For the last seven hours, and after giving himself a very stern talking to, Seb had been centring himself. It was a process he often did when assuming the persona of someone else and one which was usually successful. As someone else, he could hide behind a veneer. Within his mind he constructed the character, the way they thought, spoke, their particular idiosyncrasies. The layers which created a believable cover and separated the shy by-blow from Norfolk from the mission at hand.
Lord Millcroft was aloof, arrogant and judgemental. He was a man’s man, preferring to talk business or discuss the brash and bawdy things gentlemen did when gathered together behind closed doors. Millcroft was a man who preferred to play cards or drink or socialise with other men in the sanctuary of White’s or Brooks’s. Seb had no problem with any of those things because they also served to disguise his awkward shyness around the fairer sex. A shyness which never plagued him around men, where his fierce pride came to the fore. In his head, no matter who they were, he strove to be their equal even if he didn’t always feel it. Therefore, he would work to that strength and try to ignore the swathes of ladies at the same events. Lord Millcroft wasn’t on the hunt for a wife, he was an eager investor on the lookout for ways to swell his fortunes, so it stood to reason he would have no interest in the ladies whatsoever.
It was a canny plan and would cover his shyness perfectly. By the time his preparations were done, he was quietly confident he could pull this charade off just as he had countless others beforehand and had stridden into the Earl of Upminster’s ballroom radiating haughty indifference with the very best of them.
He’d had a little moment when he had first encountered the crowd. It was not the crush which bothered him, more the unpalatable fact that this was a social occasion, filled with those who had been born to consider themselves better than most and his sort especially, and that Seb would actually have to take some part in the socialising rather than merely watch it from a distance. After he had given himself another stern talking to and noticed that many of the gentlemen paid scant attention to the ladies anyway, the flapping eagles in his stomach became sparrows.
Upminster introduced him to several people as they made slow progress around the room and Seb responded in character. He engaged with the men and simply nodded politely to the ladies. The convoluted preamble served to further calm his nerves, to the extent that the sparrows were mere butterflies by the time he met Viscount Penhurst and his circle of friends. He greeted them as equals, bowing only slightly lower to the Duke in the party on principle, and happily engaged in the sort of male-orientated conversation he had planned meticulously for.
Icy calm.
Calculated.
Completely in control.
Then he’d spied her next to Penhurst’s wife and those lofty plans flew out of the window. Instead of avoiding the women altogether, he’d had to think on his feet and fast. Rather than treating Gem with the haughty indifference he had practised in front of the mirror, he had rushed at her like a man recently speared deep by Cupid’s arrow. He’d grabbed her hand, gazed up at her beseechingly and, to all intents and purposes, declared to the entire ballroom he was suddenly, openly smitten and eager to get better acquainted with a woman he had technically only laid eyes on a few seconds before.
Besotted and desperate to woo! Two states which were as far away from where Seb felt comfortable as it was humanly possible to be. He was also fearful of her potential reaction to his blatant lie and furious at himself and his superior for this potentially calamitous oversight. Fennimore should never have put him in this position! A stable, a garden, the kitchens, even the sewers were better places for his covert talents and dubious lineage. In this kaleidoscope of genteel poppycock he was seriously out of his depth, especially if he now had to play the role of ardent suitor.
‘Lady Clarissa Beaumont.’ She inclined her head graciously. ‘I am intrigued to meet you, my lord. And so fresh from the Antipodes, too. I look forward to hearing all about it. They sound like such a fascinating place...when the furthest I have been is Norfolk.’
As barbs went, hers were perfect. Much like her. Tonight she was stunning. So stunning the flapping eagles returned with a vengeance and pecked at his heart. She stepped back and Seb was aware of her eyes on him as he was introduced to Penhurst’s wife. At least it appeared she had given him a grace period before she turned him over to the wolves, yet the very real possibility only served to make his pulse race faster than it already had been before he had set eyes on her. The hours he’d spent rehearsing had been wiped the second he had and he’d very nearly broken character and fled. Already the tips of his ears felt warm; his tongue threatened to fail at any moment and he had no idea now how the mysterious Lord Millcroft would continue to behave because he didn’t know this character at all. Seb would have to make it up as he went along.
