An Unsuitable Occupation For A Lady
Jackie Walton
Copyright 2011 Jackie Walton
For Marilyn: sister, friend, fan, not necessarily in that order
Cover courtesy of Christine Margle, Mariah Dorssers, and Christy Walton
Scamp’s Lady
Chapter 1
London, England, early May 1812
In general, the season bored her. Unless she had to, she rarely spent the whole time in town. She saw the friends she really wanted to see, did the shopping she really needed to do, and listened to enough music to tide her soul over the relative caterwauling of the uninspired musicians generally found around her home near Maidstone. The memories of sitting through innumerable, excruciating concerts forced a wry smile as she stood with her friend, Lindsey Alder, near the back of Lady Burlington’s ballroom and listened to the surprisingly good string quartet that provided the music for the ball.
She still had a few evenings left to enjoy London’s musical offerings: Hayden’s “The Seasons” tomorrow and Mozart’s always-delightful opera “The Magic Flute” the day after. She justified her dawdles in town because her uncle had been dropping hints of something he wanted her to do, for the past week or so. However duty and familial affection would not hold her permanently in town on the basis of his vague, amorphous hints. The new factory under construction on her estate needed her attention, at least for awhile. She wanted to be back in town for the running of the Derby at the end of the month, but she could return to town for that if necessary.
In the meantime, she watched Lindsey’s almost imperceptible, but none the less blissful, sway to the music. Her friend’s light moss green gown complimented her copper-colored hair. The puffed sleeves and neckline plunging to a jade broach flattered her milk-white skin. Her own ivory silk dress slipped off her shoulders, teasingly, as if trying to slip off completely. The tease continued with the full, sheer sleeves gathering to pearl encrusted cuffs.
She let herself float back into the music.
“Lady ‘Chee-air-ah,’ may I have the honor of this dance?” A somewhat portly gentleman with a glaring red waistcoat and thinning blond hair stood before her. Unfortunately, Chiara thought, his snug breeches left little to the imagination. The high collar points enclosed his cheeks and prevented him from turning his head. Several fobs dripped from his waist. His tone told her that he actually expected her to be the one honored.
“Lord DuBois, my name is pronounced ‘Key-are-uh’.” She rolled the “r” gently, but had no expectation that sound would ever pass the gentleman’s lips.
“Ah, yes, Italian, if I recall. Such a pity. You could add a good English name, such as my own, to it, and all would be most acceptable.”
Lady Chiara’s mouth twitched. “I, ah, appreciate the thought, my lord, but I find I am quite content with my own Brownlee.” She absentmindedly played with a curl. She knew the honey blonde locks marched well with her name, which meant “light.”
DuBois had some official connection with her uncle Geoffrey, but that connection was so thin that it snapped easily. “Now, if you will excuse us, Miss Alder and I have something to attend to.” She smiled, nodded her dismissal, and nudged Lindsey in the opposite direction.
Candles blossomed from the chandeliers and the wall sconces. The dancing ladies below them looked like a myriad of brilliantly colored flowers swaying in a musical wind. The men partnering them might have been dark-trunked trees, save for the occasional uniform glaring red or green in the forest.
“Key, you were too kind to him,” Lindsey smirked. “As a set-down, it failed miserably.”
From behind them, a clipped masculine voice interjected, “Miss Alder, on the other hand, has no need of kindness to my cousin. Set-downs are obviously her stock-in-trade now that she has consigned herself to the shelf.”
Lindsey froze then turned slowly, her plain face set in wooden lines. Chiara, on the other hand, felt a rage as Italianesque as her name surge through her. “Miss Alder has every right to feel that way, Mr. Simmons. Lord DuBois is hunting a fortune and set his sights on her last season. He even made a ham-fisted attempt to compromise her.”
Her antagonist was not much older than herself, an heir to a baronetcy, good looking in a Byronic, careless way. A moment’s thought brought to mind the connection between him and Lord DuBois.
Behind him stood a somewhat older man, dark and silent. Chiara didn’t recognize him, but one glance told her that those eyes, dark and piercing like a predator, missed nothing. But he wasn’t the current problem.
