“Have you known Lady Charlotte long?” Evan asked Marcus, a string of questions in his innocent tone.
Before Marcus could answer, his mother marched up, eyes snapping. “Marcus, you’ve kept me waiting. There are people I want you to meet.” She nodded briskly toward the Whitelocks but spared not a glance for Charlotte.
“People” meant marriageable women. He had underestimated his mother in this. While he had thought merely to distract her from her grief through a casual bride search, she had the bit between her teeth and was running rampant through his life. If she wasn’t cramming Cilla down his throat, she was listing eligible females with what she considered correct breeding and standards.
“Your pardon, Lady Charlotte. I shall escort you back to your parents. Whitelock, Diana, I hope I’ll see you soon?” He tried to keep the resignation from his voice. “I’ll be by to admire that godson of mine.”
“Yes, yes.” Mother tapped her fan into her palm and her toe on the floor. “Hurry up.”
“Yes, madam.” He offered his arm to Charlotte and returned her to her mother’s side with a bow. “Thank you for partnering me.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte fingered the locket at her throat. “It was most kind of you to ask me.”
Regretfully, he turned away, and when he looked back, she had disappeared in the throng.
An hour later, he gritted his teeth so hard, he thought he might break a molar. The third “sweet young thing” his mother had found partnered him for a dance, fear coating her face as she strove for some sophistication.
Did the girl have two thoughts to rub together? While he might be doing her an injustice, she was so awkward and shy, he gave up trying to converse with her. He stared over her head, and relief crashed through him. Sir Noel St. Clair, resplendent in evening dress, stood in the doorway, and when their eyes met, he inclined his head toward the card room.
Ah, reprieve.
“Excuse me.” He led the girl off the floor, though the dance hadn’t quite ended. Bewildered, the slim-as-a-willow-wand daughter of Lord Platford followed him to where her chaperone waited.
His mother’s mouth set in a firm line, but he escaped her demanding eyes, smothering a laugh as he joined his boss, feeling like a boy escaping his stern governess.
It wasn’t unusual for Sir Noel to attend society functions, though a debutante ball was rare. What was unusual was for him to be seen talking to one of his agents so openly.
“Good evening, Sir Noel.”
“Your Grace.” Sir Noel observed the proper protocol. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
They passed pleasantries as they crossed the card room—only half filled at the moment, though it would grow more crowded as the evening wore on and men grew bored with the dancing and found a quiet corner.
“Has something happened?” Marcus asked.
“Not yet, though I am hopeful. No, but now that you are a duke, it will be unremarkable for us to be seen talking together at social functions from time to time.” Sir Noel took his pipe from his coat pocket, holding it to his lips but not lighting it. “How is the bride search going? Who was that you were dancing with just now? A prospect?”
“No. I was appeasing my mother, if you must know.” Marcus shifted his weight. The entire thing was becoming such a bore.
“That’s too bad, because I have an idea brewing.” Sir Noel tapped his chin with his pipe stem. “However, that’s not why I’m here. The flag telegraph system from Dover has indicated that an envoy is on the way with word from France. Rumor says he’s an aide come with news that Napoleon has been defeated and the Bourbons restored to the throne.” Doubt laced his tone. “He’s expected in London by morning.”
Marcus shrugged. “Is there any substance to the rumor? How many such tales have we had to refute before?”
Sir Noel nodded. “I know. But this one seems to be gaining some momentum. A post boy tumbled into the Admiralty not an hour ago, disheveled and breathless, describing a man he called Colonel de Bourg, aide-de-camp to Lord Cathcart. This aide had sent the boy on before him. From the boy’s description, the man had the proper clothes and demeanor of someone sent across the Channel in great haste. I interrogated the child myself. I’ve sent out men to make inquiries. Partridge for one. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll get some reports during the night, but most likely it will be tomorrow at best before we get anything solid.”
Frustration crept up Marcus’s backbone. In days past it would have been him riding out from London in search of information. Now he was hamstrung at this infernal dance, playing the duke instead.
“What would you like me to do?” he asked.
Sir Noel pursed his lips, his side-whiskers standing out. “Nothing. There’s nothing for you to do at the moment. But I wanted you to be aware, in case any of your contacts turn up something. For now, follow through with your plans to meet Lord Trelawney, and foster your relationship with General Eddington. Stay on task with the assassination case. If you discover anything new, report to my office.”
Quelling a sigh, Marcus nodded. “What other idea do you have brewing, and what does it have to do with me finding a prospective bride?”
His boss shook his head. “It’s not fully fleshed out yet. Find the girl first, and then I’ll share.”
Marcus shook Sir Noel’s hand and turned away. Speaking to him for a short time in a social setting was acceptable, but a longer conversation would create questions.
At least here in the card room he would be free of his mother’s traps.
Society’s expectations of a duke were a trap in and of themselves. He was hampered every way he turned. Perhaps he needed to expand the boundaries of this particular compartment of his life and bend to St. Clair’s wishes. Not regarding marriage, necessarily, but blending his role as a duke with that of an agent for the Crown.
CHAPTER 6
CHARLOTTE WISHED SHE could find a place to hide until the evening was over. For a moment or two, she’d allowed herself a brief fantasy while looking into his eyes, but reality had set in soon enough. The Duke of Haverly had partnered her for one dance—out of duty or pity, she wasn’t sure—and then gone on his merry way, partnering three young girls in succession.
Gossip swirled around her as she watched dance after dance, unasked by any gentleman. She perched on the edge of a settee, dowagers and duennas all around her.
“He’s definitely on the hunt for a bride.”
“The most eligible bachelor of the Season. Whoever snaffles him will have a real prize.”
“The duchess is practically pushing girls at him one after the other. It’s unseemly, if you ask me.”
On and on, with the duke always as the topic, one busybody posing a possible match for him and the others rating the unsuspecting girl for flaws and attributes.
It was enough to turn Charlotte’s stomach. She would hate to hear what they had said about her when she had danced with the duke. Scathing and derogatory wouldn’t even begin to describe it if the comments they were making on worthy young ladies was any indication.
When she had been forced to watch the duke, so tall and masculine, escort yet another pretty young thing through the intricate steps of a quadrille, her heart had turned to lead, cold and heavy in her chest.