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“His Grace, the Duke of Moorleigh, sir,” Houndsley announced.
Avery tossed aside the book he’d been trying to read with little success and watched his uncle stride into the drawing room. While the distraction wasn’t a pleasant one, it was a distraction nonetheless. After two days of convalescing, Avery felt bored and agitated.
“Your Grace, good to see you.” Avery offered a moderately genuine smile.
Moorleigh sniffed. “You can drop the act, Winfield. Why haven’t you come to see me as I requested?”
Avery waved a hand at the blanket across his lap. “My sincere apologies, but I’ve been a bit under the weather.”
“Anything serious?” His uncle’s gaze narrowed. He likely feared Avery would contract some sort of fatal illness and die without an heir, which would result in the title and estate going to some far distant relative upon the duke’s death.
“I’m feeling much better today. Thank you.”
Moorleigh frowned as he took the chair opposite Avery’s. “I hope this illness doesn’t prevent you from taking full advantage of this year’s season.” Avery resisted the urge to roll his eyes—he’d heard some form of this speech for the last seven years, ever since he’d turned twenty-one and had been, in his uncle’s eyes, of age to “do his duty” to the family name. “You and I are not getting any younger, nephew. And I would like to see that the title and estate are properly cared for, at least for the next few generations.”
“I’m certain you’ll be around a great while longer, Moorleigh. Look at Grandmama.” The woman was in her late seventies and still fit as a fiddle.
“Yes, but the men in our family haven’t fared as well.”
Neither had Avery’s mother. She’d died shortly after Avery’s fifth birthday. The day after the funeral his father had taken up drinking in excess.
Frowning, Avery glanced out the nearby window at the carriages and passersby moving outside the townhouse. He didn’t want to think about his father or the man’s premature demise four years ago. The memories inspired only shame and grief within Avery. Shame for being glad the man could no longer hound and criticize him and grief for what might have been had his father stayed away from drinking.
“My father chose a one-way ticket to an early grave,” he said, unable to check the bitterness from his tone, “unlike yours.”
The duke brought his right boot to rest against his left knee. “True, but he wasn’t the only father who could be critical.”
Avery glanced sharply at his uncle. Was the duke suggesting his own father had been similar in temperament to Avery’s? He could remember so little about his grandfather, but perhaps Avery and his uncle had more in common than he’d previously thought. The idea surprised him. “Is there something you wished to discuss?” he asked, needing a change of subject.
“There is.” Moorleigh cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s not good news.”
Bracing himself for the worst, Avery waited. He hoped there was nothing ailing his grandmother. It had been some time since he’d last visited Beechwood Manor to see her.
“The estate is not as profitable as it once was,” his uncle said, his tone matter-of-fact. “My father spent a great deal more than he made during his lifetime, and your father’s . . . expenditures . . . didn’t help. We’ve been economizing for the past four years, but it may not be enough to save her.” The pinched look in his eyes belied his casual manner.
Avery ran a hand over his face, hoping to hide his astonishment at his uncle’s words. Why hadn’t he been told about the estate’s troubles sooner? Pushing aside his surprise, he settled on what he could control—new ideas for possible retrenchment. If they needed to sell his father’s London residence—Avery’s residence now—he’d do it. He could stay in a hotel while he continued ferreting out enemy spies among the ton.
“Being entailed, we cannot sell the land. However, Beechwood Manor is in great need of cash.”
Avery released a frustrated breath. The amount of money he made working for the Secret Service Bureau wouldn’t be enough to save the estate. It was barely enough to support himself, though he did like knowing he had his own money to spend as he saw fit, independent of his allowance from the Moorleigh coffers. “What would you have me do?”
“You could marry . . .” Moorleigh let the proposition hang in the air between them. Avery started to shake his head, but his uncle pressed on. “Aligning yourself with a woman of means would make a difference. It might be the only way to make a difference.”
“And who, pray tell, would I marry?”
“There are a number of wealthy girls in town this year. Any one of them would do nicely.”
An urge to stand and pace seized him, but Avery couldn’t oblige it. His wound was still healing, and he couldn’t afford the additional time it would take to recover should he aggravate it. “It’s a wonder you never married yourself, Uncle, since you seem to think it the answer to our problems.”
The duke’s fingers stilled, and a sad expression settled in his light gray eyes. “There was a girl, many, many years ago.” For a moment he looked much younger than fifty-two. Then the wistfulness passed and he straightened, his expression hardening. “However, my father found the match lacking in both fortune and connections.”
