard.”

“Calm down.” Wheaton raised his gloved hand. “She’s actually a distant relation of your aunt’s. Her closest relation, in fact, living in Town. And we need her in London.”

“You assumed that I would take the assignment,” Justin charged.

The colonel shrugged. “It’s not in your nature to ignore an opportunity to gather information and balance the scales of justice.”

How could Wheaton claim to know him so well when he was such a stranger to himself? Was he a ruthless spy desperate for answers or the marquis of Rawlings in need of siring an heir? Or was he simply a specter of both?

“Collect the chit at the harbor. Say your aunt sent you.”

“And what then?” He cocked his eyebrow. “Waltz with the girl until she sings?”

“Think of another enticing activity. She’s still in mourning.”

Justin stared at the callous man sitting before him. Sometimes he did not know which was harming Great Britain more, Napoleon’s schemes or his own countrymen’s machinations to stop him. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, inhaling the comforting scent of leather. He had to end these games spying for the Foreign Office and fulfill his obligations to his title, to his family. This madness had to end. But while Napoleon reigned, he feared it never would.

He rose and donned his hat. “Send word if you learn anything,” Justin added tersely as he strode out the door. He could swear that he heard the porcelain ghouls’ haunting laughter hounding his footsteps all the way down the long, carpeted corridor.