Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1) (4 page)

“No, thank you.”

Granwich raised his eyebrows and slid the brandy decanter onto the sideboard. “Please sit down.” He picked up his full glass and lowered himself slowly into the chair next to the fire.

Henry chose one of the sofas opposite him, regretting the decision immediately. The seat of his breeches sank markedly into the soft cushions leaving his knees higher than his buttocks. Uncomfortably he fought the need to stand again.

Granwich regarded Henry owlishly over the top of his glass. Henry took in a breath and waited. He’d known the enigmatic lord since he had plucked Henry away from his history studies at Oxford and put him to work for the Crown.

Henry twisted slightly in the seat and stopped. He had already had many notable successes in foiling plots against the king, but now that the Napoleonic wars were in full swing, he was spending more time on preventing British secrets being passed to the French. Henry sighed and gave himself up to the sagging chair. He was quite sure that sinking ignominiously into pink sofas was, however, certainly not in a spymaster’s job description.

Thrusting his chin upwards, he watched as Granwich shuddered outwardly. Remaining calm and watchful, he flicked a small feather away from the fold of his breeches. Henry hadn’t been named the Hawk just for his patrician nose; indeed his valet Ames had laughed as he had recounted the rumors that it was because he located his prey, watched them, and then, some whispered, killed them with his bare hands. Henry smoothed at the soft material of his breeches and shrugged inwardly; they would say what they will. But that episode in Wales was a case in point. There
were
some things that just came with the job. He jiggled his knee with impatience.

Granwich took another sip of the brandy. “We feel that it would be a good idea if you,” he coughed, “if you took a wife.” Granwich knocked back the amber liquid and subsided back into his chair.

Henry gazed at the older man, the smoke from the fire tickling his eyes as he refused to blink. Heat coursed through his body, right down to his feet. He hoped desperately it was the effects of the fire and the enveloping warmth of the over cushioned sofa. Putting a foot slowly out, he stood and turned the chair to shield himself from the flames. Facing away from Granwich, he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath in, and out, blinking furiously. Twisting his lips upwards slightly, he turned round and sat down again, careful not to sink quite as far into the chair.

Granwich gazed into the bottom of his empty glass as if surprised to see it finished.

“Why?” Henry crossed his legs.

Granwich tipped the glass from side to side, the dregs of liquid rolling in its base. “You will be able to move about the ton more freely if you don’t have to avoid all the dowagers. I’ve heard that a new French spy is operating in London. I may need you to go after him.” He stopped tilting the glass and put it down on a low table that sat between them.

Henry folded his arms. It was true that he spent a reasonable amount of time in the card rooms. That was where all the good information was to be gathered. In general the dowagers had nothing interesting to impart. They started most conversations with ‘have you met my daughter?’ which he was most certainly not interested in. “Not good enough, Granwich.”

Granwich shifted uncomfortably, reached out for the glass and then, seeming to change his mind, withdrew his arm again. “To lay it on the line, Henry. You are not getting any younger. Many men your age are getting leg shackled now. If you stay single, people will begin to
talk
.”

Henry nodded slowly, his cravat pinching tightly against his chin. Dammit—he was only twenty eight, his best years were ahead of him. A woman would get in the way of his
search
. The wound on his head began to radiate pain down his skull again.

Granwich grimaced. “As unpalatable as it might by Henry, you can’t be a spy if scurrilous rumors surround your every move. You know about the art of subterfuge, especially given your family history.”

He continued to nod. He couldn’t stop himself as horror crept through his veins and seemed to take control of his head, pain radiating with every nod. Debutantes were
silly
. They were simpering misses whose veneer of sophistication covered either heads filled with sponge, or Machiavellian minds ready to entrap their next lord. They would have given any of the spies that he had caught a run for their money. Worst of all, they all ran the risk of getting rather a little too
close
to him. As he stopped nodding with a jerk, he put a hand to the back of his aching head. His mind slid dangerously towards the small figure in large boots who had nearly killed him. Her motives were refreshingly obvious. In fact she seemed to actively dislike him—so much the better.

“I will think on it,” he said.