“If that’s the tactic he’s using now, then Miss Alder might be advised to let him compromise her. Lord knows with that platter-face, it’s the only way she’s going to get a husband!”
“You will apologize this instant, sir!”
“Not bloody likely,” he muttered.
Chiara felt a red haze of fury form on the edges of her vision. “You will apologize,” her hand snaked out to slap him across the face with a crack that was heard by everyone around them, “or you will face me over pistols tomorrow morning.”
Before the shocked young man could reply, a warm hand went around Chiara’s waist, and her brother’s studiedly bored voice came over her shoulder. “Best give it up, Simmons, m’sister’s a crack shot. Not quite the thing for a lady, but there you have it.”
In the silence that followed, the whispers drifting from behind dozens of fans and hands sounded like a hive of enraged bees. The dark man merely lifted a brow.
Simmons dropped his hand from his cheek and looked from sister to brother. Slowly, he turned to Miss Alder and bowed deeply. “My most sincere regrets for my ill-said words, Miss Alder. You are most fortunate in your possession of a friend who would defend you so fiercely.” He turned, and the crowd parted as if it was the Red Sea. The tall, dark-eyed man with him looked closely at Chiara and then followed.
On David Brownlee’s advice, they stayed at the ball for a few minutes, heads high, deflecting or distaining the subtle and not-so-subtle inquires about the incident. Finally, Chiara escorted her friend out of the ballroom and into her own carriage, dismissing the Alder family vehicle. “What was that all about?”
Lindsey, who had obviously been hanging onto her composure with her fingertips, burst into tears, “I don’t know; I don’t know.”
Chiara simply held her friend all the way home.
Chapter 2
The next morning, Chiara desperately wanted to call on Lindsey. Unfortunately, when she arrived at her home from the ball, a summons for a mid-morning appointment with her uncle awaited her. This was not a great time for it, but Lindsey would have to wait. Aunt Ada and Uncle Geoffrey had, after all, raised the newly-orphaned Lord David Brownlee, new Earl of Liston, and her when Ada’s brother-in-law was killed and her broken-hearted sister soon followed her husband to the grave. In Chiara’s opinion, her aunt and uncle couldn’t have done more for David and her if the orphans were their own children. Any thing Uncle Geoffrey or Aunt Ada, Lord and Lady Wentworth, wanted was theirs as soon as Chiara or David could provide it.
This was not to be a familial or social call, though. The note requesting her to call on him was signed, as he usually signed such things, “Wentworth.” The “W” had an almost imperceptible third flourish instead of its normal two. That meant that her uncle was requesting her presence in his official capacity as “Watchman,” the coordinator for all the royal intelligence agents in the sixteen-year-long war with Napoleon.
Chiara, much to her uncle’s private disgust, was one of his best agents. She knew of the existence of about six agents like herself, most of them only by the code names assigned to them—Bear, Lion, Wolf, Wolverine, Tiger, Lyn
x and her own, Marten. She found hers rather apt: small, camouflaged, and deadly when necessary. Some of the agents were personal acquaintances. Wolf and Lynx were both faceless civil servants in the Home Office. Bear she didn’t know personally, but knew that he was a wrongfully cashiered naval officer who kept tabs on the coastal “gentlemen,” the smugglers who brought in contraband and the occasional spy. Lion and Tiger worked in France. Wolverine was probably the most legendary of the bunch. His identity was a closely guarded secret. From a single, only slightly indiscrete, comment of her uncle’s, she guessed that he had entrée into the most elite of French and English houses.
Her main responsibility involved listening to society gossip (a surprisingly fertile source of information) and anything involving Italy or Italians. She’d also handled two missions to Italy to deliver documents.
She knew the people and the language well. Born there, she lived a goodly part of her life in Rome until Napoleon ordered Pope Pius VII to expel all Englishmen in 1806. Although the historical relationship of the Roman Catholic and Anglican Churches had never been cordial, her father, Lord Peter Brownlee, had seen the need of good diplomatic relations between England and the Papal States. He spent twenty-odd years as special ambassador from the Court of St. James to the Vatican. When Napoleon demanded that all Italy submit to his authority, Lord Brownlee sent his wife and children back to England ahead of him. A French assassin insured he would not return to make his final diplomatic report to London.
