Tempting Her Reluctant Viscount (Entangled Scandalous) Read online

  This winter, especially, was an exciting time, as currently the Garden Society was embroiled in not one, but two intrigues. Hannah was investigating a smuggling scheme in which her brother David was entangled, and the other case was still somewhat of a mystery. It was involving Rose and the odious Lord Shrewsbury, but that was all anyone knew thus far. However, the Garden Society’s weekly meeting was this afternoon and Hope assumed they would hear more about it then.

  As Hope finished her breakfast, she wondered if she should mention her concerns about the stock market to Lady Lancaster at the meeting. Shaking her head, Hope decided that she needed to heed her own advice and be patient. There was nothing truly concrete to indicate there was a problem, and her intuition alone was not enough of a reason to begin a full-fledged investigation…yet.

  …

  Much later that same day, Michael Ashmore, the Viscount Lichfield, was on his way back to London after completing some business at one of his estates in the far reaches of England.

  It was extremely late and after being on the road from very early in the morning, Michael couldn’t wait to find a room in the picturesque town of Dover and get some much needed sleep. Bringing his horse to a halt in front of the Ship Inn, Michael dismounted and walked into the establishment on weary legs, making his way immediately to the front desk.

  “Good evening, sir,” the clerk at the front desk said. “How may I help you?”

  “Do you have a room available?” Michael asked. It was such an advanced hour that it was possible the inn could’ve been completely full.

  “Ah, yes sir,” the clerk said, “however, it is not one of our best.”

  Michael fought hard not to roll his eyes. Although the Lichfield viscountcy was anything but new in the peerage, it was a fairly recent acquisition for him, and he still was not used to the preferential treatment. Not that, as the younger son of a viscount, he was treated shabbily by any means, but somehow it seemed every businessman from London to Timbuktu knew instinctively that the title had been bestowed upon him, and as a result, they were treating him like…well, royalty.

  “I don’t need your best room, man,” Michael growled. “I just want a room.”

  The clerk hesitated. “The only room we have is just at the top of the stairs. With the front door right there, it can become rather noisy, sir, and, er—”

  “That’s fine,” Michael interrupted. “I’ll take it.” As tired as he was, he didn’t honestly anticipate a problem sleeping through any noise, doors or otherwise.

  “B-but, sir…” the clerk stammered.

  Michael pinned the man with a piercing glare and the clerk wisely stopped his nattering and handed Michael a key. After signing the register, Michael made arrangements for the care of his horse and then gratefully headed up the stairs. He paused only for a moment to attend to his toilette before falling face-first onto the bed. Within seconds, he was fast asleep.

  Unfortunately, what felt like just minutes later—but was in actuality closer to an hour—Michael was awakened by a loud pounding on the front door of the inn (situated, as he was warned, directly below his room). Cursing under his breath, he tried to drown out the racket by covering his head with a pillow. When that didn’t work, and the knocking could still be heard minutes later, Michael decided there was nothing to do but go answer the door himself.

  “The innkeeper must keep his quarters in the next town,” Michael muttered to himself, as he yanked the door open and peered down the stairs. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one roused by the pounding, even in light of his abominable room placement (his own fault, he acknowledged), as he counted no less than four other guests peeking out of their rooms, as well.

  Reaching up to tug on his non-existent hat, Michael indicated that he would go check on the trouble. As a thank-you, the rest of the guests disappeared into their rooms without even a “how-do-you-do.” Shrugging, he headed down the stairs to open the door.

  Just as Michael stepped onto the middle landing of the stairs, the innkeeper’s wife—resplendent in a rumpled robe and slippers—stumbled out from behind the front desk.

  The fact that the woman was opening the door at all was, frankly, a bit curious. Didn’t establishments such as these keep a night staff for just this reason? One would think that travelers could arrive at any time, day or night.

  Of course, now that the knocking had come to an end, all he wanted to do was return to his bed and sleep. Yawning widely, Michael was halfway up the stairs when he heard something that caused him to stop in his tracks.