Granwich sighed, obviously in relief, as a rap at the door sounded loudly over the hiss and spit of the fire. He drew a hand across his forehead. “Come in!”

A tall man with a hard look to his face pushed open the door, waving away the butler that danced behind him.

Granwich smiled. “Ah, Harding. Glad to see you. I think you have met Henry before.”

Henry nodded. The man, Earl Harding, jerked his head in response and stepped in, closing the door behind him.

“I’ve just informed Henry that I believe there to be a new French spy operating in London.” Granwich leaned forward.

Thank god he didn’t mention anything about encouraging Henry to get a wife.

The earl nodded and, walking over to an open bookcase, peered inside. “Let me know if I can help,” the earl said tersely. With deliberate movements, he selected a book and slipped it into his pocket. Glancing over his shoulder, he stopped and raised an eyebrow. “You may wish to contact Renard. He’s a turn coat and no one is actually sure who he works for. But if you trade with him, sometimes he will give you valuable information. He knows most of what there is to know about French movements into Britain. He trades out of Devon. William Standish is the man to contact with his whereabouts.”

As abruptly as he had entered, the earl gave a terse bow and withdrew.

Granwich scratched his head with a sigh. “Not sure what the matter is with that man. I’ve heard that it’s woman trouble. Hmm, Devon, that reminds me.” He paused and examined an elegant finger. “There’s one more thing. I’ve heard word of a boy down there. Lord Stanton’s son. Captains a smuggling boat out of Brambridge.” Granwich pinned Henry with a watery stare. “I’d like you to keep an eye on him. He might be useful in the future.”

Henry nodded.
Brambridge.
Oh gods. He’d hoped to never have to go there again.

CHAPTER 5

The book was in pristine condition with barely a crease on its leather spine. Agatha ran her hand over the cover and then pulled it towards her.

“Henry thought it might distract me.” Victoria leaned forward and stared out of the French windows to the small back garden. “But no matter how I read it, I am always lost after the third sentence.”

Conversations on Science
, Agatha read,
by Jane Marcet, First edition 1806.

“I feel rather a fool; after all in the foreword it does say that this is an elementary textbook written especially with women in mind.” Victoria fell back in her chair with a huff. “But I can’t help focusing more on the relationship between the two girls, Caroline and Emily. And the way they speak to their teacher Mrs. B.! Gosh. Far from promoting knowledge, I want to know whether they actually liked each other. They certainly seem rather catty if you ask me.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not interested in their observations on transpiration in boring plants. And what does the B in Mrs. B. stand for anyway?”

“I… I have no idea.” Sliding her finger down the center of the book, Agatha opened the bound pages at random.
Gunpowder is a mixture of five parts nitre to one part sulphur and one of charcoal… the constituents of which when heated to a certain degree enter into a number of new combinations, and are instantaneously converted into a variety of gases, the sudden expansion of which gives rise to the detonation.
With a sharp intake of breath, she closed the book and then opened it again at a different section,
the white of an egg contains a little sulphur therefore…

“Of course I was terribly grateful to Henry, but—”

Agatha sat on the edge of her seat and, tucking the book under her arm, picked her teacup off the table. Without noticing the tea was cold, she finished the cup and poured herself another.

Gazing over the top of the teacup, she stared at Victoria. “I could lose myself in this book for hours.”

Victoria stopped rambling and stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“This,” Agatha tapped at the book, “is a doorway to untold hours of interesting activity.”

Victoria raised her eyebrows. “Are you quite sure you’ve recovered from our dancing lesson? I was certain Monsieur Bertrand was going to have a heart attack when you stood on his left foot.”

Agatha sighed. “Quite recovered, thank you. I can’t help the fact that I’m slightly clumsy.”

“Hmm, that would explain why Madame Dupont stuck quite so many pins in your side.”

“Oh no. She did that out of spite.”

“Why on earth did she do that?”

“I suggested that she needed her eye glass reground; after all, it didn’t throw a perfect circle of light on the ground. Unfortunately I omitted to mention my reasoning and told her just after she commented on my chest measurements.”

“Oooh.”