“But you’re confident I can secure both.” Avery didn’t state it as a question, but his uncle nodded anyway. He didn’t want to consider marrying, especially for money. His employment gave him purpose, a way to prove his father had been wrong about him, that Avery wasn’t a disappointment to those around him. Marriage would end all of that.
“I’m only asking you to consider the matter and to attend more social events this season.” The duke’s tone was surprisingly kind. “Don’t follow in my footsteps. A wife can bring happiness, and at the very least, companionship. And there is no shame in finding a young lady of means who can benefit the estate as well.”
Avery swallowed hard. His grandmother would be devastated to see the estate fall into disrepair. But he couldn’t remain one of Kell’s agents and take a wife. It would be too dangerous. “How much time do we have? Before things are . . . dire?”
“Six months, perhaps a little more.”
Plenty of time for the two of them to work out a different, more acceptable solution to the estate’s financial woes. “I’ll consider it and I promise to attend more events this season.” Doing so would not only appease his uncle, but give him more chances to discover who among the ton was working for Germany.
Moorleigh released a sigh, but the exhale seemed to imply more than relief. There was something else weighing on the man’s conscience.
“Was there anything else you wish to discuss?” Avery asked.
A knock at the door had them both turning in that direction before his uncle could answer. Houndsley appeared and announced, “Lord Linwood, here to see you, sir.” Avery glanced at his uncle, lifting his brows in silent question. Did the duke wish for Avery to send his friend away so they could finish their conversation?
“We can discuss these matters again at another time,” Moorleigh responded as he stood. “Good day, Winfield.”
“Good day, Uncle.”
The man exited the room. Less than a minute later, Linwood entered. “Winfield. Heard you’d taken ill.”
“Nothing of consequence.” Avery shook his friend’s hand before Linwood took the seat the duke had vacated.
“How was the opera?”
Avery fought a grimace. “Most enlivening. Thank you again for the use of your box.”
“Think nothing of it,” Linwood said, shaking his head. “It’s there whenever you’d like.”
“I don’t wish to impose. I’m sure you and your lovely wife have plans to use the box for yourselves.”
His friend’s normally bright demeanor dimmed. “I’m not sure how many operas Lady Linwood and I will be attending this season. And I’d hate to see the box remain empty.”
There was something more to the man’s simple statement, though Avery couldn’t deduce what it was.
“How is Lady Linwood?” Avery had noticed some of the vibrancy fading from the young woman’s large green eyes over the past few months.
“She is . . . well.” Linwood straightened in his chair and smiled, but Avery didn’t miss the hollowness in the gesture. “She is actually the reason for my visit. We are hosting a dinner at our home this Friday, and I come bearing an invitation.”
Avery let out an audible groan. Just because he needed to attend more of the season’s events didn’t mean he wished to.
“I know, chap.” Linwood chuckled. “But your presence will make it more tolerable, believe me.” He bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Besides, there’s to be an American in attendance, a young woman of my wife’s acquaintance. A raven-haired beauty, or so I’m told.”
Stifling another groan—would no one cease trying to marry him off?—Avery managed to ask with mild politeness, “Who is she?”
Linwood’s gaze gleamed with victory. “Her name is Gwenyth Barton. She’s the niece of Lady Rodmill and the cousin of our old school chum Roddy.”
“Roddy?” Avery echoed with surprise.
Bert Rodmill was more than just a fellow university student—he was one of the men Avery suspected of spying for Germany. And his cousin would be at the Linwoods’ dinner party.
It would almost seem providential, if Avery believed in that sort of thing. He fought a grin as triumph swept through him. He would see what this Gwenyth Barton revealed about her cousin. Hopefully it would be enough information to more definitely conclude if Rodmill was actually a spy.
“Tell Lady Linwood that I accept the invitation.”
Instead of smiling, his friend frowned and regarded Avery through a slightly narrowed gaze. “I’ve never known you to be so willing to attend a social engagement. And I’ve known you a long time.”
Avery lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Can’t a chap change?”
“Not you.” Linwood scrutinized him again, then stood. “We’re happy to have you. Though I will figure out the real reason for your easy acquiescence, Winfield. You’ll see.”
This time Avery let his grin break through. “Give it your best try, old friend. But you shall never guess.”
*
Gwen half expected to find the London residence of Lord and Lady Linwood to be uncomfortably lavish, given the heiress had married an earl. And while the furnishings and décor did speak of wealth, what Gwen saw on her way to the drawing room appeared more tasteful and welcoming than overly opulent.