Not his strong suit as the bullet hole could attest.
This was a complication neither he nor the wily Fennimore had foreseen. The rest of society might well have never seen him, his dreadful brother might not recognise him, but the Gem had tormented his thoughts ever since he’d met her, teased him and seen him half-naked, drunk and slurring just a few short weeks before. One wrong word and his mission was over before it had started; worse, it might encourage Penhurst and Camborne to cover their tracks and warn the Boss that the King’s Elite were on his tail. The combination of inwardly dying from mortification, the purely male and visceral reaction at seeing her again and the very real fear he had just seriously jeopardised the whole investigation in the process caused him actual physical pain. His damn heart was clattering so fast it was jarring his recently healed bullet hole and the acid churning in his stomach was so potent it would dissolve iron nails.
He needed to get her alone. Lord only knew what he would tell her, but somehow he would ensure her silence.
He had to.
‘Did I mention that Millcroft here is on the hunt for suitable investment opportunities?’ Upminster was playing his part perfectly and it nudged Seb to do the same. For the time being he was impotent to do anything else.
‘He is?’ Penhurst replied with an air of boredom. ‘What types of investment?’
‘Whichever yields the most coin in the shortest time, my lord.’ Seb offered the man a knowing smile. ‘I am a man with little patience for the long term.’
Penhurst’s thin lip curled. ‘A speculator, then?’
‘If that is the polite terms for a man who enjoys making money, then, yes, I am—and proudly so. Although I know here in town most people are squeamish about admitting to it, especially as land is considered to be the foundation of good society. But as I have no land, and have never been particularly good, I make no excuses for funding my lifestyle through canny investments. I do have a nose for those—alongside a taste for the finer things in life.’
‘A nose! By Jove, that he does!’ Upminster slapped him on the back. ‘I doubt there are many men who could make such a fortune in that home of convicts and ne’er-do-wells at the bottom of the world, but Millcroft has managed it. If reports from the governor are to be believed, he went from nothing to becoming the richest man in New South Wales in less than a decade. That is no mean feat, sir!’
‘Hardly nothing, my lord. I still had my wits and my keen eye for profit.’ Seb’s eyes could not resist quickly flicking to hers, trying to ignore the fact that the Duke of Westbridge had taken her arm proprietorially and the jolt of raw jealousy that hardened his own jaw at the sight. ‘The spirit of entrepreneurship thrives in the Antipodes. Alongside the ne’er-do-wells.’
* * *
The next ten minutes were spent in much the same manner. Seb and Upminster continued baiting the hook for Penhurst, who did his best to seem uninterested, but asked the pertinent questions one would expect from a fishing expedition. Penhurst was trying to subtly gauge his measure and Seb was dismissively flippant in his answers, making sure the corrupt viscount was left in no doubt that all he cared about was increasing his fortune. Because it was a conversation between men, the ladies had moved to the periphery and Gem stayed close to her Duke, hanging on the fellow’s every word adoringly, although her eyes frequently wandered to Seb and held, their message obvious. She was biding her time, but still expecting an explanation. Once or twice, Westbridge caught her staring and scowled. She didn’t appear to notice.
It went without saying he hated Westbridge on sight. He was exactly the kind of pompous windbag Seb had pictured when she had first mentioned him. Fashionably dressed, the evening waistcoat in a garish turquoise silk, his hair pomaded to sit just so above his regal, straight eyebrows and his cravat secured with a pin tipped with an emerald the size of a quail’s egg. Looking at everything and everyone down the slope of his long, narrow nose, he was the epitome of the superior aristocrat—stand-offish, self-important, supremely confident in his wealth and standing to the extent his eyes never met any of those he considered beneath him.
All show and no substance.
But a duke.
