Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1) Read online

  Henry looked at the stool’s sharp edges. “Do you mind if I stand?” It would keep his mind off his empty stomach. Hopefully.

  Granwich fluttered his hands. “Of course not.” After pressing his hands together for a few moments he cleared his throat and shuffled some papers on the desk. “Three things, Anglethorpe. Firstly, how is your hunt for a bride coming along?”

  Henry gazed levelly at Granwich. The lady he had intended for his bride had no idea that he was interested. In fact she seemed rather taken with someone else. “It’s coming along,” he said smoothly.

  “Fine,” Granwich looked away to pour himself a glass from the decanter. “I am sure you have everything in hand. Secondly, have you found what your father was looking for?”

  Henry drew in a quick breath. “No. What’s the third thing?”

  Granwich coughed and glanced back at Henry. “Yes, thank you. We’ve heard some more mutters about someone or something called Monsieur Herr. Lovall’s had his ear to the ground at the docks. The taverns are full of it.”

  “Monsieur Herr?” Henry leaned against the bare wall and crossed his legs comfortably. He could stand in that position for hours, when he wasn’t thinking about how hungry he was.

  “Yes. We think that the Monsieur Herr is the French spy that I mentioned to you a while ago. Some of the chatter seems to indicate that the man is German, but young Lovall says that the balance of chatter says he’s probably French. Plus there’s been a spate of important British information falling into French hands in the last two months, most unfortunately.”

  Henry straightened. Normally he managed to nip the spies in the bud before any information had been passed over. “Has Anthony got any more information?” Anthony Lovall was a master at discerning the fact from the fiction.

  Granwich sighed. “No, unfortunately not.”

  “I think I’ll take that drink.”

  Granwich nodded and poured a small glass of brandy. The glass scraped on the rough wood of the desk as he pushed it towards Henry. Picking up the glass in one hand, Henry pushed the stool against the wall with his foot and sat, resting his back against the wall casement, rumpling his coat tails.

  There were four aspects of espionage to his mind, targeting, collecting, analyzing and dissemination. Before he could start on the latter three, he needed to focus on the first—his target, their strengths, location, likely intentions and indeed, their capabilities.

  “Hmm. What information has been passed?”

  “That’s just it, it’s random; sometimes it’s little secrets, like the type of delicious cream bun they were serving in Hartley Place on a Tuesday,”

  Henry raised his glass and studied the light as it curved through the brandy, his mouth watering as his stomach gurgled even louder than before. “Delicious cream bun?”

  Granwich put out his hands and stretched. “Ahem. Yes. Belgian fancies apparently. A light cream center with jam on the top surrounding by a slightly salty dough…” He scratched at his head. “At least that is what I’m told.”

  “And why is that dangerous?” Henry took a sip of the brandy. It did nothing to soothe his hunger.

  “Blighter found the bakery that was supplying the war office and put a bottleful of laudanum in every cream bun they could find.”

  “I didn’t hear of anyone being affected.”

  “They weren’t. Somebody had requested that they served Danish pastries on that day instead.” Granwich coughed. “Can’t think who that person was. When we used to get the cakes from Lord Foxtone’s outfit we never had the same problems.” He studied his blank desk and rolled his shoulders. “The bakery was paid for the Belgian buns anyway so they gave them to the paupers in gin alley. Poor souls were out of their heads for days.”

  “Good grief, if that had happened to the staff of the War Office—”

  “—someone could have assassinated them, stolen the secrets, done something despicable right under our noses and no one would have been able to do anything about it.”

  “What about the seemingly important pieces of information?”

  “Fashington found a list of all the people that worked in the War Office. Yours, his, the new boy Lassiter, even my name was on it. It was a bloody list of targets. If they know who we are, they can get at us.”

  Henry frowned. He’d prided himself on operating in the shadows. Outside of the war office no one knew that he worked for the crown. Whichever way he looked at it, the list of names and the Belgian buns, neither of the pieces of information tied together or gave him any more of a clue about the French spy.