“Miss Barton!” Lady Linwood held out both her gloved hands to Gwen. Her cream-colored dinner dress with sapphire accents highlighted the red-gold color of her hair and the green of her eyes.
Smiling, Gwen clasped the lady’s hands in hers. “Lady Linwood. It’s wonderful to see you again.”
“I can’t tell you how delighted I am to have you and your mother, fellow Americans, here with us tonight,” Lady Linwood admitted in a mock whisper. “Especially one I consider to be a friend. And may I say, you look stunning in pink, Miss Barton.”
The sincerity of her compliment and the warmth of her gaze put Gwen immediately at ease. Clare Herschel might be an earl’s wife now, but her kind regard for others hadn’t diminished. Though Gwen sensed an undercurrent of sadness in the other young woman’s smile that couldn’t be completely masked. The realization tugged at her compassion. She hoped Clare had found—and would continue to find—happiness in her new life.
“Miss Barton, may I present my husband, Lord Linwood?” She motioned to the man standing beside her. He was nice-looking with dark blond hair and light blue eyes.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Linwood.”
The earl bowed and offered Gwen a pleasant smile. “A friend of Lady Linwood’s is a friend of mine, Miss Barton.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He turned toward a gentleman standing slightly behind the couple. “Miss Barton, this is my oldest and most loyal friend, Mr. Avery Winfield.”
While Lord Linwood was pleasing in appearance, Gwen found his friend to be far handsomer than any man she’d yet been introduced to. His brown hair and eyes were the color of coffee and perfectly complemented the strong cut of his jaw. And his charming smile at her prolonged silence elicited the sudden speeding of her pulse.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Winfield,” she managed after a moment, though her cheeks warmed with embarrassment over her delayed reply.
Mr. Winfield bowed. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Barton. I believe we have a mutual friend, in addition to Lady Linwood.”
“Oh?” Gwen stepped toward him to allow the other guests to move through the receiving line.
“Your cousin Bert Rodmill attended university with me and Lord Linwood.”
“Ah.” She blushed again at voicing another one-word response.
If he noticed, Mr. Winfield thankfully didn’t point it out. Instead he asked, “Are you and your cousin well acquainted?”
“Not really, no. Before this visit, the last time I saw Bert was four years ago when he and his parents visited us in America.”
There, that was more than a single-word answer. But Mr. Winfield looked more disappointed than impressed. Did he think she ought to know more about her cousin than she did?
“Bert’s a fine young man,” she added belatedly.
Mr. Winfield gave a distracted nod as if he hadn’t heard her. “How are you enjoying London, Miss Barton?”
“I don’t know that I could say just yet. I’ve been here less than three weeks.”
There was so much more she wanted to see and do while in London besides attend one dreary, monotonous social engagement after another. Like visiting Dr. Smithfield’s office. She’d learned the address, but she hadn’t yet formulated a plan for how or when to visit.
Mr. Winfield’s answering chuckle took her by surprise. Did he find her honesty entertaining? Or did he think she was being intentionally coy? Since attending the opera the week before, Gwen had maintained her resolve to be herself—at least when out of earshot of her mother.
“Did I say something humorous, Mr. Winfield?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. But I assure you, Miss Barton, you may speak plainly to me about your opinions of our fair city.”
“I am speaking plainly.”
He leaned closer. “My guess is you find this place and its social pace rather tedious.”
His candidness both confused and nettled her, though she wouldn’t trade it for the hollow pleasantries she’d received from other Englishmen. “I’ve seen a great many things and people I wouldn’t call tedious.” Though she was beginning to think Mr. Winfield wasn’t one of them.
“You aren’t here because you wish to be, though, are you?”
Gwen frowned. Perhaps he wasn’t as handsome as she’d first believed. Certainly, his appeal was growing dimmer by the minute. It was almost as if he were trying to bait her, but she couldn’t fathom why. “That may be true, but I don’t see why that should matter to anyone.” Least of all to this man she’d only just met.
“I meant no offense. I’m only surprised.” He regarded her, his mouth twitching with a barely concealed smile. “You don’t possess the same wide-eyed exuberance or veiled flirtation so many other socialites exhibit, especially the American ones.”
Gwen wasn’t sure if she ought to feel complimented or insulted by such an observation. His growing smile had her leaning toward the latter conclusion. But he wasn’t the only one with a gift for scrutiny. Having spent a fair number of social functions along the periphery of the room, Gwen had developed a rather keen ability for observation herself.
