Page 1 of His Wife, the Spy (His Enterprising Duchess #4)

“A nnabel, you must speak with Father right away.”

Annabel Pearce placed her teacup on its saucer and her book in her lap before appraising the young lady she’d been hired to bring into Society. Elizabeth Spencer had the looks valued by the ton —suitably tall, appropriately thin, and beautifully fair. Unfortunately, her pale complexion tended to redden when she was in a rush, excited, or angry—and the girl was almost always one of those things. Sometimes several combined.

Today was one of those days. Her bright blue eyes sparkled in her pink face, which made her blonde hair that much brighter.

“Elizabeth, come sit and calm—”

“You’re going to tell me to breathe until I’m no longer pink, but we don’t have the time.” Elizabeth paced from the chair to the door and back at a dizzying pace. “Father will make the wrong decision if we do not act quickly.”

Annabel would have—likely should have—counseled her charge that fathers made decisions based on more knowledge than daughters understood. However, as Annabel was now working for a living because of her own father’s poor choices, it would be a losing argument.

Instead, she poured the girl a cup of tea and placed a petit four as bait before the empty chair. “Tell me what has you so agitated.”

Elizabeth finally took the chair. She sank her teeth into the cake and chewed much too obviously for a young lady before dumping an alarming amount of sugar into her tea.

Annabel would have to plan more lessons about eating habits. At the present, she was glad the girl’s color was fading to normal, and that she hadn’t dropped into the chair like a rag doll, which she was inclined to do when behind closed doors.

“Father received a letter from the Marquess of Ramsbury. It must be an invitation to his house party, Annabel. Charlotte Bainbridge received hers two days ago, and I’ve been watching the post since.”

“The letter could be anything,” Annabel counseled. “Lord Ramsbury is a member of Parliament, and your father is a courtier. It may be about a vote, or an invitation to White’s to discuss business.”

“Why would he invite Charlotte and not me ?” Elizabeth pointed her teacup toward her chest, sloshing the liquid dangerously close to the rim.

Because Charlotte Bainbridge is the diamond of the Season and the daughter of a viscount. Why she considers you part of her social circle is a mystery.

Annabel took a bite of cake and used chewing as an excuse for her silence. Elizabeth took the lack of discussion for agreement.

“Between the two of us, we’ll convince him. We’ll lay out my wardrobe this afternoon.” She looked past Annabel, her smile a match for her calculating gaze. “Imagine the furor if I am to catch him.”

Furor, indeed. As far as Annabel knew, there was only one way to catch a man like Jasper Warren, the new Marquess of Ramsbury, and it wasn’t with ruffled dresses and croquet.

“Elizabeth—”

A knock on the door announced the arrival of the housekeeper. “Miss Pearce, Mr. Spencer asks that you meet him in the library.”

Thanking fate for her rescue from a difficult conversation, Annabel stood and smoothed her skirt. “Thank you, Mrs. Riordan. I’ll follow you down.”

As she passed, Elizabeth clasped her hand. Her color had returned to normal. “Please, Annabel. I can’t stay in London if everyone else is in Wiltshire. It would be too humiliating.”

There were far worse things than missing a party, but as Annabel looked into the girl’s large blue eyes and felt the squeeze of her thin fingers, she couldn’t say the words. Elizabeth was barely out of the schoolroom, and every slight signaled the end of the world.

“Don’t put too much stock in a conversation, dear. This likely has nothing to do with a party.” Not to mention the marquess likely doesn’t know your name. I’d be shocked if he remembered mine.

Mr. Spencer could decide not to send his daughter without input from anyone else. The better guess was that he wanted help designing a suitable distraction. Annabel turned at the door and indicated the easel and canvas at the window. “Please begin drawing. We’ll discuss paint choices when I return.”

She walked down the empty, quiet hall toward the staircase. Mrs. Riordan ran an efficient household, but she didn’t linger to gossip or laugh over tea. All Annabel knew of her was that she reveled in being one of Spencer’s trusted staff members, and that she considered it far beneath her station to fetch someone other than a family member.

The wide staircase curved in a long, graceful arc toward the black-and-white-tiled entry hall. It was as grand as any house in Mayfair could be, but Annabel couldn’t help comparing it to her family’s country home.

She hoped the tenants were enjoying the rivers in Chilworth. They were always best in the spring.

The final step left her aligned with the library door. Her knock echoed through the hall, making it sound less like a polite rap and more like a demanding hammer.

“Enter.”

It was unkind to compare this library with the one in Chilworth. The latter was a family library, overstuffed with favorites read until their spines were creased and their covers were tattered at the corners. Not even Father’s library here in London could compare with that.

However, even Father’s London library smelled of read books. Sir Reginald Spencer’s smelled of new leather and tobacco, and the spines glinted in the sunshine like soldiers lined up for review.

