The Primrose Path (9 page)

Angelina scratched the big dog’s ears and allowed as how she would consider his suggestion, when it was convenient for Mavis.

Corin nodded. He’d done his best to spike the architect’s guns. “Oh, and one other thing before I leave: Do you speak French?”

“Only what they teach schoolgirls. Enough to get by with your aunt’s mantua maker in Tunbridge Wells. Why?”

“Nothing important. A certain Frenchman might stop by looking for a place to stay, that’s all. If he does arrive before I return, send him on up to the castle. I’ll tell Penn, too, and the men in the stables.”

“Very well, what’s your friend’s name?”

Corin brushed a dog hair off his sleeve. He did not meet her direct green gaze. “I don’t know.”

“A foreign gentleman is going to stop at my home, and you don’t know his name?”

“Dash it, it’s a favor to a friend, and the Frenchman’s name makes no never mind. I’ve already got a Byronic house builder up at the castle, what’s one Frenchman more or less? Simply send him along like a good girl.” Corin bowed and rode off, thinking that he’d brushed through that coil nicely.

Angelina was thinking that she finally understood why the viscount was so determined to get her out of Primrose Cottage. He didn’t want it for his mistress, no, he had even more havey-cavey motives. The villain wanted to use Lady Sophie’s home for a smuggling operation. A favor to a friend, hah! That’s why Lord Knowle was never around, she reasoned. He was too busy directing an illegal-import band. Everyone knew the free traders operated on the coast, but they must need an inland loading station, too. The cottage would be perfect once the vile viscount had the place vacant, standing isolated as it was. His poor aunt must be having kitten fits in heaven.

One Frenchman more or less? How many spies was the viscount expecting to come ashore with the booty? Smuggling was bad enough but treason was even worse, and him a retired officer. The only questions in Angelina’s mind were whether she should notify the magistrate or the Preventive Officers, and how soon after his traitorous lordship left could she go reclaim Molly.

Chapter Ten

“What’s that, my boy, you want to go to France?” the Duke of Fellstone asked. His Grace blew a puff of cigar smoke Corin’s way. “No need, lad, no need at all. And too dangerous now, what?”

Corin cleared his throat. “Yes, but I thought that since L’Ecrivain hasn’t made an appearance, I’d go help the fellow get out of France. As you say, as long as the Scribe is in danger of falling into Fouché’s hands, none of our other agents are safe. If taken, the Scribe could cry rope on any number of our people, give up whatever codes he was using to pass on information to his contacts.”

“No codes, and only one contact, Knowle; that’s all the scribbler would deal with. Safer all around, what? Even if it meant we didn’t know the bloke’s identity. That chap, the contact, is already in London, safe as houses. We aren’t complete codsheads, what?”

Some of them would be kippered herring before this was over, unless Corin managed to intercept the spy. His eyes watering from the smoke, he asked, “What does the man say? Our agent, that is, does he say where the Scribe is now? How soon we can expect him, which bit of coastline to watch? Anything?”

His Grace nodded his approval. “Good of you to be so concerned over L’Ecrivain. One of the best anti-Bonapartists we’ve had, of course, deserves our solicitude. Brilliant essayist, what? But you don’t have to worry, lad, our man says the Scribe is safe for now in some hidey-hole. Didn’t know where or when— L’Ecrivain was too downy a bird to tell in case our lad got himself arrested before leaving France—just that she’d be on her way soon.”

“But how soon, dash it, and—She?”

“Clever, what? Never would have guessed it myself, a female propagandist. And that’s not the best part.”

“It’s not?” Corin was suddenly yearning to light up a cigar, too.

“No, the best part is that our man knows her real name. He can tell us at this point because the game is over. If Mademoiselle Lavalier does get back to France, she cannot resume her identity. Too well known, what?”

“Mademoiselle Lavalier?” the viscount asked with a sinking feeling. “Not...?”

His Grace chuckled, which turned into a coughing fit. Corin jumped up and poured him a glass of wine from the decanter on the desk. He poured himself one, too, not waiting for an invitation.

“Not Mercedes Lavalier, the dancer? Not the most popular courtesan in Paris?” If ever there was a time for God to answer prayers, Corin thought, this was it.