“I don’t think you wish to be here any more than I do,” she countered in a soft voice.
He gave an impatient sniff. “How so?”
“I drew my conclusion by the way you were hanging back from Lord and Lady Linwood and the arched looks you’ve been throwing around the room.” Gwen met his level gaze with one of her own. “You don’t seem intent on impressing me either, Mr. Winfield, which leads me to believe you, thankfully, want nothing to do with my fortune.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Gwen wasn’t finished. “If this isn’t where you wish to be either, I’m curious as to why you are here at all. Perhaps it’s only as a favor to your good friend over there. However, if that’s true, then I’d think you would choose to be more civil to the earl’s guests and not interrogate them.”
The look of astonishment that settled onto his face was more than satisfying. Gwen swallowed a laugh. The man might be attractive, but he was far too arrogant and intrusive for her liking.
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Winfield.”
She didn’t bother trying to disguise her limp as she walked away from the insufferable man. Syble would be proud of her for speaking her mind instead of appearing to be the demure debutante she wasn’t. When Gwen reached her mother’s side, her heart was still beating too fast, though it was out of annoyance rather than attraction this time.
“Is something the matter, Gwen?” her mother asked a little too loudly. “You look flushed.”
She shook her head and pushed out a calming breath. “Not at all, Mother.” As long as she maintained a room’s width of distance between her and Mr. Winfield for the rest of the evening, she’d be fine.
*
Avery didn’t know whether to feel pleased or chagrinned at being seated beside Miss Barton for dinner. He’d hoped to glean information from her, not incur her ire. Perhaps he’d lost his charm in conversing with the ladies since becoming an agent for Captain Kell.
He cast a glance at his silent dinner companion and couldn’t help thinking what an effective spy Miss Barton would make. Her gift for observation had been as shocking as it was impressive. Could those abilities run in the family? Was her cousin Rodmill using a similar talent for deduction by currently spying for Germany?
One thing he did know—Lord Linwood’s assessment of Miss Barton’s beauty had been correct. Avery found her quite attractive with her dark hair and expressive hazel eyes. Ones that had regarded him with genuine interest at first, then narrowed with anger before she’d walked away. He’d noticed a slight hitch to her step as she crossed the room, which made him wonder if she’d sprained her ankle recently or suffered from some injury in the past.
The possibility elicited a measure of compassion inside him. After all, he wouldn’t be up and walking himself if Mack hadn’t worked wonders with Avery’s injury from the opera.
Briefly he considered whether she might be the American girl who’d helped him. But Avery threw out the notion almost at once. From what he could remember, his opera young lady, as he’d come to think of her, had been sweet and courteous—which made her far different from the other American girls he’d met during past seasons. Miss Barton struck him as much quieter than her compatriots from the States, but she was also far too observant and frank when she did speak her mind.
Although, Avery supposed he had goaded her after learning the disappointing news that she and her cousin weren’t well acquainted with another. His grandmother would be just as appalled as Miss Barton about his ungentlemanly behavior, and rightly so. Even by American standards, he had been rude. He hated the idea of his grandmother thinking badly of him, which meant it was past time to rectify his earlier ill manners.
“Miss Barton?”
She turned to look at him, her olive-brown eyes no longer flashing with fire but veiled with wariness. “Yes?”
“I believe I owe you an apology.” He cleared his throat. Had Mack tied his cravat too tightly this evening? “I was inexcusably rude earlier. I fear I’ve always been rather inquisitive, but that is no excuse for . . . how did you say it . . . interrogating my friend’s guests?”
Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink. “I’m sorry as well, Mr. Winfield. I don’t regret speaking my mind, but perhaps I could have been more . . . tactful.”
“Actually, I found our exchange rather refreshing,” he said, taking a sip of his wine.
She studied him with apparent disbelief before she must have sensed his sincerity. Then a fetching smile lifted her lips. “If we’re speaking plainly, then I have to say I found it slightly refreshing too.”
Avery laughed as he set his goblet back down. Miss Barton’s smile deepened. “In that case, I am eager to hear what other less-than-tactful thoughts you have inside your head.”
“Oh, no.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “I won’t be so easily pressed into speaking frankly again, Mr. Winfield. How about you speak plainly about yourself instead?”
“Touché,” he murmured as he turned to study the other guests seated around the table. What could he share? His life of late hinged on his abilities of deception. “I don’t care for soup.”
