Regency
HIGH – SOCIETY AFFAIRS
The Enigmatic Rake Anne O’Brien
The Lord and the Mystery Lady Georgina Devon
The Wagering Widow Diane Gaston
An Unconventional Widow Georgina Devon
The Enigmatic Rake
Anne O’Brien
About the Author
ANNE O’BRIEN was born and has lived for most of her life in Yorkshire. There she taught history before deciding to fulfil a lifetime ambition to write romantic historical fiction. She won a number of short story competitions until published for the first time by Mills & Boon. As well as writing, she finds time to enjoy gardening, cooking and watercolour painting. She now lives with her husband in an eighteenth-century cottage in the depths of the Welsh Marches. You can find out about Anne’s books and more at her website: www.anneobrien.co.uk
Chapter One
Autumn 1819—Paris
This wing of the vast house was silent, the windows and the rooms behind them unlit with curtains securely drawn, the garden beyond dark and shadowed. Sounds of distant merriment drifted on the mild air, of music, laughter, the hum of a large gathering, but here there was nothing to disturb the midnight stillness. With its towers and turrets, gravelled drive and formal gardens, it was a formidable château on the very edge of Paris, the home of the Comte and Comtesse de Charleroi, where a celebration was being hosted for the forthcoming marriage of the heir. An event of notable interest and comment to the blue and noble blood of the Parisian beau monde. But here on a stone-flagged terrace of the west wing, overlooking a rigidly ornamental parterre, the felicitous event played no part in anyone’s mind.
The terrace was not as deserted as it might first appear. A dark figure merged into the inky shadow of the house where the twisted stem of a wisteria hugged, then overhung the wall to give protection. Beyond the fact that it was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, a solid outline, no other detail could be ascertained. Dark clothes allowed him to blend with the background and he was careful to keep the pale skin of hands and face from attracting any stray glimmer from a fitful moon. He wished to be neither seen nor identified. He was waiting. Un-moving, breathing silent and shallow. Waiting.
At last a noise. A careless scrape of a footstep on stone. Two figures emerged as darker shapes against the dark surround—one from the corner of the wing of the château, the other on the short rise of steps that led up from the garden to the terrace. An assignation, carefully planned. The hidden watcher tensed, but otherwise remained motionless.
There was nothing of moment in either figure, both as sombrely dressed as the one who waited and watched. They met at the top of the steps. A low-voiced conversation—brief and hurried—took place and something changed hands from both sides. Perhaps a letter and a flat packet. Then one turned and vanished once more into the garden, the black density of a yew hedge soon swallowing him and any possibility of footsteps. The whole scene took less than two minutes. The other made no move to return to the house, but stood in full sight, moonlit, against the terrace’s carved balustrade, head lifted as if in anticipation. Or perhaps he too was listening.
The watcher, after a brief moment to assess the quality of the stillness that was once again total, stepped out from concealment to advance cat-like with grace across the terrace. The man turned. This meeting, it would appear, was also not unexpected.
‘Well, monsieur?’ The watcher spoke in soft, low tones.
‘I have what you require, my lord.’ Hardly more than a whisper.
‘The list of names?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The gentleman took from his pocket the letter that had only a moment before come into his possession. ‘Will you keep the agreement? That my name and identity be deleted from any further investigation into this delicate matter?’
‘Of course.’ Teeth glinted in the dark in a hard and particularly cynical smile. ‘I will keep my word, you may be sure.’ The watcher inclined his head in a gesture of some irony as he took a bulky package from his pocket.
‘Would you sneer, my lord?’ The gentleman, still holding the letter, breathed in with some hauteur. ‘Your involvement is not beyond criticism. Blackmail, for whatever purpose, leaves a particularly unpleasant taste in the mouth.’
‘True.’ The smile again. The glint of an eye. ‘But then—I do not sell the names of my compatriots to the enemy for money, knowing that it could mean their death, for a mere few thousand francs.’
The gentleman turned his face away, perhaps embarrassed by the justice of the accusation, then surprised his companion when he laughed softly.
‘As it happens, neither do I, my lord.’
There was absolutely no warning. No sound, no movement of air. Merely a deeper shadow within shadows, which advanced noiselessly from the shelter of an artistically clipped shrub in a marble urn. Before the watcher could react, a heavy blow was dealt to the side of his head from the butt of a pistol, almost robbing him of his senses. He groaned on a sharp intake of breath, automatically raising his hands in defence. But before he could gather his wits to respond to protect himself further, he found himself forced back against the stone balustrade by a pair of strong hands and the force of a well-muscled body. Next moment he had lost his balance, thrust by a wide shoulder and hard-driven thigh against and over the stonework. His fingers scrabbled to find some purchase in the lichened carvings, but he was falling, helplessly, to land heavily and ignominiously into the clipped box edges and fragrant plants of the garden some considerable distance below.
After which all consciousness and all knowledge left him.
In the fashionable quarter of Paris, some days later, in the home of the British Ambassador Sir Charles Stuart and away from the sumptuous reception rooms where visiting dignitaries were entertained and suitably overwhelmed, there was a small anteroom usually set aside for informal or private transactions. This particular interview was to be conducted not by the Ambassador, but by a gentleman who made it his business to remain unknown and unrecognised except by a very few. For the head of British espionage it was good policy to remain anonymous, particularly when it was hoped to discover the names of British politicians attempting to undermine British foreign policy, such as those who would find it politic to bring about the downfall of King Louis XVIII of France and the restored Bourbons. Politicians who might even go so far as to plot the restoration of the deposed Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte—if that ailing exile, imprisoned on the distant island of St Helena, lived long enough to see the day.
There was nothing about the gentleman to draw any attention. Indeed, he worked hard to achieve exactly that, being addressed in his public life as Mr Wycliffe. Neat, slight of figure, no longer young and with a quiet demeanour, he sat behind a desk with a document in his hand, a deep frown between his brows, as the door opened. He looked up, the frown growing heavier at the interruption, then rose to his feet with a quick smile as he saw the identity of his visitor.
‘My Lord Faringdon! Come in, my dear man. I had not expected to see you so soon. Come in and take the weight off your feet.’
The gentleman entered slowly, without grace: Lord Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon.
Those closely acquainted with the family would have given the opinion that Lord Joshua was