Agatha nodded. “I got the feeling she did not like making up dresses for companions.”

“You are not a companion.” Victoria stood and put her hands on her hips. “You’re my friend.”

A warm flush swept up Agatha’s neck
. A friend
. She took in Victoria’s dull gaze and thought about their morning of quiet sewing, during which Victoria’s mood had inexplicably deepened. Stroking the embossed cover of the book with a tentative finger, she sat up. “What you have here,” she said slowly, “is a gold mine.”

“Gosh.” Victoria pulled open a terrace door and stepped out onto the patio, breathing in the cold autumn air. She pulled her wrap around her slight form and looked back through the window. “How novel.”

Agatha stood and pulled Victoria back into the drawing room. “You’ll catch your death of cold if you stand out there like that in this weather.”

Victoria sank into her seat and stared at the floor.

Rising to stand in front of Victoria, Agatha tapped her foot on the thick pile carpet and put a hand to her chin. “We shall follow the same experiments that the girls and their teacher undertake.”

Victoria frowned and looked up sharply. “Tutelage by Mrs. B.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what we’ll call it.”

The corners of Victoria’s mouth twitched. “When do we start?

Agatha smiled. “Right away. I happened to alight upon a very interesting ‘conversation’ when I opened the book at random. Mrs. B. says it has some scintillating results.”

“Is that your enthusiasm for science talking or Mrs. B.?”

“Alright. Mrs. B. only says it’s interesting. But I still think it sounds worth pursuing. Oh come on, Victoria, don’t be a nervous goose.”

Victoria sighed. “What do we need?”

“I think we ought to be able to get everything from the kitchen.”

“I’m not sure they will be very happy about us going down there.”

Agatha folded her arms in front of her. “And whyever not?”

“Since… Mama died, my brother deals with them. I… I stay out of the house affairs.”

“Hmm. Well perhaps it is time to get back into them.”      

“Agatha I can’t—what are you doing?”

Grabbing Victoria by the hand, Agatha towed her out of the room, into the hallway, and opened the door to below stairs. The sound of clattering pots and voices reached them from the kitchens below. Letting go of Victoria and tucking the Conversations on Science under her arm, Agatha clumped down the stairs.

In the lower kitchens, the head cook leant over the kitchen table, a pile of pork chops in a wrapping of brown paper open in front of her. Opposite her, a man in a straw boater and white coat dropped his knife to the table with a clatter.

“I ain’t coming back next week, Mrs. Noggin, I’ve got another job on.” The butcher scratched his head and picked up his knife again.

“Tis a pity, Albert, there ain’t anybody as good with a knife as you. Why those fillet steaks you gave us—”

“Ahem.” Agatha placed a hand over her mouth and coughed, but the cook kept on talking.

“—were right good ones. Mister Henry ate every last bit as normal, but I was so proud Miss Victoria had a little bit of it. She likes her jelly though. I worry for her, I do—”

Behind her, Victoria took in a large gulp of air. Agatha felt behind her and grasped at Victoria’s hand, squeezing it.

“Ahem,” Agatha tried again.

The cook turned her large form in surprise. “Miss Aggie—” She covered her mouth in evident distress—“Miss Victoria… I…”

“Err, I’ll be going.” The butcher bowed his head and quickly wrapped up the chops. He nodded his still bowed head and, turning quickly, left through the kitchen door.

“Me too.”

Agatha swung in surprise. She hadn’t noticed another man in the room, and yet she was only just quick enough to see a small glimpse of the side of his face and then his back as he disappeared behind the butcher.

The cook opened and closed her mouth a few times before sinking into a low oak kitchen chair. “Miss Victoria,” she repeated.

Victoria nodded silently and felt for a chair at the kitchen table. Gathering her purple skirts to her, she pulled the chair out and sank into it. With a sigh, Agatha shook her head and, filling a copper kettle with water, placed it on the still warm stove.

Mrs. Noggin half rose. “Miss Aggie, let me—”

Agatha shook her head. “You rest. I believe Victoria would like to ask you some questions. Victoria?”

Victoria stared at the table. “I… err… Mrs. Noggin… that is to say…”