Miss Barton eyed him curiously, though he could tell she was trying not to laugh. “Soup? Is this a lifelong dislike or a more recent one?”
“I’ve never cared for the stuff.” Not after watching his mother dine on soup alone after she took ill. “Now it’s your turn.”
She glanced across the table. “I’d rather be reading or helping with my cousin’s charity work back home than socializing.”
The admission didn’t surprise him. He’d noticed right away that she didn’t appear to find enjoyment among the dinner guests and swirling conversations as some young ladies did, though she had masked her discomfort well. What astounded him was the absence of flirtatious coyness in her mannerisms. She wasn’t trying to entice him with her honest answers; she was simply being herself. That knowledge was as inspiring as her frankness.
“Yet here you are,” he said after a moment.
She smiled at him. “Here I am.”
“How do you plan to make it through the season?” He truly wanted to know.
Miss Barton stabbed a morsel of food with her fork. “With a great deal of work and prayer.”
“Prayer?” he echoed, more loudly than he intended. This was definitely not the answer he’d expected. He lowered his voice to ask, “Are you religious, Miss Barton?”
She gave him a puzzled look. “Yes.”
“I wonder, then, which will drive you to the point of madness first,” he said, half teasing her. “The shocking lack of reading time you’ll have while in London or the absence of religion and faith you’ll find among the ton.”
Miss Barton frowned. “That sounds a bit extreme. I’m sure there are men and women among London’s elite who are religious.”
“Oh, they’re religious, all right.” He didn’t bother to squelch his acerbic tone. “If you mean they attend church and occasionally give to the poor. But by and large, their intention is to safeguard their reputations, not their souls or the well-being of those less fortunate.”
His father had been that way—appearing to be religious, while treating his own son harshly—and the hypocrisy of his actions still disturbed Avery. It was another reason he’d given up on his boyhood faith.
She lifted her chin slightly. “I imagine there must be people among the ton who love and honor God. Who seek Him in prayer for guidance in their lives, and, having witnessed His love, wish to share that with others.”
“That’s a rather naïve point of view.”
It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it the instant her gaze flashed with anger once more. “If that is naivety, then I’ll accept that as a compliment, Mr. Winfield.” She spit out his name as if it were a distasteful piece of mutton.
“Let me ask you this.” He swiveled to face her, ignoring the warning in his head that told him to keep silent. “What do you value most in your future husband?” Before she could respond, he went on. “I believe I can guess. Love, faith, affection? Those are likely at the top of your list, are they not?”
Tension had stiffened her shoulders and thinned her mouth. “I know you’re mocking me, but yes, those are qualities I wish for in a husband.”
“Is a title not one of them?”
Instead of firing back a sharp retort as he’d expected, she threw a glance in the direction of her mother, her face turning slightly pale. “Not for me.”
Avery could easily surmise what she wasn’t saying. It was Mrs. Barton who hoped to tether her daughter to a titled gentleman. The woman certainly wouldn’t be the first matron to do so. His own mother had been matched with his father in a similar scheme. And where had that left her, left their family?
He himself had fended off more than one scheming matron every season. There were plenty of mothers eager to marry their daughters off to the nephew of a childless duke, even if love and affection or even simple respect had no place in the arrangement.
“I’m not mocking you, Miss Barton.” All the fight had left him. “I merely wish to offer some friendly advice.” When she didn’t protest, he continued. “Clinging to one’s faith and to notions of romantic love is far more difficult than you might believe when you are living among London’s upper class. It’s like clinging to a buoy in the middle of the ocean during a storm.”
“Then I’ll take comfort in knowing the God I trust is Master of waves and sea.” Her eyes glowed with flinty resolve. “I hope to marry someone I love, but if that isn’t a possibility, then I’ll remain as I am and trust that God has other plans for me and my life.”
A flicker of memory darted through his mind—in it, he was a little boy sitting beside his mother, her arm cradling him to her side. Remember to include God in your plans, Avery. He will make of them something far greater than you can accomplish on your own. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He didn’t want to recall his mother’s faith. What good had it done her to hold to it?
Miss Barton didn’t speak to him again, to Avery’s relief, but her silence also left him feeling inexplicably frustrated. He was grateful when she and the other women finally withdrew from the dining room, leaving the men to their cigarettes and brandy, even if Avery didn’t partake of either.
She’d proven to be no help in providing him with information about her cousin. Now that Avery knew that, he could go back to tracking down the enemy spy on his own and hopefully avoid interacting with Miss Barton for the rest of the season.