  He drained the glass of brandy and, leaning forward, pushed it back onto Granwich’s desk. “You called him Monsieur Herr. Mister in French, Mister in German. Why the double emphasis?”

  “It was Earl Harding that chose it. Apparently it amused him. It was the last word at the end of the list that Charles gave us. Blue ink that had run slightly. But it very clearly said ‘ihn’ in German which means ‘him’ in English. We’ve no idea if it’s connected. But we went ahead and called the spy Mister Mister in German and French anyway, just to cover all bases.”

  “That could be the spy’s mark.”

  Granwich nodded. “Or it could be that it was the name of someone on the list that the spy was thinking about but he couldn’t remember his name. You know when you say oh him.” He drew in his chin. “I seem to be doing that a lot at the moment.”

  “Where did Charles find the note?”

  “Rather strangely, he said it was tucked into his clothes.” Granwich sniffed. “Bit of an unusual set up if you ask me, meticulously making a list of Crown people and then losing it in one of their pieces of clothing.”

  “And Charles—”

  “—no reason to doubt his loyalty. Strange cove but fairly cunning. Has found us some interesting stuff about the French until now. No whiff of scandal.”

  Henry stood. The word scandal reminded him of the chaperoned Victoria and, more importantly, Agatha who, no matter what he said, always seemed to find some way to create an experiment that ended in a hoo haa. More fool him, he had let them loose for the first time since Lord Colthaven’s affair by themselves at Lady Foxtone’s ball with strict instructions to Agatha to not indulge in the scientific side of her nature.

  “Be careful out there.” Granwich tapped on his desk. “I hear we are in for a storm tonight, with extremely high winds.”

  Henry nodded. His stomach grumbled again. It was time to make sure that Victoria and Agatha were still in one piece, and more importantly, find some dinner.

  CHAPTER 9

  Glancing up and down the deserted corridor, Agatha pushed open the door and crept in. Thank goodness Victoria was due any moment. If she and Charles were discovered together then her reputation would be ruined. For a brief second she gazed at the back of her hand and shook her head. She didn’t have much time.

  “Charles,” she whispered. “You need to leave.”

  Charles turned and looked Agatha up and down. His lips pouted, turning down at the edges, and his dark hair was swept back as though he had just been grooming himself in the mirror.

  He took a step into the middle of the room. “I knew you were different, Agatha. I’ve just been waiting for you to acknowledge it.”

  Agatha frowned and took a deep breath. The back of her hand itched. It was strange, the idea of Charles was actually rather better than the physical specimen. With quick steps she walked towards the rug in front of the fire and picked up the glass of champagne. Balancing the full flute in her hand, she turned slowly back towards the door to leave. Next to her, the fire blazed higher and higher, fueled by a packet of papers, their band of black ribbon falling out of the grate.

  “Er, thank you, I think.” Agatha stepped carefully over the edge of the rug on the fire hearth. Goodness, to have come all this way and spilled a drop. She gasped as a hand closed tightly round her upper arm.

  “I know that you don’t want a glass of champagne. I have seen the way yo
u’ve looked at me, as if you want to devour me,” Charles whispered in her ear.

  “Really?” Agatha tried to pull away, but she was locked immobile, her arm beginning to turn an alarming white. She really had miscalculated on this side of human nature. She’d never factored in looking at herself in any of her experiments.

  Charles lowered his head and crushed his lips against Agatha’s. In shock she struggled, her arms flailing madly, the champagne she had so carefully carried flying across the room. With no warning, his right hand urgently ripped at her bodice, and, pulling away the ruffles, he grabbed at her chest, bruising her.

  She could not scream, or turn her head, her lips suffocating under his marauding mouth. The champagne glass dropped from her numb fingers to the floor, the glass head breaking against the hearth with a tinkle. Wildly she tried to overbalance him, arching backwards. Seeing the broken champagne glass stem just behind her, she reached out with her free arm, and, grasping it, drew it back like a dagger.

