The Christmas house party at Wolfbrook Hall was a large one, and Frances hated large parties. She was always made to feel clumsy and unattractive and, according to her mother when Frances tore herself away from the Gospel of St. Matthew to get dressed for dinner, unfashionably late.
“You’re wearing that?” her mother asked, followed by a long sigh. “I suppose you don’t have much choice in color with your auburn hair. It comes from your father’s side, you know.”
Frances knew. She’d heard it often enough. With a sigh, she said, “What’s wrong with lilac?”
“It’s a spring color, not a Christmas color.” Georgina smirked at her sister. Georgina was dressed in red velvet, so of course, with her blonde hair, blue eyes, and svelte figure, she looked lovely.
Frances stepped to the other side of her mother so not to be too close to the color that made her skin turn ruddy and her hair turn muddy. Once Georgina had realized how Frances looked around red, she had worn it at every opportunity. Tonight was no exception.
“I’m walking in with your father. Go stand next to your sister, Frances,” her mother ordered.
Georgina smirked. Walking next to Frances would guarantee Georgina would look especially beautiful, and Frances knew it. She suspected their mother planned their entrance for the first dinner this way, being determined to find her younger daughter a suitable spouse.
Their mother had given up on Frances years ago.
Their father joined them, gave them all equal smiles followed by a wink to Frances, and they paraded downstairs to the hall outside the dining room.
“How unfortunate, that lilac,” Lady Crawford whispered to her son, Henry, as she glanced at Frances, who couldn’t help but overhear. Lady Crawford whispered as if she wanted the entire room to hear her every thought.
“Sorry. I was looking elsewhere,” Henry said and gave Georgina a wide smile. His eyes never wavered toward Frances.
Hurt and shame tightened the muscles in Frances’s face and throat until she was certain her expression must be a frightening grimace. She breathed a sigh of relief when the doors to the dining room opened and the group strolled inside.
The table was huge, easily accommodating the guests. Gleaming silverware and sparkling glassware were spread on white linen at every place. Candles burned from candelabras placed around the table and along the edges of the room. Frances barely had time to appreciate the elegance before she found herself seated between Colonel Sir Robert Willard of the British Army and Lord Ramsey of the Foreign Office.
Both men were over forty and married, unlike her sister’s dinner partners, the youthful and unmarried Henry Crawford and the young and eligible Lord Wethers. Frances wondered if this was at the request of the wives of her dinner partners who weren’t worried about their husbands straying with her, or her sister’s dinner partners who wanted a potential parti to dine with.
Frances glanced at the head of the table where Walter Ogilvy sat. She didn’t see the masked earl she’d met earlier. She turned to Colonel Sir Robert Willard. “Where is the earl? Isn’t he eating with us?”
“Wolfbrook never eats in company. His mouth was damaged in the attack. He can only eat soft food. Doesn’t want to be stared at. Doesn’t want people feeling sorry for him.”
“Have you met him?”
“Yes. We served in France together. Espionage, you know. I doubt you’ll meet him during this house party. I only get to meet him in his rooms by invitation. But Walter and Susanna Ogilvy will have plenty of entertainment for you youngsters. You’ll have a good time.”
Don’t count on it. Frances gave him a smile and asked how he and his men were adjusting to life in England after their part in the war. She learned many of his soldiers were Welsh who were glad to leave the continent and return to their villages in time for Christmas.
Then the next course arrived, served by liveried servants, and Frances turned to Lord Ramsey. “Are you friends with the earl or with Walter Ogilvy?”
“Both, actually. They were both involved with the Foreign Office during the fighting. Shame about poor John. He suffered a brutal attack. Disfigured him. He turned into a recluse. Would you pass me the rolls?”
Frances discovered Lord Ramsey had been at Wolfbrook Hall before, and they began a discussion of the building’s architecture. Lord Ramsey looked shocked when she mentioned the mathematics behind the spacing of the windows.
Silence fell between them. Frances, practicing her never too steady social skills, said into the break, “Who would do such a terrible thing to the earl?”
“The French, of course. Dirty scoundrels. Pardon my language, young lady.”
Frances nodded at his apology. “Was this during a battle?”
“No. Before. He was caught spying.”
Her father had mentioned how nasty the French were to spies. Frances shuddered as a servant brought the next course.
Eventually, dinner was over, and the ladies adjourned to the drawing room, allowing the men to have their brandy and cigars in peace. Frances walked along, wishing she could become invisible. All they would discuss was courtship and marriage and children, while her mother would glance at her with fury in her eyes. Georgina would simper, and their mother would be congratulated on her beautiful, talented daughter. Other women, married, settled, secure, would look on Frances with pity.
How she hated their pity.
There were two eligible young ladies, Frances didn’t count herself, and the next half hour was spent suggesting matches for each. The girls themselves commented favorably on the matches for each other and showed none of their true hostility for their rival.
Frances could bear it no longer. “Is the earl married? I’ve not heard mention of a countess.”