“Miss Pearce.” Spencer motioned to the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit.”

Annabel bristled at the command that made her feel like a prized terrier. At least her employer didn’t call her by her Christian name.

She took the chair that claimed the most shadow and waited for Spencer to sit. As he emerged from the sun’s glare, his features formed.

As a young man, he’d likely garnered a great deal of attention due to his height. As an older man, everything about him—from his fair skin to his white-blond hair—stretched too thinly over his large bones. He would have been terrifying looming down from a pulpit. Best that he’d given up his parish for a position in the royal household.

“How is Bitty this morning?”

“ Elizabeth is well.” Annabel emphasized the girl’s first name. The unfortunate family nickname sounded too much like “Biddy” to be complimentary. Besides that, the girl had inherited her father’s height. “She was beginning her art lesson when I left her.”

The man nodded, his smile as thin as his eyebrows. His lined face seemed to fight the effort. “She shows some aptitude for it, I believe.”

“She does.” In truth, Elizabeth sat still for little else. “I would like to challenge her by taking her to the National Museum, where she can study and copy the masters. There are several young ladies who do the same, and it would be good for Elizabeth to try her hand at something unfamiliar.”

“Perhaps she should carry her supplies to Wiltshire for new scenery,” Spencer said.

Annabel’s hopes fell. “She thought she saw an invitation.”

“She did, and I have already answered. Elizabeth will leave in four days’ time with you as her companion.”

“Four days will barely give us time to gather wardrobes, sir.”

“She should need no new dresses. Many of the ones purchased for the Season have yet to be worn.”

It was true. Elizabeth had all she needed, but Annabel needed…

Nothing. She was a paid companion, hired to step in due to Mrs. Spencer’s illness. Two day dresses and something for evening meals were the only requirements. Her days of croquet and ballrooms were over.

But that didn’t mean she had no say. She had a job and, to her, part of that was bringing Elizabeth out properly. That meant using her own experiences about which events were better suited to find quality husbands.

The last house party she had attended with Jasper Warren had ended prematurely in a drunken display that left all the ladies in tears and one young man—not a gentleman, despite his upbringing—with a broken nose.

“With respect, sir, are you certain of this? Lord Ramsbury’s reputation for bacchanals is no secret, and Elizabeth, frankly, is too impulsive. The environment will most likely—”

“Elizabeth will have the month to grow accustomed to the crowd she will likely mingle with for the rest of her life. As for her impulses, that is why she has you.”

“A month?”

A month at the sort of party where Annabel would have been a guest only a year ago. A month with ton ladies she knew from ballrooms and rides in the park. They could be horrid to each other in the best of circumstances, and this was not Annabel’s best circumstance.

It likely wouldn’t be Elizabeth’s either. She was better in shorter events where there was little chance for her manners and temper to wear thin.

“Sir, since we will be near Bath, perhaps a visit to Elizabeth’s mother would be in order. Maybe a fortnight there would ease Elizabeth’s mind over Mrs. Spencer’s health.”

The lie was a gamble. Elizabeth was no more worried about her mother than anyone else in the household, including the lady’s husband. Annabel wrote to her of Elizabeth’s successes in the Season, detailing everything she was missing, but she rarely saw any other letters in the outgoing post.

Spencer looked at her from under his brows. “At month’s end, if Elizabeth wishes to see her mother, she may visit for a week, no more. Her mother will not bear the upheaval for a fortnight. But you will spend the month at Kennet Hall. That is plenty of time to accomplish my goal.”

His goal? Surely he wasn’t title-hunting for his daughter amongst Warren’s set. “Sir, Elizabeth has many well-situated suitors in London.” Annabel scoured her memory for the standouts amongst Elizabeth’s recent dance partners. “Mr. Cameron is heir to the Earl of Whitestone, and Mr.—”

“I do not care to send my daughter husband-hunting more than she already is,” Spencer said. “I want to know what goes on in that house.”

“You want a scandal.” Annabel wasn’t a fool. She’d investigated Spencer before entering his employment. The reports had been good, though there were a few whispers of his ability to sniff out secrets and use them to his benefit. There were suspicions that he’d helped bring down Viscount Stratford just a few months earlier.

Spencer shook his head. “I have a well-founded suspicion that Jasper Warren is plotting some sort of upheaval in Wales.”

“Surely not.” It was one thing for a man to care little for his reputation and his title. It was another thing altogether to hang because of it.

“His man, Yarwood, is a Welsh-born, British-trained soldier. With his connections both in trade and in the military, and Ramsbury’s wealth and political sway, they could create havoc. If Ramsbury includes his French mistress, some bit of fluff with a diplomat father, the interference could cripple London.”