Penhurst was a different kettle of fish but equally as dislikeable. The way he had clicked his fingers to summon his wife, followed by the nervous way she snapped to attention, told Seb a great deal. When you closely watched human interactions from the shadows, you grew to recognise certain emotions fast. The Viscountess Penhurst was frightened of her husband. Her husband, on the other hand, was largely indifferent and cold towards her. Theirs was no marriage made in heaven. A detail which he would store away in case it became useful, alongside the fortuitous knowledge that it appeared Lady Clarissa Beaumont also happened to be more than an acquaintance to the nervous viscountess. Perhaps another avenue into Penhurst’s circle if he needed one? And if he could get her to go along with his lies... But would she, seeing as Penhurst and her hidebound Duke were old friends? Perhaps even business associates?
Like her Duke, Penhurst, too, wore his title like a badge, but as a mere viscount came significantly lower in the pecking order and therefore had less scope to blithely ignore those in the room as Gem’s Duke did. However, his guarded eyes were everywhere, assessing. Currently they were quietly watching Seb, which he assumed was a good thing now that their brief business discussion was concluded and he was quietly pleased with the job he had done under the strained and unexpected circumstances. It showed Penhurst was intrigued enough to want to know more, but was nowhere near ready to reveal his hand. This next part, the dance that Lord Fennimore hoped would lead to overtures, would be tricky. Push too hard and the hatches would be battened. Fail to push and Seb would be easily forgotten. It was a delicate balance and one for which he would need all his wits about him to achieve. The nagging fear about Lady Clarissa blowing his cover wide open needed to be dealt with swiftly, yet to do it he would need to get her alone.
Fortunately, Seb didn’t have to wait long. Another young lady with a head of blonde, tight-corkscrew ringlets sailed over, her destination obviously the Duke. He watched Gem’s arm tighten around Westbridge’s, but upon seeing the younger chit, the Duke immediately extricated himself from her grip and her smile was suddenly as brittle as spun sugar. Not close enough to hear the exchange, Seb watched the other woman tap her dance card and the Duke step forward to take her arm instead, the Incomparable he had just abandoned clearly already forgotten.
As the pair headed towards the dance floor, the younger girl—because she was far too young, in Seb’s humble opinion, to be considered a woman yet—looked back and shot Clarissa a triumphant smile before literally hanging on the windbag as they walked away.
When those around her stopped watching, the false smile slipped off Clarissa’s lovely face and she appeared rattled. Deflated even, until her slim shoulders stiffened and she elegantly inhaled a very deep breath. Then she swiftly turned on her heel. Seb saw a flash of red disappear towards the refreshment table with more haste than was necessary and deftly followed. Away from her friends, they could talk—if he could get his tongue to untangle long enough to string coherent sentences together. Of all the women he had to run into, all the unforeseen complications, why did it have to be her? And why did she have to look so damn beautiful tonight that she took his breath away?
She sensed him before he had chance to speak and turned just her face to look at him. ‘Lord Millcroft. What a surprise.’
‘We need to talk. Privately.’
‘I dare say we do. Do you waltz?’
‘After a fashion.’ At least Flint and Warriner had attempted to teach him the dance when they were all at Cambridge together, in the faint hope he would pluck up the courage to ask a woman to dance with him one day. From memory, he recalled it mostly involved turning and counting to three while avoiding looking at his masculine partner’s grinning face.
‘Splendid. You can begin explaining yourself the moment we reach the floor.’
Seb held out his arm and she laid hers upon it, the odd sensation her touch created joined all the other unwelcome and swirling emotions currently cluttering his mind and putting him off his game. Fear, awkwardness, determination, sprinkled with a touch of jealousy and a generous pinch of wholly inappropriate lust. How the hell was he supposed to do his job with all that going on? She twirled gracefully to face him and curtsied and he just about remembered to bow, then he slid his farmer’s hand around her waist and instantly felt hot.
All at sea.
Her significantly smaller palm slipped into his and she gazed up at him, smiling. Or at least her mouth was smiling. Those fine eyes of hers were shooting poison darts. Even so, his poor heart began to race and his mouth became dry, so dry he feared he’d be unable to speak should he attempt to. He began to silently count the beat in his head—one, two, three...one, two three—as they began to move in the hope that it would calm him.
‘Which are you—a Leatham or a Millcroft?’ Straight to the point. No nonsense. No time to pause and think. Seb missed a step as he considered lying, then thought better of it. Gem was a sharp one and because she knew some of the truth, he would undoubtedly make a huge hash of it.