  “I am Lieutenant-Colonel De Bourg, aide-de-camp of Lord Cathcart. I need to speak to the innkeeper immediately.”

  Michael turned around and peered down the stairs toward the front door. Standing in the entryway was a man wearing a richly embroidered scarlet uniform, dripping with sea spray, and adorned with medals on his breast and a dark fur traveling cap, banded with gold, on his head. Even Michael could find nothing about this man that belied who he said he was, and yet, something was not quite right here.

  Before his brother had died unexpectedly of the influenza two years ago, Michael had been a soldier in the British Army. He had just been promoted to the rank of captain and he had foreseen a long illustrious career in the service of his country; however, that was not to be.

  It had taken him some time to settle into the life of the “idle rich”—though honestly, he probably did more with his estates than most property owners did—but finally, after two years, he had learned to respond to the address of Lord Lichfield, rather than look over his shoulder for his brother or father.

  However, two years as viscount did not erase his memory of nearly eight years in the army, and Michael remembered very much about his time in service, including a brief period of commission with Lord Cathcart at an encampment in France. In fact, Michael recalled being introduced to his aide-de-camp, Du Bourg, a number of times while he was stationed there.

  And while the man standing at the foot of the stairs looked vaguely familiar, he did not even slightly resemble the Du Bourg of Michael’s recollection.

  Suspicious, Michael decided to forgo his sleep and instead join the party going on downstairs. Party, of course, being a euphemism for general chaos, because as it turned out, the innkeeper’s wife was answering the door because her husband was passed out drunk in the hall outside their quarters.

  Apparently, the man had made quite the killing at the races earlier that day and had spent the evening celebrating, unbeknownst to his wife, who—Michael was pleased to know—would have been minding the front desk had she known her errant husband was, er, errant (it seems that inns and hotels generally do have night staff on duty for late arrivals).

  While she tried to rouse her husband and the servants scurried here and there for refreshments and nourishment for the lieutenant colonel, Michael had a chance to listen to the amazing tale the man calling himself Du Bourg was spinning.

  It seemed that this Du Bourg had been brought over by a French vessel from Calais with important news…the allies had gained a great victory and had entered Paris! There, he said, Bonaparte had been overtaken and slain. Paris was saved from being razed to the ground and the white cockade was being worn everywhere, anticipating an imminent declaration of peace. As one would expect, this news was met with stunned gasps followed by even more excitement.

  Then, once the innkeeper was sufficiently lucid, the imposter requested that a telegraph be sent to Admiral Foley, the port-admiral at Deal, about the news. This was followed almost immediately by an order for a post-chaise and four.

  At this point, Michael purposely faded into the background. While the uniformed man waited on his carriage and horses, Michael paid his tab and then he went to liberate his own horse from the stables.

  Keeping to the shadows of the building using the skills he learned in the war, Michael waited for the imposter to leave at a breakneck speed toward London, at which point he followed him.

  Something strange was going on…an
d Michael was bound and determined to find out what it was.

  Chapter Two

  Rarely is something as simple as it first appears.

  ~The Duke of Lancaster

  Just hours after Michael had begun to trail Du Bourg, Hope was making her way, incognito, to Capel-Court on Bartholomew Lane. This was the new location of the Stock Exchange. It was near the Bank of England—rather handy, that—just past Cheapside, but not quite as far as the Tower of London. In general, it was not a location gently bred ladies went to on their own, if at all; therefore, Hope was not dressed as a lady, but rather as a gentleman.

  She had pulled her hair back tightly into a bun and covered it with a gentleman’s hat. She was wearing breeches and boots—borrowed unknowingly from one of Sarah’s brothers—a fine linen shirt, bottle green vest, and an expertly tailored dark green jacket.

