Unmasking the Spy (8 page)

A single trick frame, gilded, as
wide as a forearm and twice again as tall, sculpted edges, found in library.
Ian closed his eyes and blocked out the sounds of chirping birds and the rumble
of passing coaches.

The item best matching this
description still remained at Chadwick House. Although he ran his fingers
across every inch, he had not noticed any secret latches or openings. Ian
opened his eyes. Prior to Unsleeping Beauty’s appearance, he had hoped to bring
the entire package to his townhouse in order to scrutinize its details in
daylight.

He shrugged a shoulder. The
best-laid plans, and all that.

Perhaps he should target
something more easily concealed or that did not necessitate removal. The
secret-hollow book seemed a logical candidate to look for next, the
false-bottomed drawer an even better idea.

Ian leaned back in his chair.

What might he find? Most likely,
nothing. Ian doubted the alleged items existed. If Lord Chadwick really were
running a one-man jewel smuggling scheme, secret drawers were logical, but
composing detailed letters to disclose his own nefarious activities made no
sense at all. Ian drummed his fingers on the table.

If two persons collaborated, the
possibility existed for one to turn rat and betray his accomplice in the form
of an anonymous letter. However, this scenario seemed equally unlikely, since
the accused could point his finger at the traitor in return, thus affording the
betrayer no profit for his efforts.

Chadwick’s innocence constituted
the third possibility. A jewel thief might well have put his poison pen to
blame another, in order to escape detection himself. If Chadwick were arrested
and the thefts mysteriously halted, guilt would be assumed, Chadwick would be
punished, and the culprit would go free.

Ian’s jaw muscles clenched. The
withdrawal of his involvement at this point could signify tacit condemnation of
an innocent man. He refused to let such a chain of events unfold. The content
of the letter must be proven false.

But what would the guilty party
do then? Ian took another bite and considered. The thief deciding to give
himself up was too much to hope. The criminal could attempt to implicate a new
target. Ian stopped chewing. He had no intention of remaining in London indefinitely, proving one innocence after another.

Damn Caspian for involving him in
this fix!

Even if he hadn’t had personal
reasons for protecting innocent men from unfair persecution, he owed Caspian a
reasonable effort. In all the years he’d known him, the operative had never let
him down. Ian rubbed his head. Unless one considered calling him to London for a personal favor “letting him down”. Four weeks in London was more than he could
bear. He would have to act quickly.

*          *          *

Later that evening, Alicia
searched the brightly lit ballroom for prospective suitors.  As usual, no one
gentleman stood out among the rest. Once the Season began full swing,
aristocrats, bachelors, debutantes, chaperones, and society matrons packed into
crowded ballrooms. Tonight, however, most of the present men were married, and
those that were not had seen several decades more than she.

Where was Mr. Morrissey? He was
handsome, reasonably young, and proper enough. He didn’t quite cut such a
dashing, romantic figure as her masked rogue, of course, but a mysterious smile
and a seductive prowl were hardly necessary components of a successful
marriage. 

Thus far, Mr. Morrissey
constituted the sole candidate on her potential husband list, although he had
not shown any particular interest in her. He left no flowers nor came to call.
How ironic. She finally went husband hunting and met a man who wanted to be
friends.

Wait. He still thought she had a
fiancé, due to her obnoxious cousin’s thoughtless words. He couldn’t court her
while unaware of her availability. Being wooed was also difficult when the
desired wooer absented himself from the scene. Alicia looked around.

Louis minced his way right toward
her. Although he’d been silent in the carriage ride over, he no doubt felt
obligated to converse publicly. She had hoped he would stay sequestered in the
card room until she’d entranced a few eligible bachelors or at least added some
possibilities to her mental list. However, if her strategy of being
excruciatingly boring were to succeed, perhaps it was best no gentlemen hovered
nearby to overhear. She needed to repel Louis, not all men.

Alicia forced her face muscles to
slacken and assumed the blandest expression possible.

“Good evening, Alicia,” Louis
said in his loud, high-pitched voice.

Alicia wondered if long pauses
represented a boring persona. She waited an extra minute before replying.

“Good evening, Louis,” she
answered in a monotone. “Isn’t the ballroom lovely?”

Louis glanced around. “I was in
the game-room and hadn’t really noticed.”

Of course he hadn’t noticed. The
wonders of gaming couldn’t compare to high ceilings, windowed walls, sparkling
chandeliers lit with hundreds of candles, and the pure joy of music.

She smoothed out her skirts.
“Isn’t the game-room lovely?”

Louis sniffed. “I was winning
until they cheated.”

Improbable. If anyone had
cheated, a row would certainly have broken out. More likely, Louis turned sore
loser and ran off to lick his wounds.

“Cards are just lovely,” Alicia
responded and rubbed her elbow.

Louis looked at her elbow then
refocused on her face. “You don’t know anything about it. I could’ve won money,
and thanks to them, I didn’t.”

Poor baby. Alicia doubted he
played for much money. Louis wanted sympathy. No sense being empathetic, not if
one wanted to make an unfavorable impression.

Alicia counted the freckles
dotting his pudgy cheeks. She reached thirty before she responded. “Money is
pleasant.”

“Money is more than
pleasant
.
Money is the most important thing there is. You’re a girl – you know nothing
about such matters.” He smirked at her.

Alicia fingered a loose tendril
of hair. She pulled the ringlet until it stretched in front of her face,
causing her eyes to cross. She let go and the tendril sprang back into place.
She rubbed her arm again.

Louis watched the display as if
mesmerized. “I suppose you’re alright by yourself then,” he said. “I’ll just go
back to the game-room and find new players.”