He obviously hadn’t prayed loudly enough, for the duke slapped his thigh. “The very one. I couldn’t believe it myself, but I had someone over there check. La Lavalier hasn’t performed at the French court in a fortnight, and hasn’t been seen on any officer’s arm lately, either. Besides, her house was ransacked by the security police. That ought to tell you something.”

Yes, that he was a dead man. “But... but...”

His Grace picked up another cigar and puffed and puffed until he had it lighted properly. “I know, I found it hard to reconcile myself, that dasher composing those essays. But it’s no wonder she was able to get us such valuable information and so much of it. They say Mercedes Lavalier has been with every officer in Napoleon’s army and every adviser in his cabinet. Brave and brazen, fine combination, what?”

“But I cannot bring the most notorious cyprian in France into my home!”

His Grace set the cigar aside. “Of course not, lad. Not fitting at all. Never expected it of you. That little cottage will do just fine.”

Oh, hell.

“Couldn’t be better, or safer for our ally. If anyone notices her, they’ll think she’s your
chére amie.
What could be less suspicious? A well-set-up chap like yourself is bound to have an elegant bit of fluff stashed away on the corner of his property.”

Viscount Knowle already did. Several elegant bits of fluff, in fact. He still bore the tooth marks from one of them. “But it’s impossible. All the company, the house...”

“The woman is an entertainer, my boy. What’s more natural than for your gentlemen guests to go be entertained? Looking forward to seeing her dance myself. That is, looking forward to seeing what new details she’s able to give us about the Corsican’s operations. Big service to your country, what?”

What if he just threw himself on a French cannon?

* * * *

Before leaving London, Lord Knowle interviewed applicants for the position of schoolteacher, rejecting every one of them. All of those who replied to his secretary’s inquiries were studious, sincere, single young men. But Corin had heard the children laugh during Miss Armstead’s lessons. He wanted someone like that, who would make learning a pleasure, not a self-righteous scholar like his own tutors and dons. In addition, none of the applicants admitted to liking dogs. They couldn’t even understand what the viscount’s question had to do with informing young minds. Corin wasn’t sure, either, but he was certain it was important.

He visited his clubs to hear the latest
on dits,
thankful that his name wasn’t one of them yet. He stopped by Tattersall’s to look over the newest batch of auction horses. The Knoll’s stables didn’t boast of many ladies’ mounts, discounting his sisters’ ancient ponies. If he was having guests this summer—Gads, would he have to mount Mademoiselle Lavalier also? On a horse, that is. No, she wouldn’t be in Kent long enough. Corin fully intended to ship her off to another of his properties before those blasted primroses bloomed. National security be damned.

Next the viscount paid a courtesy call at Wyte House, one of the largest, most ostentatious residences in Belgrave Square. No chance of his gloves getting chewed here, not with four footmen and the underbutler standing guard over them while the butler escorted Lord Knowle down a corridor filled floor to ceiling with statues and still lifes, artifacts and urns of flowers.

Miss Wyte was not in, but her father received Corin in his study, which, instead of works of the great masters like the hallway, was decorated with the work of a great white hunter, and mediocre taxidermists. The spacious room was filled with stuffed hunting trophies, their dull glass eyes reflecting Corin’s dismal future.

Lord Wyte was pleased to see Corin, for now. Of course he was; he didn’t yet suspect that Viscount Knowle was strewing Kent with kept women. He’d find out quickly enough, Corin knew, for Mercedes Lavalier was not one to remain tucked safely away, and, once seen, she was not easily forgotten.

He’d been meaning to write, the nabob told Corin while they waited for three servants to pour two glasses of cognac, intending to ask the viscount if he and his poppet Melissa might move their visit ahead by a month or two. Or three, since the viscount was fixed in Kent for a while, paying respect to his aunt’s memory. His little girl was getting sadly pulled by the hectic pace in Town, her doting papa reported. Not that Missy was delicate in the least, Wyte reassured Corin, waving his beringed fingers in the air. She was simply more used to the quieter country ways. Of course she’d be a fine hostess, for Melissa knew her way around Polite Society already, did his precious. But she was yearning for fresh air, flowers, and proper horseback rides, not the tame park excursions available in Town.