Chiara had spent too much time with her father not to know most of his business. What started out as a casual conversation with her uncle revealed her knowledge and his real job. She then badgered her way into the service, armed with a burning desire to destroy Napoleon and all he stood for. A chance at her father’s killer wouldn’t be a bad thing, but it probably wasn’t in the cards. After the…the other incident, she trained herself in every means of defense. She could shoot bows, guns, and slingshots. Her brother hadn’t lied to Simmons. She could wield a knife or a sword. Tom Crib, boxing champion in 1807 and ’09, gave her very private lessons. He taught her all a man’s weak points and how to exploit them. As a result, she never went anywhere defenseless. Several of her household staff had similar training.
The carriage stopped in front of her uncle’s Belgrade mansion. When Hyde, the very proper butler who knew almost as much about Lord Wentworth’s affairs as Lord Wentworth did, opened the door, he greeted her. “His lordship is in the study…with a visitor.”
Chiara looked at him and humphed. “Well, I guess I’ll just visit with Aunt Ada until he’s finished.”
“Lady Chiara, I believe his lordship’s instructions were to announce you immediately on your arrival.”
Since this was an “official” call, Chiara looked askance at him.
“Even so, my lady. Allow me.” He opened the study’s massive oak door. “Lady Chiara Brownlee to see you, my lord.”
“Thank you, Hyde, that will be all for the moment.”
As Hyde murmured, “Very good, sir,” Chiara swept around him and into the very masculine study. Since it was strictly forbidden to any staff member but Hyde, the room had the tidy, but not quite sparkling, look of male care. Lord Wentworth sat facing the door in one of the group of chairs in a corner near the window. Another dark, vaguely familiar man had his back to her.
Both rose as she gushed in her best tonnish accents, “La, Uncle Geoffrey, what ever possessed you to entertain guests in this dark hole of a room. You’re going to frighten the poor man so much he’ll never…” The man turned to bow, a sardonic gleam in his eyes: Simmons’s friend. “…Return.” Chiara kept the banal expression on her face. Until she knew more, she would maintain her persona. She nodded acknowledgement to him and gave her uncle a quick kiss along with lifted eyebrows.
Geoffrey patted her hand. His receding hair had gone grey, and his perpetually-flushed face bore the lines of age and care, but his eyes twinkled like a young buck. “Let me make the introductions. Marten,” he nodded to her, “may I present Wolverine.” A wave of his hand indicated the stranger.
Chiara drew a breath, and Wolverine warned, “Wentworth!” Agents’ identities were usually a closely guarded secret, even from each other.
“Pleased to meet you, Wolverine.” Wolverine glared at both Chiara and her uncle; she didn’t know who bore the brunt of his annoyance. In a moment of cheekiness, she extended her hand. As he took it and bowed, she remarked, “Uncle Geoffrey, would you be so kind as to formally introduce us, since you have already informally introduced us?”
Wentworth cleared his throat, “Sorry about that, m’dear. Thought you already knew each other. Lady Chiara Brownlee, may I present Lord Rafael FitzHenry, Earl of Thornbury.”
He looked to be in his mid-thirties, his coal black hair unstippled by grey. Chiara wasn’t sure that handsome was the correct word for him. Arresting suited him better. The planes of his face held the same degree of softness as his eyes: none. Chiara thought Lord FitzHenry no more resembled his angelic namesake than her favorite horse resembled the Prince Regent. After all, her horse was much more slender than the Regent. A slight smile played on her lips at the thought.
“Something amuses you, Lady Chiara?” His eyebrow rose.
“No, no,” she retrieved her hand and turned to her uncle. “We met last night but weren’t introduced.”
With no more need for social pretense, Chiara quietly took a seat across from Lord FitzHenry and her uncle. Absently, FitzHenry replaced the walking stick that slipped when he rose. Well, she thought, at least I don’t have to pretend to be paying a simple beau monde social call. Uncle Geoffrey will get to the bottom of this strange interview in his own time. He usually does.