Excellent! Perhaps she had won
already. Hopefully he went off and considered how dreadful a life he would
have, leg-shackled to a wearisome wife. With any luck, he’d be reassessing the
Season’s debs within a week’s time.

“Players are useful,” she
replied, lowering her eyes to hide the glow of triumph. She plucked at the lace
on her sleeve.

Louis hesitated for a brief
moment before tipping his head and prancing back into the game room without
another word.

She grinned to herself as she
walked toward her girlfriends. Success in less than two minutes. Score one for
Alicia.

*          *          *

Ian Morrissey paused two strides
from his prey.

Players are useful? What the hell
did that mean? He shook his head. Miss Kinsey’s poker-wielding relative seemed
to have all the sense in the family, for what that was worth. Just as well. A
woman lacking sense would be more likely to tell him everything he needed to
know.

Stepping forward, he tried to
catch her eye. “Miss Kinsey. How pleasant to see you here.”

She started, then smiled. “Mr.
Morrissey.” She dipped a little curtsy. “Have you been enjoying the weather?”

Ian grit his teeth. Bother the
rules of polite society and the chits who could speak of nothing more than the
weather! “I found it refreshing. Have you enjoyed it yourself?”

 “Yes, quite.” She grinned at
him. “Actually, no. I have not been out-of-doors much today.”

Ian found himself smiling at her
honesty. “Indoors all day?”

“Sadly. And you?”

Her bright hazel eyes sparkled
with the candlelight. Tonight, her hair swept into an elegant chignon, although
a few curls sprang free to frame her face. The light blue of her dress
contrasted with the golden overtones in her hair. Ian wondered where her fiancé
was and thanked the stars he wasn’t beside her. All the better for him to
interrogate her in peace. 

“I was lucky enough to go
riding,” he replied.

Miss Kinsey began to circle the
room. The lack of a crowd enabled him to accompany her side-by-side.

“In Hyde Park? Your own horse?”
she asked, appearing genuinely interested.

Perhaps Miss Kinsey had a more
agreeable personality than he credited her.

“Rotten Row,” he confirmed. “A
gorgeous gray.”

She opened her mouth to respond
when the chubby, redheaded man intercepted her. Tonight he wore a striped
overcoat littered with tassels and an outraged expression.

“What are you doing?” the peacock
demanded.

Miss Kinsey blinked. “Walking.
It’s lovely. Have you been walking, too?”

“Well, of course I walked. I
walked over here didn’t I?  I told you I was headed to the game room.”  He
tossed his head.

Ian raised an eyebrow but kept
silent.

Miss Kinsey’s face smoothed into
an expressionless blank. “Then I’m sure it was lovely.”

“How could it be lovely? I didn’t
even go. I just left you a moment ago, and I realized I was hungry. I had to
pass by you to get to the refreshment room.”

He glanced at Ian before turning his
attention back to Alicia. He fingered his cravat and smirked. “Come to the
refreshment room with me, cousin. Did you try the
coq au vin
?”

A flash of irritation gleamed in her eyes and just
as quickly disappeared.

After a moment, she replied, “
Vin
is the French word for wine.”

Ian stared at her. What a
strange, yet artful, evasion of a harmless question. Perhaps his own
interrogation would not progress as smoothly as he anticipated.

Suddenly, her cousin shrieked and
hopped up and down on one booted foot. He slapped at his cheek and neck,
crushing his cravat. He flung his palm out in front of them.

“See that? Wax!” he screeched.
“Wax fell on me!”

Miss Kinsey studied the drippings
smeared on her cousin’s glove.

“Most likely from a candle.
Candles are lovely. And useful.”

“What!” Her cousin snatched his
hand back and trembled as though he wanted to throttle her. Ian watched
carefully to make sure the popinjay’s fists stayed at his sides.

Music from the orchestra
indicated a new set had begun.

Ian invited his quarry to dance.
The fragrance of flower-scented soap rose from her hair. Her small body felt so
delicate in his arms. He imagined Elizabeth to be just as slender, then
mentally shook his head. Focus.

Miss Kinsey smiled up at him.

Good. That meant the
conversational ball had landed back in his court. All he had to do was
determine whether or not she knew about last night’s break-in. How best to
raise the topic?

“I come from a big family,” he
offered with what he hoped was an affable expression. With his most charming
smile, he asked, “Do you and your father live with other relatives at Chadwick
House?” He almost jumped backward when her face lost its color and a strangled
growl rumbled in her throat.

Definitely not the reaction he
was hoping for.

*          *          *

That old gossip again? Alicia
bristled with affront. How dare he question her about her great-aunt Beatrix!

Just when Mr. Morrissey had
become the solitary member on her prospective suitors list, he had to ruin her
hopes by hinting about the Chadwick family scandals, just like all the others.
Her impulsive aunt had spiced many malicious conversations over the years, even
before the first rumors of dottiness had begun to circulate.

Many attributed her aunt’s state
to the loss of her betrothed and subsequent scandal during the War of
Independence. This understanding, however, prevented none from spreading every
juicy
on-dit
of her aunt’s erratic behavior.

She ground her teeth in frustration.

She could no longer deny the
truth. Great-aunt Beatrix may have inadvertently deterred Alicia’s would-be
suitors. No man in search of a bride wanted to saddle himself with scandal.

Since Mr. Morrissey was new to
town, Alicia had hoped he would be different. Untouched by gossip and
unimpressed by rumor. Clearly, she had been mistaken.

His primary allure had been his
foreignness, and the likelihood that the scandals in her past would not yet
have reached his ears. Especially the talk about Beatrix – that bit of dirt was
the oldest Kinsey rumor and the one she’d thought most likely to be forgotten.
It was too bad Mr. Morrissey turned out to be a gossipmonger of the first
order. He even had the gall to broach the subject to her face.