  The shirt, vest, and jacket were a bit harder to come by than the breeches, as it was imperative they be a perfect fit. To that end, Hope had them fashioned by an actual modiste under the ruse of a fancy dress costume. They had come with a bottle green skirt (even for a costume, breeches would not be acceptable for a lady) and embellished frog mask to complete the outfit.

  By dressing in perfectly tailored clothing in the height of fashion, keeping her posture absolutely perfect, and walking with a longer stride and an air of superiority, Hope had thus far been able to infiltrate the men of the Stock Exchange with nary a second glance.

  She had been sneaking off to London proper for a number of months now, and with every visit, Hope felt her confidence grow. Now it seemed almost second nature to hail an anonymous hack and ride into the City alone, which was saying something, as debutantes never went anywhere without at least a ladies’ maid. The slightest impropriety—such as being discovered alone with a man under any circumstances—could find a young girl engaged or hopelessly ruined faster than one could blink.

  So, while Hope felt more confident in general, she never allowed herself to become complacent. She never spoke, except to give directions to the hack driver, and she never made eye contact with anyone. Mostly she just sat, pretending to read the paper outside or just inside the exchange, and surreptitiously watched the goings on.

  From her vantage point, she could see the stockjobbers trading shares almost frenetically. To Hope, it was fascinating to watch the trades being made and then to see the actual differences those trades made in the values of the stocks.

  Usually, Hope only went down to the exchange when she was particularly excited by an investment her father had made on her advice. She knew his financial advisor by sight and she would covertly monitor his activities; not because she didn’t trust the man, but because it was a way for her to see her ideas in action.

  This morning, however, Hope was not there to check on her investments, but to see if she could learn anything more about the strange trends in government securities. She just couldn’t seem to take her own advice. For some reason, Hope didn’t think patience would pay off this time, and if there was one thing Hope had learned to listen to, it was her own intuition.

  It was close to ten in the morning when she arrived at the exchange building. Within minutes of her arrival, there was a buzz in the air about something, and soon, Hope began to hear rumors once again that Napoleon had been killed. These rumors, unlike some of the previous ones she had heard, contained quite a few details that lent an air of believability to them.

  As Hope listened to the stories of the Cossacks fighting over the body of the dead French leader, she also watched the security fund values rise significantly. Well, this just shows how gossip can affect the exchange reports, Hope thought to herself, but not even for one minute did she think the stories flying around were true. She wasn’t sure why she was so sure, but she was.

  And just a little while later, Hope’s doubts were confirmed. When the Lord Mayor was unable to corroborate any of the rumors, the funds quickly went back down. As a result, everyone was on edge and Hope found the volatile environment more than a little uncomfortable.

  It was close to one in the afternoon by this point and Hope decided she might as well go home. She wanted to speak to her father about what she had seen at the Subscription Room and get his opinion on the matter.

  Surely after she explained what she had seen, er, heard, her father would take her concerns more seriously. If rumors had as much sway on the stock exchange as she had seen that morning, then the exchange was ripe for illegal activity. One well-placed story and a person could drive up a particular stock whenever he wanted and then sell before the truth came out.

  As Hope exited the London building, she was confronted by a post-chaise and four slowly making its way down the road, surrounded by a crowd the likes of which Hope had never seen outside a ballroom.

  There were three passengers in the vehicle—two of which appeared to be French officers—throwing billets to the spectators. The horses had laurel wreaths hanging around their necks and off of the rigging and, judging from the cheers of the people, it seemed the occupants of the carriage were advertising some very good news.

  A knot developed in the pit of Hope’s stomach. She knew before even looking at one of the papers scattered around that this had something to do with the rumors about Napoleon. Bending over to pick up one of the billets, Hope quickly realized that her stomach was correct.

  The paper repeated the story about the death of Napoleon and the fall of Paris, and Hope knew that this time, when the funds rose on the exchange, it would take much more than the word of the ministers to stop the flurry of trading. Long bargains would be made and someone—or many someones—would reap untold rewards…whether the news was true or not.