The connections were difficult to overlook, but the plan had one flaw. “Sir, Elizabeth will never be able to discover this secret.” The girl could barely keep a secret.

“Not Elizabeth.” Spencer’s sharp stare scraped Annabel’s skin. “You.”

No. Annabel’s lot in life had changed, but she would not stoop to sneaking through someone else’s house and listening at keyholes. She shook her head. “Sir, this is unwise.”

She was risking dismissal, but no one else would speak for her. Learning that had been a bitter lesson. Besides, the Season provided a bit of courage. Elizabeth couldn’t go into Society without a chaperone, and unemployed candidates were thin on the ground.

Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “It is not. Dressed as you are, with the role you have, no one will notice your moving through the house. Chaperones are unnecessary for rides and games, even balls at the house. You will have time on your hands and fewer eyes on your activity. Plus, you are bright enough to realize what will, or won’t, be important.”

It was clear from his smile that he’d intended the last to stroke her pride. Bright enough.

Enough.

Annabel wanted to throw something at him. Better yet, she could leave his employ altogether. While he might not dismiss her, she could still resign.

But the lack of available chaperones also meant there were no suitable open positions. This job was all that kept Annabel from begging. Or worse.

At least Spencer had a good reputation. His older brother was the Earl of Denton, and his sister was married to the Duke of Somerset. Even his middle brother had retired from the navy as a hero and a wealthy man. Rumor had it that Spencer himself was being considered for a promotion that would give him the ear of the queen.

Perhaps this mission, while distasteful, was valid.

“Find the truth and return with Elizabeth,” she said, confirming their agreement.

He nodded. “And to my gratitude.”

Annabel stood. “As you wish.”

Perhaps Reginald Spencer’s gratitude would earn her a letter of reference for her next employer.

*

Jasper Warren, the latest Marquess of Ramsbury, held out his hand to yet another guest and shaped his face into a smile. “Wareham, good of you to come.”

The earl’s brow was as sweaty as his palm. “Wouldn’t miss it. Raines has promised a rousing party.”

“Oh, it will be a memorable month.” Jasper discreetly wiped his palm against his trousers and focused on the familiar coach lumbering up the lane. “Raines is in the billiards room enjoying my scotch, I believe.” Scotch, port, madeira—it made no difference if it kept the gentlemen talking and off their guard.

He stood to the side, encouraging Wareham to clear the way for the next guest. The earl did not take the hint.

“Starnes will show you and your valet to your rooms.” Jasper crooked an eyebrow and swept his fingers toward the door. Good Lord, no wonder the man was so horrible at cards.

Without waiting to see if Wareham moved forward, Jasper descended the stairs, waited for the footman to open the door, and stepped forward to offer his hand to the lady inside. For the first time this morning, his smile was genuine. “Welcome, Fi.”

Fiona Allen’s hat was almost as wide as the door of her coach, and its crown was circled with blue silk flowers exactly matching her day dress. The only thing that spoiled her transformation into a respectable young lady was the twinkle in her dark eyes. “Your lordship.”

“I thought I cured you of that years ago,” Jasper scolded her as he would one of his sisters. And, like his sisters, Fiona paid no attention. She hadn’t since the day they’d met, when he was sixteen and she was the only girl who didn’t make calf eyes at him.

“I don’t think one can call a marquess Rabbit in polite company.” Fiona caught the eye of the older woman descending from the carriage with the help of a footman. “Isn’t that correct, Mrs. Linden?”

“Don’t tease, miss,” the older woman scolded gently. She shook out her skirts before curtsying quickly. “Lord Ramsbury.”

Jasper bowed. “Mrs. Linden, it is good to see you again. Welcome to Kennet Hall.” He offered his arm to the lady, knowing it would fluster her, and that the good-natured teasing would amuse Fiona. “I’ve requested that you and Fiona have the rooms overlooking the gardens.”

The woman blushed pink under her hat. “That is too kind, your lordship.”

“Nonsense. It’s the least I can do.” He looked over his shoulder at one of his oldest friends. “I know how difficult it is to keep Fiona in line.”

Jasper was pleased to see Fiona stick out her tongue. Not that it was unusual—she usually flouted the rules of Society. However, almost a year ago, that rebellious streak had left her in a spot from which he feared she would never emerge.

“Would you prefer I escort you to the conservatory, where the other young ladies and their companions are having tea?” he asked.

The remnants of last year’s scandal were evident in Fiona’s slight hesitation. “To our rooms, I think. It’s been a long journey, and we should rest before dinner. Don’t you think, Mrs. Linden?”

The older woman smiled. “As you wish, miss.”

Jasper would resent Linden for the change in his friend’s demeanor, if he didn’t wonder whether she was Fiona’s only female friend. That, and Fiona’s father had decreed that Fiona’s continuation in even limited Society was dependent on Linden’s constant presence.