Lord Wentworth sat with pursed lips and studied the Aubusson carpet for a moment. “It has come to the attention of the Ministry that Napoleon ordered Pope Pius VII arrested, and General Radet has taken him to the Bishop’s Palace in Savona.”
Chiara’s breath hissed and her hands clenched. Wentworth glanced over at her but continued on with his briefing. “Now, Pius is a damned papist,” Geoffrey snorted, “but your father, Chiara, always respected him as a head of state and a religious man for that matter. Despite our differences, he was always someone we could work with. When Napoleon ordered his borders closed, Pius refused to comply. As far as the Ministry is concerned, that makes him a friend and an ally. If we can get him out of his gilded prison, it will be a great diplomatic coup. Catholics and Protestants will be seen as united against Napoleon. The Pope can represent opposition in exile and rally his followers all over Europe. Maybe we can start Napoleon’s empire crumbling from within.”
Lord FitzHenry frowned, “That’s an admirable goal, but how do we fit into your scheme?”
“Patience, I’m getting to that. The young are always so impatient.”
Lord FitzHenry lifted his aristocratic eyebrow but said nothing.
“Chiara was born and raised in Italy. She speaks like a native and can slip right into the population. She also knows the Pope personally.”
“I was baptized by an Anglican priest, but His Holiness stood as one of my sponsors.” She shrugged. “Nobody objected, and it made for good diplomatic relations, I’m told.”
Lord FitzHenry toyed with the head of his walking stick as he listened. Chiara had the feeling of being a court lady seated in judgment before a Roundhead. FitzHenry radiated disapproval—words weren’t necessary. If Uncle Geoffrey put them together on an assignment, they might do more damage to each other than to Napoleon’s Grande Armée. She could see the writing on the wall.
Wentworth continued, “Lord FitzHenry, here, is not only a highly efficient agent, but he has the skills to physically extricate His Holiness. In addition, he’s dark as bedamned and can pass for a local.”
The object of his description quirked his mouth, but Chiara decided more concrete action was necessary. “Lord Wentworth, admittedly my association with Lord FitzHenry has been brief, but I’m
afraid that posting us together for an extended time would… um…not be conducive to accomplishing the mission. I respectfully suggest that someone else, perhaps an Army officer with experience in, I don’t know, scaling defensive fortifications might be better.”
“I’m sorry, but time is of the essence, and I’ve made my decision. I want you on your way in three days. That will be all.
“Now, my dear, I assume you wish to see your aunt. I will escort Lord FitzHenry out.” Agents never came or left together.
Lord FitzHenry rose and bowed to Chiara. “I shall call upon you at, shall we say, 10 o’clock tomorrow, Lady Chiara?”
Chiara went to the parlor to grit her teeth in front of her aunt for a few minutes.
Some time later, Ada entered the study and closed the door behind her. She knew her husband was aware of her presence, even though he didn’t look up from the document he wrote. She hesitated while he quickly sanded it and put it in a leather folio. Certain things she did not want to know about.
At his side, she bent and kissed his slightly balding forehead. “You really put the cat in with the pigeons this time, my love. Chiara was ready to chew plowshares into swords.”
“Humm, yes, you may be right.”
“Geoffrey, I know Chiara isn’t a naïve young girl, since she works for you, but isn’t sending her off to Italy with a relative stranger asking for trouble?”
“I know, I know. I’m not entirely comfortable about it, but they are the only two that have the skills between them to get it done.”
“What’s going to happen to our little girl?”
They both knew the question entailed Chiara’s past, present, and future. Uncle Geoffrey set his teeth and shook his head.
Chiara spent the rest of the day clearing her calendar, writing letters, and organizing some sort of plan for her, no, their mission. She wasn’t used to working with someone, especially someone who had all the congeniality of a …wolverine. Sanding the letter of apology and instructions to her estate manager, she snorted. Wolverine was an appropriate name for him. The animal was unsocial, unlovable, stank worse than a bunch of stevedores on a hot day, and fought with more tenacity and viciousness than all Napoleon’s Imperial Guard put together.