  Mind made up, Hope flagged down the nearest hack—not the easiest thing to do in light of the massive amount of traffic the post-chaise was generating—and she directed the driver to follow the carriage as discreetly as possible. It was time to find out just what was going on here.

  …

  Michael had been trailing Du Bourg—as he was now thinking of the man, despite his belief that the soldier wasn’t actually the lieutenant-colonel—all night and well into the morning and he was beyond tired. As near as he could tell, the man was stopping at every major inn and hotel between Dover and London to spread the “good” news. The man threw coins to the post-boys every time he changed horses, telling them to go on ahead and spread the word as well.

  At Marsh Gate, Lambeth, just outside London, Du Bourg switched coaches. This new coach was different than the others Du Bourg had made use of all night. It was of the hackney variety—certainly not of the same stature as the post-chaise—and it appeared to have been specifically hired for the next leg of Du Bourg’s journey.

  Clearly, whatever was going on had been carefully thought out ahead of time.

  The next stop was surprisingly not a hotel, but was, in fact, a residence in a respectable neighborhood. Also surprising was that when Du Bourg alit from the vehicle, he was dressed in a green sharpshooter’s uniform. After concluding a quick bit of business there, the charlatan led Michael to the end of the London Bridge. The hackney coach stopped there, next to yet another post-chaise carriage. Almost immediately, two men left the post-chaise and walked over to where Du Bourg was exiting the cab.

  Then Michael watched in astonishment as the three men changed into French officer uniforms, right there next to the remaining carriage. Then with Du Bourg at the reins, the men slowly made their way across the bridge, through Cheapside, and down Fleet Street, the men scattering handbills to the masses along the way.

  At one particular junction, when traffic came to a near halt, Michael was able to get a hold of one of the billets. It contained the same claptrap that Du Bourg had been spreading across all of England. That Napoleon had been killed.

  The question was, what was the purpose for perpetrating such an elaborate hoax? What could possibly be gained? Surely there was a reason for saying such things so convincingly other than as just a joke.<
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  Michael continued to follow the post-chaise as it made its way through town and past the Tower of London. Finally they crossed over the Blackfriar’s Bridge where they picked up speed and drove rapidly to March Gate, Lambeth. The carriage stopped in roughly the same spot Du Bourg had earlier and the three men got out. Michael stopped some distance away, hiding behind some well-placed foliage, and dismounted.

  As Michael watched the men talking, another hackney stopped just behind him. Turning in surprise, Michael watched a young man with a very slight build hop down from the carriage and walk directly toward him.

  Now what? he wondered, with more than a little exasperation.

  …

  “Lord Lichfield,” Hope called out in surprise as she hurried toward him. She wasn’t quite sure what Michael was doing there, but he was clearly following the same men she was. Perhaps he would know what was going on.

  “Pardon me,” Michael said slowly. “I don’t believe we have met.”

  Hope pulled up short a few feet away. Oh dear, she thought frantically. In all the excitement she had forgotten about her disguise. Well, there was nothing to do for it now. She was just going to have to carry on as if she were a man.

  Certainly if Michael ever found out about her penchant for dressing as a gentleman so she could visit the exchange, he would no longer be the least bit interested in her. Assuming he was even the least bit interested in her now.

  “Ah, yes…I mean, n-no,” Hope stammered, her voice lowering into what was an abysmally poor attempt to sound manlier. “I don’t believe we have formally met as of yet, sir.”

  Michael narrowed his eyes. “And yet you still know my name?”

  “Yes, well, you are, er, a compelling figure of a man.”

  “I see,” Michael said hesitantly before offering his hand for a shake. “And you are?”

  “I am…” Hope wracked her brain for a name even as she took Michael’s hand in greeting. “Um…” She couldn’t for the life of her come up with a man’s name. She had never anticipated needing an alias to go along with her disguise before; although, now that she was in this situation, she wondered why she hadn’t. It only stood to reason that someone someday might ask for it.