The Counterfeit Gentleman (18 page)

His tone once more properly deferential, the servant con
tinued, “He instructed me to tell you his name is Rendel—
Digory Rendel—and he insisted that you would see him no
matter what the hour.”

“Good Lord, of course I’ll see him.” Matthew started toward the door, inadvertently dragging along the valet, who seemed in some way to be attached to his neckcloth. Impatiently shaking himself free, Matthew strode down the corridor. “Where have you put Mr. Rendel?”

“He is w-waiting outside the t-tradesmen’s entrance,” the
butler said, and he got a black scowl for having failed to anticipate his master’s wishes better.

“Bring Mr. Rendel to my study at once, and then fetch us
some brandy and glasses. And send up one of the footmen
to build up the fire, and have Mrs. Wake fix a cold collation
in case Mr. Rendel is hungry.”

* * * *

Although six years had passed since Digory had seen the
viscount, Lord Edington looked a good ten years younger
than the last time they had been together. To be sure, on
that occasion it had still been a toss-up as to whether or not
the viscount would survive his wounds.

“Ah, my good friend Digory Rendel, smuggler of first-
rate brandy and rescuer of second-rate spies.” With a smile,
Lord Edington offered him his hand.

Digory shook the viscount’s hand, but did not return the
other man’s smile. What he was doing now, he was forced to do for Miss Pepperell’s sake, but that did not make his
task any easier.

“I have come to ask
...”
Taking a deep breath, he forced the words out. “To ask a favor. But be assured that if it is inconvenient or against your principles for you to comply,
you need only say the word, and I shall think none the less
of you.”

The other man smiled engagingly. “Beholden as I am to
you for my life, which for some obscure reason I value
more highly than any of my worldly possessions, I can only
say that anything I own is yours, you have but to name it—money, land, even my horses—ask for what you wish and it
is yours, and I will still consider myself in your debt.”

“Nothing like that,” Digory said quickly. “All I ask is
that—if it does not go against your conscience, of course—
that you do not reveal to anyone that you know who I am
and what I have done for a living.”

“In the normal course of events,” his lordship said, “I do not go out of my way to mention any of the activities I engaged in during our recent altercation with Napoleon, nor
have I ever yet had reason to mention your name or the
names of any of the others who shared my clandestine life.
Which means there must be some pressing reason for you
to appear on my doorstep in the middle of the night, only to
ask me to refrain from doing something you should have
had no reason to expect me to do in the first place.”

He eyed Digory thoughtfully. “It is a good thing that
nothing you could do nor anything I could ever hear about
you would be sufficient cause for me to think you capable
of treason. So that means ...” All at once his expression
brightened. “That there is a woman involved in this some
how.”

Digory forced a smile onto his face, although he was not the least bit amused by this turn of events. “Your powers of
deduction astound me.” And dismay me, he might truth
fully have added.

“They should not,” Lord Edington said with a laugh that
held much bitterness. “After you deposited my half-dead carcass on their doorstep, so to speak, the War Office informed me that while it greatly appreciated my earlier ef
forts, they had no further use for a spy who now had only
one sound leg. So I spent the remainder of the war sitting in
a windowless office here in London, analyzing reports
other men had gathered. And what my superiors required of
me was that I deduce everything from virtually nothing.”

“You sound a dangerous man to know. I had hoped I
would not need to tell you everything that is going on, for
as you well know, the more people who hear a secret, the
more likely it becomes that the secret will be compromised.
But since it appears likely that you will guess the half of it, I might as well tell you the whole.”

Digory quickly and efficiently related the essential de
tails of Miss Pepperell’s predicament. “So she has per
suaded herself—and I have reluctantly agreed—that the
only viable solution to her problems is to marry, thus making it impossible, under the terms of her grandfather’s will, for any of her three cousins to inherit.

“And she has decided you are the man she wishes to
marry? I admire her taste, and I will be happy to welcome you to the ranks of the leg-shackled. The married state is
really not so bad as it is reputed to be. In fact, you will find
that the side benefits that accrue once you step into par
son’s mousetrap are more to be desired than any financial gain.”

“Miss Pepperell is determined to marry me, but—”

“But you have objections? Is she an antidote?”

She is the most beautiful woman in the world, Digory
wanted to say, but he contented himself with saying, “Not
at all. But I question her motive for wishing to marry me. I
fear that the real reason she has chosen me over her other
suitors is merely gratitude that I saved her life. Added to that is fear that one or the other of her suitors may be in
league with her villainous cousin. And to my way of think
ing, gratitude and fear are not a sound basis on which to
build a happy marriage.”

“But you are going through with it?”

“I have agreed to the marriage, but I have no intention of
sharing her bed. I fully intend to have the marriage an
nulled once she is safely past her twenty-first birthday.”

“I had never thought you a dunderhead, yet hearing you
utter such rubbish makes me begin to doubt your intelli
gence. What is the help you wish from me? Do you perhaps
need me to speak up for you at the hearing on your sanity?”

“This is no laughing matter,” Digory said sharply. “Miss Pepperell must be married as quickly as possible, and there
must be nothing havey-cavey about the marriage, or else
her cousins will be quick to appeal to the courts to have it
set aside. And since she is a minor, that means we must
have her aunt’s permission. And to gain her aunt’s approval
and written consent, I must pass myself off as a gentleman,
not only until we are safely married, but also until Miss Pepperell is of age, lest her cousins become suspicious.”