A few of the women laughed. Lady Crawford said, “Haven’t you heard? He’s a monster. Disfigured by the French during the war. And he was so handsome before. A shame really. Not for Susanna, his brother’s wife, though. Her husband or her son will inherit once the earl dies.”
“Which shouldn’t be long now,” another matron said. “I’ve heard he’s bedridden from his injuries.”
“And he wasn’t married before the war?” Frances asked.
“No. He never married.”
“Poor man,” Georgina’s rival said.
The men joined them and all talk of marriage and the earl stopped. A footman came in and headed straight for Frances. She glanced around, wondering who he was really looking for when her father joined the footman. “Frances, the earl would like a word with you.”
She was in trouble for wandering into the library. That had to be it. She rose and said, “Yes, Papa.”
Aware that every eye in the room was on her, Frances linked arms with her father and kept her head held high as she followed the footman out of the room.
***
John looked up from his desk as a soft scratch was followed by the opening of the door to his study. He started to reach up for his mask to make sure it was in place before he consciously stopped his hand. He knew the blasted leather device was where it should be, hiding the scars and crushed bones that made up his face.
The brilliant beauty that was Miss Smith-Pressley came into the room in a lovely pale purple frock, walked up to his desk, and gave him a graceful curtsey. Unlike other young ladies, including his brother’s wife, she displayed no fear despite what she must think of meeting a masked man.
“You wanted to see me, my lord?”
“Yes. Thank you, Isaiah.”
The footman left, shutting Sir Edmund and his daughter in with John.
He leaned forward slightly and said, “Please, sit down. This may take a while. I’m sorry to take you away from the company.”
She walked over and sat in a straight-backed arm chair, and he found himself walking over to sit across from her before he realized he was being drawn from behind his desk.
“I have no desire to spend the evening listening to others bemoan my fate as a bluestocking. And your fire is quite pleasant,” she told him.
“I find the warmth helps with my—affliction.” Blast. Why did he mention his scars?
She gave a small nod as if filing the information away and then said, “How may I assist you?”
“We have a traitor in our midst. I tell you in the upmost secrecy that this party has been carefully planned to bring together all the possible candidates for traitor to our king and country.”
“You want my help in ferreting out the culprit? Why do you think I could be of use?” Frances looked genuinely puzzled. What she didn’t appear was frightened, or even mindful, of his appearance.
“Because you’re a wonder at math and cyphers and have the best mind in this entire assembly,” Sir Edmund said.
John flinched. He had forgotten Sir Edmund entirely. He was finding he forgot everything else when Miss Smith-Pressley was in front of him. And that could put him in danger from his old enemy.
“Do you need some writing deciphered?” she asked him.
John reached into his pocket and pulled out the twice folded piece of writing paper. He held it out and brushed her fingertips as he handed it to her.
He felt as if his hand was on fire. She seemed unaffected as she opened the note and read.
“This appears to be a request for an assignation. Are you sure it isn’t exactly as it appears?” Her clear hazel eyes stared straight into his. Thank goodness the holes for his eyes could be large enough to link gazes with her without showing any of his facial damage.
“We would think so except it was found inside a pound note in the servants’ quarters. When questioned, the servant admitted being asked to take it to the coaching inn to be sent to London.” John smiled ruefully. “It was the pound note, not the message or the chore, that caused the jealousy among the servants and brought the paper to our attention.”
Frances nodded. “I imagine if you are to catch this traitor, it will be because of a minor slip such as this. So, who are our choices?”
“Your father, Lord Crawford, his son the honorable Henry Crawford, Sir Desmond Montague, the honorable Percy Jones, Colonel Sir Robert Willard, Lord Ramsey, and Lord Wethers.”
“And you and your brother?” Her unblinking stare hardened.
“Neither of us was in a position to learn certain information we believe was passed to the French.”
“Are the eight men you named the only people who could have learned this information? Not a clerk in the Foreign Office or an aide in the army?”
“Yes. That’s why they’ve all been asked to spend Christmas here. They are our only choices.” John’s hands fisted. And one of these men was the only one who could have been behind the attack that disfigured him.
“You’re certain?”
“We both are,” her father told her.
“Then I need some large sheets of paper, pen and ink, and a table to work at.” She looked from him to her father. “We might as well make a start tonight.”
“People will talk,” her father said.
“You’re here as our chaperone. Tell people the earl and I had an agreeable conversation about old manuscripts.” Frances smiled at her father and rose. John nearly leaped to his feet. “Now, where shall I work?”
John supplied her with everything she needed to use and offered his map table as a workspace. She sat, and in a plain print, copied the message with each word in its own box.
“You’re starting with word placement and substitution?”
“It seems the most obvious,” she told him, not looking up. “You don’t need to watch over my shoulder. I know what I’m doing.”
He’d been staring at the way her auburn hair gleamed in the candlelight, but it would be useless to tell her so. She was beautiful. He was disfigured. “It might be possible that I could help. My brains weren’t injured. Only my appearance.”
Oh, why did he snap at her? She was only trying to help. Willingly helping. His manners, never good since his injuries, were failing him.