‘Leatham. You know I am a Leatham. But for the foreseeable future I must be Millcroft.’ Whispering and counting was a challenge, too. There was absolutely no chance of achieving anything vaguely resembling calm within. He was simultaneously hot and cold. Terrified and overwhelmed. All the people, petticoats and the oppressive heat of the dance floor seemed to be closing in on him. Fennimore should never have put him in this position. Less than half an hour in and the stench of failure hung putrid in the air. He could barely dance and the scant bit of socialising he had done already, combined with the presence of the distracting woman in his arms, was giving him palpitations.
‘I am not in the mood for mysterious! What is going on?’
‘Trust me when I tell you it’s probably best if you don’t know.’
‘Yet you expect me to allow you to perpetrate this falsehood in front of my friends! To what end?’
‘It is a matter of national importance.’
‘Really? Do I look as though I was born yesterday?’
She looked beautiful. Smelled beautiful. If he’d known how to flirt Seb would have told her so. Instead he manoeuvred them clumsily towards an alcove, then dragged her by the arm behind a potted palm. For several long moments she stood waiting, her arms crossed bossily over her chest and her scarlet-shod foot tapping impatiently while Seb breathed deeply, considering all his options.
Pretty soon he realised they all boiled down to one. Either she trusted him or she didn’t. If she didn’t, he was doomed anyway. If by some miracle she did, then it would only come about with the truth—or at least as much of the truth as he dared tell her without compromising the rest of the investigation.
‘I work for his Majesty’s government. With both the Home and Foreign Office. I am covertly investigating a dangerous smuggling ring which has infiltrated the highest echelons of society. They are a dangerous gang, with significant resources. Many men have died already trying to infiltrate their ranks, so I must insist that you cannot breathe a word of what I am telling you to anyone.’
‘Covert?’ She blinked and moved her face closer to his. ‘Are you telling me you are a spy?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘Why do you think I got shot saving that school mistress? Do you think such things happen in everyday life? The man who fired the bullet was one of the smugglers!’
Her mouth opened, then promptly closed again as she considered the validity of his claim. ‘You’re a spy?’ This time she sounded less dismissive, her gaze boring into his searching for the truth.
‘I am one of the King’s Elite.’
‘I’ve never heard of such an organisation!’
‘Precisely. That’s because we operate under the utmost secrecy. But I can assure you we exist. Lord Upminster works at the Foreign Office—he can corroborate my story should you require it—but I am begging you to keep my true identity a secret from your friends. It really is a matter of national importance.’
Forgetting her usually impeccable posture, she leaned her back against the enormous mock-Grecian pot and shook her head. ‘I really can’t take it in. You are suddenly a spy, as well as a duke’s son and a poultry farmer?’
‘Hardly suddenly. I’ve been one for several years.’ Seven to be precise. ‘And it was my grandfather who was the poultry farmer. I was recruited straight out of Cambridge because my superior noticed I had a talent for blending in.’
‘Blending in. Here?’ Her eyes travelled the length of him, taking in the fine clothes, the diamond cravat pin, then focused on his face. They both knew the exterior was merely window dressing and that the blood that pumped through his veins was more red than blue. ‘But you professed to be shy.’
There was no point in denying it, not since he had already confessed as much, although he was still horrified that he had also drunkenly enlightened her to the sad truth of his sporadic and dismal love life coupled with his inability to flirt! What a prize-winning, pathetic fool he must have sounded. ‘Normally I work in the background, but with Jake on his honeymoon I’ve been drafted very much into the fore. Against my will, I might add.’ Why Seb felt the need to add that he wasn’t certain, but for some reason his mind kept wandering back to the girl in the multicoloured hair rags and jam stains on her nightdress that he had been happily confessing all to. Perhaps because he found that incarnation less intimidating than the sophisticated society lady in front of him. Or perhaps it was because Gem was the closest thing to a safe harbour he had in the uncharted waters of society and he was grateful he had a friend. Not that he knew she was a friend yet.
