Page 33 of Disciplined by the Duke
“What, your infatuation?” Rothchild shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so. Only your most trusted friend—”
“Pain in the ass, more like,” Marcus muttered.
“The person who knows you best in the world noticed.” They approached the village, but Rothchild pulled back on his reins. “But you need to be more careful. The way you two were looking at each other almost made me feel dirty just being in the same room. No one would raise an eyebrow if you were to bed your servant, at least no one who doesn’t know you well. But developing a tendre for your maid, well, that would be something else entirely.”
“I do not developtendresfor anyone.” Disdain dripped from his tongue at the notion. “But I will be more careful in future.” Rothchild opened his mouth. Not wanting to hear any more on the subject, Marcus tapped his heels into Darkwing’s flank and trotted to the public house, dismounting before the conversation could progress.
The men entered the small building, empty at this time of day except for two farmers, and strode to a private room in the back. Seeing his man was already ensconced at the rickety table with a pitcher of ale, the duke closed the door behind himself and Rothchild.
The man poured ale into more mugs and pushed them across the table as Marcus and Rothchild took a seat. He lifted one in a salute. “Well met, Your Grace, my lord.”
Marcus raised his own mug. “Thank you for coming, Harding. What information do you have?”
“Your man, Sheffield, and me have been diggin’ into you swells in the House of Lords.” Harding snorted. “Right lot of rascals if you ask me.” He pulled several folded sheets of paper from his pocket and handed them to Marcus. “Here’s the list we’ve got so far and all the misdeeds they’ve done. From stepping out on their missus, to buggery, to gambling, it’s all there.”
Marcus pressed his lips together. He still didn’t know the identity of the traitor, and the list Harding gave him didn’t narrow it down much. The letter that had arrived the day before didn’t contain the information he’d hoped for. Summerset had persuaded Princess Catarina to betray Napoléon, detail all she’d been able to learn at court, but her information didn’t contain the name of the damned traitor. The princess had never overheard that intelligence.
She had heard talk of troop movement towards Dresden. If the British government could get word to the Austrians in time—
Rothchild jabbed his finger at one of the names on the papers. “I knew Staunton was a molly. No man wears heels that high unless—”
Marcus cut him off. “You’re just annoyed because Staunton beat you in that race through Hyde Park and you lost your bay mare to him. The rest is irrelevant.” He turned to Harding, who was busy wiping the white froth of the ale off his lips with the back of his sleeve. “While this list is very extensive, I need to know who would be subject to blackmail over his misdeeds, or who is in desperate need of money. No one cares if a peer takes a mistress and most turn a blind eye if that paramour isn’t of the female persuasion. Who on this list could be turned against the Crown?”
The spy pursed his lips. “Well, the Viscount of Kent is in a right financial hash. He has three by-blows he’s trying to do right by, one younger sister with a spending habit, and is in debt up to his eyeballs. The Earl of Summerset—”
“He is not the traitor.”
“But he’s said to have a relationship with—”
“Move on.”
Rothchild stifled a laugh. “Let the man speak, Montague. You never know what Summerset is up to in Paris.”
Marcus glared at him. “Next prospect.”
Harding harrumphed. “Well, the second son of the Marquis of Stanwick is said to owe a fortune to a number of gambling hells around London. He could have access to his father’s secrets.”
Marcus made some notes on the list. “Anyone else?”
“The Earl of Westmore is spending more than his estate brings in. But he does like to gamble and we haven’t been able to find out if he’s winning more or losing.”
Marcus stilled. Westmore wasn’t a name he’d expected to hear. He didn’t like the man, but the earl had never appeared to either have any great love for the French or ever be in need of funds. But he was now missing a maid, one who had turned up in the duke’s own household. Coincidence?
He kept his expression even. “Find out. If Westmore is spending a farthing more than his income provides I want to know.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Harding drained his mug. “I can get a couple hours’ ride in before dark if I leave now. Unless you need anything else?”
“That is all. Thank you, Harding.”
Rothchild let him sit in silence for a couple of minutes after the spy left. Marcus refolded the list and tucked it into his breast pocket, his fingers brushing against the princess’s letter. He traced the wing of the falcon on the raised seal before pushing back from his seat. He strode into the main room and headed for the barmaid.
“Westmore’s name caught your attention,” Rothchild said, trailing after him. “Why?”
“I have no reason to suspect him more than any other.” Marcus conferred with the woman and pocketed the apples she gave him. He left a coin on the bar and exited the building.
“And yet?”
Marcus tossed an apple to him, fed the remaining treat to Darkwing. The horse’s nose brushed against his palm, soft as a warm blanket—or a woman’s skin. The steady crunching of the apple steadied his nerves. “And yet.” He leaped into the saddle. “I need to update Liverpool. Will you take my letter to him? It’s too important to go by normal channels.”