Corin was happy he’d bought that sweet little bay mare until Lord Wyte announced that his Missy had her own Arabian filly they’d bring along with them to Kent. Looked a real treat, she did, her proud papa informed the viscount, a fine rider. Wyte had seen to that. He waved the rubies and diamonds toward the stuffed heads on the walls. Melissa had even been on one or two of these hunts with the nabob, it seemed. Corin politely mentioned that he kept a pack of foxhounds, and they might have some good runs, but Wyte just laughed, a loud braying kind of laugh, worse than Dumpling the donkey’s.

“Precious might find it tame sport after tigers, heh heh, but she won’t embarrass a noted Corinthian like yourself on the field. A lot in common, you two, heh heh.”

All of which Corin took to mean that he was no longer the hunter, he was the prey. He glanced again at the bearskin rug, the elephant’s-foot cane stand, and the zebra cushions. He didn’t think he cared to be on this end of the safari.

Either no better suitor had come up to scratch or Miss Wyte was forming an unsuitable attachment her father wanted to discourage—or she liked Corin. She could ride in Richmond, she could rest in Bath, she could admire flowers at the Covent Garden markets. She did not, therefore, need to arrive in Kent early. Especially not now. But what could he tell her father? No, you and your paragon of a daughter cannot come early because the roof of Knowle Castle is undergoing repair, or Cook has a toothache. He couldn’t say he was expecting a French whore on his doorstep, a doorstep which was, incidentally, littered with dogs’ calling cards. No, Corin didn’t think he could tell Midas Micah Wyte any of those things.

“It will be my pleasure whenever you and Miss Wyte choose to grace my humble home, my lord. Except...”

Lord Wyte leaned forward, fixing Corin in his intense glare. “Except?”

Corin thought he understood how the rabbit felt in the hunter’s sights. “Except that I have no hostess at the castle right now. Not that you aren’t a proper chaperon for your own daughter, my lord, but I would be remiss to permit Miss Wyte to visit a bachelor’s establishment without a respectable older woman in residence. I am only thinking of milady’s reputation, you know.”

Hell, Lord Knowle was thinking of saving his own skin. Papa Wyte would have Corin’s head on this very wall if little Miss Melissa should be contaminated by the likes of La Lavalier. Then, too, there was that avaricious gleam in the nabob’s eye that Corin distrusted. He wanted a proper dragon so no one could cry compromise. The viscount wasn’t going to be coerced into any forced marriage, nor would he permit the girl’s ambitious father to push her into an unwelcome alliance.

Melissa Wyte wasn’t an unfledged deb, Corin knew. She was closer to twenty, but her father had kept her so wrapped in cotton wool that she retained a sweet innocence that appealed to the viscount. Now he feared that Melissa was too weak-willed to stand up to her father if she did indeed prefer to wed another man. Then again, if she really went tiger hunting with the old jackass, it was Corin who was in danger.

His mother was scheduled to arrive at the castle in June. Lud, Corin didn’t want her there any sooner, not harping on his duty to marry and beget more little Knowltons lest Cousin Arlo inherit. She’d have Corin engaged to the heiress so fast his head would spin. And heaven knew what Mama would think about Miss Armstead.

Now there was a woman who wouldn’t let any man tell her what to do. It didn’t make her any less feminine, Corin surprised himself to admit, just more difficult and more interesting.

The viscount was brought back from his musings by Lord Wyte’s clearing his throat. “As for a chaperon, Knowle, I’ve already thought of that. Met your sister at Almack’s t’other night, and she thought spring in the country would suit her and her children to a cow’s thumb.”

Corin groaned. Florrie was always ready to attend house parties; they were less expensive than paying her own upkeep. She was especially fond of visiting the Knoll, where she could try to wheedle a better position in the government for her ne’er-do-well husband out of Corin’s influential friends. And she always thought her brood should know their Knowlton heritage. Corin thought they’d be better off knowing some discipline, from what he’d seen of the little monsters. Still, the castle was large enough to lose the two brats. And maybe they’d like a dog!

He nodded, agreeing to consult with Florrie about the earlier date for his house party, a party that would see the destruction of his reputation and his career and his prospective betrothal—and his sibling’s fond regard. There was a silver lining after all.

But maybe it wouldn’t be all that bad. Mercedes could dance, Lena could get her dogs to do tricks, and Miss Wyte could ride bareback on her Arabian filly. He’d call it a circus and charge admission.