‘Jake Warriner? Brother to my sister’s husband? He’s a spy, too?’ Before he answered she shook her head again. ‘I suppose it makes sense. You were both there that day—and it was his bullet that killed your assailant... Good gracious. It never occurred to me.’ The expression of awe and wonder swiftly changed to a frown as the cogs in her clever mind began to turn. ‘The highest echelons? You suspect someone here of being part of this dangerous gang? Who?’
Your paramour’s old schoolfriend—not that Seb could tell her that part if he wanted her silence. ‘At this time, I have no certain idea of his identity. As Lord Millcroft, I hope to find out—although I’m hardly lord material. Why my superior sent me on this mission is a mystery. This is not my world...’ What had possessed him to admit to that? And to her? ‘I can never find the right words at the best of times. Here I fear I am doomed.’ Good grief—why did the damning words suddenly keep coming? Yet more seemed to be lining up behind, condemning him to further cloddishness in front of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And all apparently without the excuse of bullet wounds and brandy because in his mind was the girl in rags, the one he miraculously felt like himself with. ‘I shall say the wrong thing or, worse, not say anything at all. As usual. And everyone here will realise I am a fraud just as you do. I should be guarding something or sneaking around somewhere. Listening and watching. Two things I am exceedingly good at. What I am not good at is...this!’ He gestured to his evening clothes and then the whole ballroom. ‘But my purpose here genuinely is a matter of national importance, a mission I was entrusted with and I am single-handedly about to ruin it with my woeful social skills. Months of hard work, the lives of many good men, all wasted while I fail abysmally at being a lord. I have never felt so out of my depth before.’ Seb’s stupid heart was racing again and a cold trickle of sweat was making its way down his spine. Less than one hour in, his plan was shot to pieces and for the first time in his long and successful career with the King’s Elite, failure seemed inevitable.
Her face softened and she touched his arm. Seb felt the affectionate gesture all the way down to his toes. ‘Don’t worry. You didn’t seem out of your depth in the slightest. Truth be told, had I not known you were the shy Mr Leatham from Norfolk, I would have been none the wiser. You seemed supremely confident and added just the right splash of aloofness to give the intriguing Millcroft exciting gravitas. You also look the part. Very debonair and handsome. Dashing even. For a fraud, you play a lord very well.’
Dashing? Handsome? Him? ‘Hardly. Have you not seen the scar?’
‘I have.’ He stiffened as she reached out her hand and traced one finger down its ugly length. ‘It gives you an air of the dangerous. The ladies love a dangerous fellow. Didn’t you see them all watching you? Wondering in what exciting and adventurous circumstances you acquired it?’ Her hand dropped and she smiled. ‘How did you get it, by the way? Seeing as we both know you’ve never set foot in the Antipodes.’
‘An accident.’ Seb had accidentally assumed his half-brother had a heart and a conscience, but like his father before him and all persons of his ilk he considered the low-born disposable. ‘Caused by my own stupidity. Nothing exciting or adventurous in the slightest.’
‘Well, I like it. You wouldn’t be half as handsome without it.’
Lost for an appropriate response which wouldn’t start him blushing, Seb avoided her eyes and, in doing so, in his peripheral vision he saw her Duke skirting the edge of the dance floor, clearly searching for her now that the waltz was done. He tugged her further into the alcove. ‘Westbridge is looking for you.’
‘He is?’ The information seemed to please her, but royally ruined the tender moment they had just shared, cruelly reminding him that for all her compliments she had her eyes on another man. One in possession of a real and grand title, whose blood ran as blue as the Nile. She glanced over Seb’s shoulder with a calculated smile. ‘I can’t see him. How can you be sure?’
‘Because I’m a spy. We all have eyes in the back of our heads.’
She giggled without her usual practised artifice, the intimate and earthy sound doing unmentionable things to his unmentionables. ‘Then I shall let him miss me for a few minutes. I dare say a bit of jealousy will do him good.’ She could now see the Duke and watched his frantic search with amusement for several long moments. She was still smiling smugly when her gaze returned triumphantly to Seb. It grated. ‘Mr Leatham, I have suddenly had a positively brilliant idea...’