“You don’t need to show us up, Jasper.” Fiona put her fingers on his arm. “One of your staff can do that while you greet your guests.”

As she spoke, horses’ hooves announced the arrival of another carriage. As luck would have it, his other trusted friend came down the stairs at the same time.

“Kit,” Jasper called. “Please see Fi—Miss Allen and Mrs. Linden to their rooms and ask Starnes to have trays sent up for them.”

“Certainly.” Kit bowed to both women before taking Mrs. Linden from Jasper. “This way, ladies.”

The newest arrival came to a stop as Jasper reached the bottom step and reassembled his smile. The footman handed down a young lady with bright blonde hair, her pink day dress done with just enough embellishment to be tasteful.

“Miss Spencer, welcome to Kennet Hall.” He bent over her lace-gloved hand. “It was good of you to come.”

“Lord Ramsbury.” The girl’s blue eyes widened as she curtsied. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”

Her cheeks matched her dress, and her voice was breathy. She was overwhelmed, and she wasn’t even in the door yet. Jasper suppressed his widening smile. This would be easier than he thought.

He straightened and turned to greet her companion, prepared to give the same bland greeting he’d repeated all afternoon, and stopped. “Miss Pearce?”

The last he’d seen Annabel Pearce, she’d been a guest at his cousin Amelia’s disastrous house party. She’d left under the watchful eye of her chaperone.

“Your lordship.” She curtsied, and the brim of her hat hid her face.

“I didn’t realize you—” He stopped. The gray dress was his first clue that Annabel was not here to support a friend.

She straightened. A blush stained her cheeks, and her eyes were suspiciously bright. “I’ve been hired to help Miss Spencer with her Season.”

Of course. Her father, Baron Chilworth, had a reputation for wild speculation and poor choices. At the time of Amelia’s party, he’d suspected those habits were the source of Miss Pearce’s odd rhyme.

There once was a man with a daughter, whom he led like a lamb to the slaughter…

Did she consider employment with Spencer akin to an abattoir?

He dipped his head to her, as he’d done to every companion except Mrs. Linden. “Welcome to Kennet Hall. The other ladies are taking tea in the conservatory.” Gossiping, most likely. Without Fiona in the room, Jasper could only hope the servants repeated what they overheard. “Starnes can show you the way.”

Miss Pearce’s lips flattened into a tense line. Jasper was struck by how similar her situation was to Fiona’s. She would be between two groups—the young ladies she had danced with last Season, and the paid companions who, unaccustomed to her new position, likely would not trust her.

“If you would prefer to rest in your rooms after you morning’s travel, trays can be sent up.”

“I’m so excited, I couldn’t possibly rest.” Elizabeth stormed the steps without a backward glance.

“As you wish, miss.” Miss Pearce inclined her head just enough to acknowledge his offer. “Tea sounds lovely, your lordship. Thank you.”

Jasper watched her go. Her plain dress was in a shade that did little for her coloring, and an equally drab shawl was draped across her elbows. She removed her hat as she entered the house, giving him a glimpse of light brown braids that led to a neat knot at her nape.

But her spine was straight, and her smile was serene as she greeted his new butler.

Kit came down the steps, and his gaze followed Jasper’s. “That’s the last of them.”

“Is everyone settled?” Jasper asked.

“Their things are in their rooms, and the maids and valets are unpacking now.”

“You trust them?”

“As much as we can trust village lads and lasses we hired a week ago.” Kit glanced in his direction. “Your new butler is Stapleton, not Starnes.”

“Stapleton.” Jasper nodded. The man at the door was tall, straight, and fitter than Jasper would have expected of a man his age. “Where did you find him?”

“He’s a retired regimental. Good with his fists and a saber. With a gun, too, if we need it.” Kit snorted a laugh. “Just get his name right from now on.” He, too, kept his eyes on the door. “Who is with Miss Spencer?”

“Annabel Pearce, Baron Chilworth’s eldest daughter.” Jasper scratched his chin. “I had hoped Spencer would hire some dotty old matron for his daughter’s companion.”

“Someone who sleeps in the corner and focuses on her knitting?” Kit teased. “Is she going to be a problem?”

An astute guardian would keep Miss Spencer on her best behavior. There would be little chance to baffle her with charm and too much punch and learn more about her father’s movements in London.

For years, Jasper had watched the men of Society embark on daring reform, either through legislation or direct action, only to return to stillness and the status quo, their gazes searching the shadows as they spoke. They acted differently. They spoke differently. Their courage died.

After one too many incidents, he began looking where they looked, seeing what they saw. Whom they saw.

Sir Reginald Spencer.

Jasper wanted Spencer off the chessboard. Annabel Pearce was too attentive to let him accomplish it easily.

“Most definitely.”