Jake drained his glass and signaled the barmaid to bring them another round. When she had completed that task and returned to her business, he said, “I cannot believe the French and the Austrians have combined forces on English soil.”
Fenton shrugged. “We don’t know that they have, but strange things happen when politicians get together. The messages we have intercepted thus far—we now have agents in every port from Dover to Bristol—do not indicate collusion. Yet.”
Jake ran a hand through his hair. “So. We truly are dealing with two networks.”
“Seems so.”
They were both quiet for a moment, then Fenton shifted in his chair and crossed his arms on the table. “Blakemoor’s heir, Viscount Heaton, is only twenty-four, but he is, like his father, active in the Foreign Office. Not the highest echelons, but he does have access to sensitive information. But so do Trentham, Hitchens, and de Richfield.”
“Is Heaton trustworthy?” Jake asked.
“We have no cause to distrust any of these men, but, like so many upper class English people, they all have French ties of one degree or another. Blakemoor’s family, especially. The previous earl’s mother was the daughter of the Duc de Jean-Marc of Lyon. In the matter of access to sensitive information, Blakemoor’s younger brother, Colonel Lord Alfred Parker, is another consideration. He is a member of the House of Commons and is not only an assistant to the Duke of York, the army’s Commander-in-Chief, but the two are very close friends.”
Jake shook his head in wonder. “The Foreign Office and the army? The same family? An unusual degree of nepotism, is it not?”
“Perhaps . . . Lord Alfred is an interesting man, though. Two years younger than the earl. I’m told that in their youth, the brothers were inseparable. As a younger son, Alfred opted for the army. Sound familiar?” Fenton raised an eyebrow then went on. “He served in India and then Canada where he was severely wounded. Still walks with difficulty.”
“At least he survived.” Jake leaned back in his chair, only mildly interested in this turn of the conversation.
“Lord Alfred was a renowned scholar as a university student. Surprised everyone when he chose an army career over a professor’s chair. Even now, Lord Alfred Parker maintains on-going friendships with some of the greatest minds in England—and on the continent. He is one of the sharpest tools in York’s domain.”
“Interesting, but why is all this important to me?”
“For three reasons. One, he is very close to the Duke of York—stood by his friend through all that scandal York was involved in a few years ago. Lord Alfred knows where all our troops are at any given time. Two, he continues to live at Blakemoor House where he has his own suite and he mostly works at home, with his secretary acting as a courier to the office of the Commander-in-Chief.”
Jake sat straighter. “And? Unless my instincts are steering me completely off course, there is more.”
Fenton nodded. “Lord Alfred’s secretary is a distant cousin, one Henry Morrow who was born Henri Moreau. Moreau was a mere child at the time, but he narrowly escaped Madame Guillotine. During the Terror, Moreau, with his sister and her child, fled to England. He anglicized his name, but they still have ties to the newly reinstalled Bourbons.” Fenton paused. “I think you can see that it might prove very useful to have one of our people on the scene so to speak.”
Jake sighed. “And you want me to be the sacrificial lamb.”
“Well, yes. A bit melodramatic, but you might put it that way.” Fenton reached into his coat to retrieve a packet of letters. “Here’s your mail.” Because Jake’s family and friends thought him to be in France with the army of occupation, his mail was sent to France then diverted back to England—prolonging its final delivery. Fenton grinned. “One of these still has a faint odor of perfume.”
“Do not let your imagination stray. Probably my younger sister, Charlotte. She fancies herself a charmer—and the rest of the family confirms that she probably is. She is to make her debut this next season. She was only eight when I last saw her.” Jake tried to hide the sudden surge of emotion he often felt in thinking of his family. He slipped the missives into his own coat.
* * * *
Following that initial meeting with Mr. Bolton, Retta had spent the next day and a half engaged in a great deal of troubled musing: Will he or will he not? If he did not show up, would she have to go through that distasteful search again? She shuddered at the idea of considering human beings as one would animals at a cattle sale. And if he did show himself, how on earth were they to incorporate him into the household? It would not be like hiding that kitten in the nursery when she was nine!
She shared this concern with Gerald, who, when Cousin Amabelle had gone off to her usual afternoon nap, called the others together to bring it up with them. Retta suspected that Gerald was really looking for a way out of this whole situation and she admitted to herself that she would welcome a way out. With Uncle Alfred conveniently absent that day, they had the library to themselves as Gerald and Retta sought to discuss this new issue and to reemphasize the need for secrecy and discretion.
“Is this just an excuse to renege on the wager?” Rebecca demanded from the brown leather couch she shared with her husband.
The others were spread about in a mishmash of comfortable chairs. Retta was glad her father and Uncle Alfred had objected to the countess’s desire to change this room in her zeal to modernize. Despite almost daily airings, the room smelled faintly of tobacco smoke, an odor Retta found comforting, for she remembered it from when Uncle Alfred hugged a distraught young girl being sent off to boarding school.
“No, it is not,” Retta said. “None of us considered this originally. It all sounded so easy then, did it not?”
“True,” Richard said. “And if word gets out, someone is sure to tell Uncle Alfred or write Father—or, worse, it will end up in one of the scandal sheets.”
“We must not allow that to happen,” Gerald said from his favorite position, which was leaning against a fireplace mantel.
“Right,” Richard said. “So the problem is: How do we incorporate this man into the household without stirring up undue interest in his presence?”
“Could he be added to the staff in the stables?” Melinda asked. “What was his name? I have forgot.”
“Bolton. Jake Bolton,” Retta said.
“Probably Jacob,” Rebecca commented.
“Probably,” Retta said, visualizing again Mr. Bolton’s commanding demeanor, his sky-blue eyes, and the way his shoulders stretched the fabric of a cotton shirt. Really. Did he have to be quite so attractive an example of the male half of the species?
Gerald’s voice brought her back to the issue at hand. “No, Melinda. Retta will have to spend a good deal of time with him. She cannot do that in the stables.”
“A footman, then,” Rebecca suggested.
“Possibly . . .” Gerald drew the word out, obviously considering this proposal.
“Any addition to the staff would have to be explained to Jeffries, who hires and supervises staff members,” Retta pointed out.
“Perhaps he could be a cousin come to visit,” Melinda said.
“Oh, yes. By all means,” Richard said sarcastically. “Jeffries has been with the family only since Noah’s flood and knows so few of our relatives. Not to mention what Uncle Alfred knows of the family tree.”
“Well, it was just an idea.”
“Not