  But she didn’t have time to thrust it down. The door opened, the flames of the fire flaring higher as Henry strode into the room, pushing the low tables out of the way. Immediately Agatha fell limp in relief, the champagne stem falling to her side. She’d never call him Horrible Henry again, she’d find a far better name, Helpful Henry—no, that didn’t work, Hangelic Henry, good grief no…

  She waited limply but Henry did not try to pull her out of Charles’ arms. He stopped, and folded his arms, a very strange twist to his lips. Agatha tried to pull herself back into an upright position but Charles held her in a vice-like grip.

  She caught sight of herself in the oval mirror on the wall opposite and a cold shiver shot down her spine. Arched over backwards in a wanton position, her bodice was torn, and the curve of her breast welled up between the torn material. Her lips were puffy as if she had been thoroughly kissed, as if she had wanted to end up in this state. She shook her head rapidly from side to side.

  “Lord Anglethorpe, I—”

  Henry stared at her. “Stow it, Miss Beauregard. Everyone’s seen where this has been going.” He shook his head and, sighing, looked away into the fire. “Charles, I’ll expect you tomorrow morning to discuss settlements.”

  “Now look here, old chap,” Charles stuttered, “I…” He stopped, taking in the formidable form of Henry. “You hussy,” he hissed at Agatha. “You’ve played me for a fool, but I’ll get you yet.”

  What the goodness was he talking about? Charles’ hand that had gripped Agatha’s hand unclenched. She dropped to the floor, unsupported. Winded of breath, she clutched at her dress and gazed unseeingly into the grate. The packet of letters continued to blaze in the flames, quickly turning into ash, the last scrap of writing caught in the iron tongue of the grate. Agatha stared at the writing and winced.

  “I don’t need jokes, I need help,” she muttered.

  A gasp broke through her distress. Lady Foxtone, the hostess of the ball, leaned against the door entrance; her hand flapped wildly in front of her face.

  Woken from her momentary stupor, Agatha clutched her bodice to her bare breast and tried to stand. Charles gave her a disgusted look and marched out of the salon.

  Henry ran a hand through his hair. “Agatha, I…” He stopped and clenched his fists. “Enough,” he said quietly and followed Charles to the door.

  Lady Foxtone stopped fanning her face abruptly and stalked towards her, her sumptuous dress whispering against the furniture.

  “Leave here, you wanton harlot.” The woman glared at her with disdain as she breathed heavily through her nose. “This is my ball, my event, and you have just ruined it with your activities.” Her voice rose in a scream. “Get out, get out…”

  Gathering her ripped dress to her body, Agatha stumbled to the hallway. Lady Foxtone’s screams had attracted the attention of some of the dancers, who stepped into the corridor in groups of two or three.

  Charles put out a hand to Lady Foxtone, who pushed out of the room past Agatha. “I’m terribly sorry my lady.” She stared at him, her collarbone raised and stark against the whiteness of her chest. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Enough, Fashington.” Lady Foxtone breathed heavily and then relaxed, the cords of her neck disappearing. With a mercurial smile, she lifted her skirts slightly and swept down the corridor. “Nothing to see here,” she said evenly. “I thought I saw a mouse.” She laughed gaily and made a moue to the interested crowd, turning slowly to look at Agatha. “How silly of me to try and tell it to leave.” With one last glance backwards over Agatha’s shoulder and with a push of her hands, she urged the laughing ladies and gentlemen back into the ballroom.

  “I’ll get your wrap.” Henry disappeared back into the blue room.

  Agatha pulled at the silken material that had slipped to her waist. “But I…”

  Henry reappeared within seconds. “I couldn’t find it.” He pulled his hand out of his coat, drawing out a pocket watch, studied it briefly and then shook his head. With a furious shrug of his shoulders, he removed his jacket and pushed the watch into his waistcoat. “Take my coat.” Henry pushed his crumpled coat tails around Agatha with rough fingers. “And get moving.”

  On shaking legs, Agatha hurried down the corridor, tears clouding her eyes. Not even the familiar smell of soap and spicy smoke comforted her. If anything it made her feel even more alone.