“Ah, the last piece of the puzzle falls into place,” Lord
Edington said. “And the aunt—Lady Clovyle did you
say?—would never, of course, give permission for her
niece to marry a smuggler.”

“Ex-smuggler,” Digory said absently. “But more to the
point, she would not wish her niece to marry the unac
knowledged by-blow of a singularly unadmirable peer of
the realm.”

His friend raised an eyebrow, and Digory reluctantly
said, “My father was the Earl of Blackstone.”

Lord Edington gave a low whistle. “Which would make
Lord Blackheart, as he is called, your brother.”

“Half-brother.”

“I have always considered him living proof that a title
and a country estate and the proper schooling cannot make
a gentleman out of a scoundrel. In fact”—he paused, scruti
nizing Digory carefully, then continued—”I would say that
with the help of a good valet, we can turn you into a much
more credible gentleman than he could ever hope to be.”

Lord Edington was quite serious, but he failed to grasp
the most essential fact. “I cannot become a gentleman,”
Digory pointed out. “I can merely pass myself off as a gen
tleman. Which is why I have come to ask your help,” he
added, lest his companion had forgotten the original pur
pose of the visit.

“And all you wish me to do is pretend I have never met
you?” Lord Edington shook his head. “It will never do.
What you need is someone to vouch for your credentials, as
it were. People are suspicious of anyone they know nothing
about. To begin with, I shall propose your name at White’s,
after which we must see about getting you into Almack’s,
for if you make no attempt to be accepted everywhere—
and I mean without exception—then people will begin to whisper. ‘Why do you suppose he does not go riding in the
park at five?’ they will ask. ‘If he is who he claims to be, why is he not a member of such-and-such club? “What is
his shortcoming, that he was not invited to Lord What’s-
his-name’s ball?’“

“With every word you speak, you make the task seem
more impossible,” Digory said. “Perhaps Miss Pepperell is right. Maybe we should elope to the Continent.”

“Nonsense,” Lord Edington said. “You must trust me on this. While I bow to your superior knowledge of the winds and the tides, and I readily admit that your mastery of the French tongue far exceeds mine, in matters of society I am
the expert. And in my opinion, you will take the ton by
storm if you are once properly introduced. I can see it all
now,” he mused. “If we play our cards properly, the host
esses will be falling all over themselves to secure your at
tendance at a dinner party or ball, and you could easily
become the latest fashion.”

“Do not forget that notoriety could be as dangerous for
me as for any spy,” Digory pointed out.

“Except, of course, that if this charade comes unraveled,
you will not pay with your life,” Lord Edington said. “Now
then, we must consider who else we can enlist in this proj
ect, because the more people who claim you as friend, the less speculation there will be about your origins. And we
must also do something about your wardrobe.”

“And I suppose I must again bow to your superior
knowledge of fashion,” Digory said, unable to keep a trace of sarcasm from his voice.

“Actually I don’t pay a bit of attention to what I put on,” Lord Edington said. “I am not a dandy, after all, so I find it
easier to leave everything up to my valet. He knows pre
cisely which way the winds of fashion are blowing. But I
am not willing to give him up, not even to you, so that
means—”

“No,” Digory said flatly. “I am only too aware of the way servants gossip about their masters, and I want no
strangers in my house. Almost all of Miss Pepperell’s servants have been with the family since she was small, and I
am reasonably sure they can be trusted. Moreover Big
Davey has agreed to act as my coachman, and Little Davey
will be my groom, although in actuality they will be protecting Miss Pepperell.”

“But you must have a valet who is
au courant
,” Lord Edington protested.

“I have managed to dress myself for many years now,
and as I am not yet in my dotage, I believe I can continue a
bit longer.”

“You cannot refuse to have a valet,” Lord Edington said.
“Every gentleman, no matter how flat his pocketbook, has
a valet. Period. No exceptions.”

Digory opened his mouth, but Lord Edington forestalled
him. “Did you or did you not come to me for advice as to
how to be a gentleman?”

As much as Digory wanted to quibble—for in the begin
ning he had only intended to ask Lord Edington not to be
tray him—he knew it was pointless. As much as Digory
hated to admit it, he did need a valet. Not having one would
only cause tongues to wag in the servants’ hall.

Apparently taking Digory’s silence for tacit consent,
Lord Edington said, “And I know precisely who we shall
get; we shall steal Lord Vernon’s valet.”

“Wonderful,” Digory muttered, “and now I am to have
as my personal servant a man whose loyalty can be
bought.”

Lord Edington began to curse with astounding fluency.
Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “There are times
when I don’t know whether I should laugh or draw your
cork, and right now is one of them. Did you ever meet Joe
Youngblood?”

Digory thought for a minute. “Wickham’s batman?”

“More than just a batman—could pass for brothers if
they were dressed alike. Wickham made full use of that. Used to dress Youngblood up as a gentleman and use him as a decoy. Not even the War Office knew anything about
it. Anyway, he’s a good man—knows how to keep his
mouth shut—and he’s a superior valet now. Since Wick
ham was killed at Quatra Bras, Youngblood has been work
ing for Lord Vernon, but he’ll come to us once I explain
why we need him. I will not have to buy his loyalty. Since
he was privy to all of Wickham’s secrets, he doubtless
knows what you did during the war, and that being the
case, you will be hard put to get him to accept a salary. Buy
his loyalty—bah!”