  Sitting silently in the rocking carriage that took her back to Mount Street, she clenched her hands. The wind buffeted the carriage, causing it to veer from side to side. It was too dark to see and count the velvet strands on the seat in front of her. Even if she could have seen them she knew that she would have been unable to concentrate, her desperation too far gone to have found the activity soothing. Henry had warned her her behavior would land her in hot water. What had she called it? Stupidly scandalous. Goodness she was a fool. Where had she gone so badly wrong?

  Slumping, she shivered in the cool air that whistled through the carriage. She would agree with anyone that listened that she had been flattered by Charles’ attention. Her head had been turned slightly by the man, blown her off her scientific stride. She should have remembered her conclusions. The way in which he had taken advantage of her, the way in which he had forced her to kiss him, had shown him for the disgusting man he really was. It had dropped her estimation of him back neatly into the set of despicable male specimens she’d encountered over the years.

  Shuddering with revulsion, Agatha shook her head. When it came to love and making love, she was still a novice. Any man who pushed her to the brink and took only what he wanted would not be the man for her.

  Victoria chattered incessantly in the other corner of the carriage to cover up the silence, but Agatha didn’t care, shivers racking her body more and more frequently. Henry should have protected her, as both her brother’s friend, and as her friend’s brother. In fact he had thrown her to the wolves, hah. What else did she expect? Heartless Henry.

  The house was ablaze was light as they drew up outside. Henry cursed audibly and stepped out of the carriage, and then stopped as his hat blew from his head. Bending sideways, he pointed upwards.

  “It’s gone!” he shouted.

  Agatha shook her head and descended from the carriage, catching onto it as the vehicle veered sideways in the high winds. Small branches hurtled past her, leaves sticking in her hair. She gasped as she forced her head upwards. The huge hornbeam in the back garden had fallen in the wind, crashing down against the roof, crushing the timbers.

  “My house!” Henry pressed a hand hard to his forehead and ran a hand through his hair before noticing Agatha teetering at the edge of the carriage. With a curse, he caught at her waist and put a hand out for Victoria. “We are safer inside.”

  The wind howled for many hours. After a sleepless night, Agatha watched from her window as Charles appeared the next morning at the house in Mount Street, his cravat askew, clearly wearing the clothes in which he had attended the ball. Even his walk was unsteady, his h
andsome face the color of paste. It was hard to remember what she had seen in him. She shrank back from the bedroom window as he wove his way up the smart steps to the stucco-fronted house. For a moment he stared upwards at the roof and grinned. As the door opened to let him inside, she turned and sat on her bed, her stomach churning.

  Work on the roof had started early that morning. Men with huge saws had woken her with their shouts, treating the poor hornbeam in sections, pulling it away from the mansion and dropping it in the garden from where dray horses pulled the magnificent trunk through the stables and out onto the back street. Only the stump of the tree was left.

  The conversation between Charles and Henry seemed to last forever. In fact she didn’t even see Charles. All she saw was a disheveled behind falling into a hack. She had been too preoccupied with the contents of her stomach and studying the incongruous rose buds that lined the edges of her empty, but ready, chamber pot. On another day she might have consulted Mrs. B. on how they put together the bright hues of the paint, or glazed the porcelain to a sheen, but today all she could do was hold her midriff and wait for the sickness in her stomach to subside. Besides, Conversations on Science had been relegated to Henry’s study. She’d seen its leather spine high up upon the book lined shelves of the dark room.

  Luncheon was awful. Henry didn’t say a word about the meeting, and she still felt heartily sick. He sat at the end of the table like an idol in a dark forbidding tomb holding Agatha’s future in his hands. Numbly, she felt his gaze on her once or twice like lead.

  Victoria prodded her with a spoon. “Charles does seem to be something high up in government, Aggie, and so I expect you’ll attend all sorts of really exciting foreign meetings and diplomat’s balls.” She took a sip of her soup. “I hear all of the prince and princesses attend them, even if they don’t come to the society ones.”

  Agatha sighed. Victoria only knew that Aggie had been caught in a compromising position with Charles, not that the man had forced her. With no support from Henry, Agatha felt too ashamed to set her right.