Page 10 of Rogue’s Holiday

“One you have already begun if your failure to appear at the shipping office is any indication,” said his father, looking over his newspaper. “Recall that one of our six ships is yours.”

“I have not forgotten,” said Robbie, “and I am weary of the Crown’s business. Claiming my home on the sea again appeals but there might be other options.” Robbie had been restless for some while. The adventure of spying for the Crown had held his attention for the last few years, but with Cato Street, he had come to the end of it.

“So, what will you do now?” inquired his father.

Robbie stared ahead but, seeing nothing, replied. “I have no idea.” Dropping his gaze to his coffee, he said, “I might return to the family business. Then again, how would you feel about one of your sons being destined for something on land?” One of the reasons Robbie had become an expert navigator was his fondness for charts and maps, which had fascinated him since he was a boy. He’d made good use of his skill in his work as a spy. Perhaps he could turn that into some worthy endeavor.

His father smiled. “I suppose one of my sons could be an outlier. Your twin and his wife design ships in London and Scotland, only going to sea to travel between them.”

Robbie let out a sigh. “I will think on my future while I’m away. It is possible I will return to my ship when Jack returns to his vineyards. But I make no promises.”

“For the present,” put in Jack, “we take our vacances, non?”

“So you shall,” said Simon Powell, “but let us know how you fare. Your father, Jack—my wife’s father, I remind you—and your mother in Guernsey will be anxious for news.”

“Tell them we are to be the guests of the king,” put in Robbie. “They can find no fault in that.”

His mother raised a dark brow. “Unless they recall his reputation.” She had never been overly fond of Prinny.

That afternoon, as Robbie and Jack were leaving for White’s, a messenger arrived with a letter addressed in flowing script to Sir Robert Powell. Sealed in red wax was the Claremont coat of arms.

A message from The Grand Countess.

Robbie broke the seal and read the terse message: Please call upon me at your earliest convenience.

It was signed Muriel Claremont.

Muriel, Dowager Countess of Claremont, had been in Scotland with Robbie and his brothers last Christmas. During that time, he had grown rather fond of the older woman, hence the sobriquet “The Grand Countess”. He enjoyed her keen wit. She had kept them regaled with her quips and retorts when the snow forced them inside.

What could she want?

The next morning, Robbie reined in Zeus and Apollo in front of Claremont House. Four-storied and surrounded by gardens, the grand estate was the countess’ home in London.

Robbie handed the reins to the groom, warning him of the spirited pair, and took the short flight of stairs leading to the front door.

At the drop of the brass knocker, the door opened to reveal Cruthers, the countess’ always impeccably attired butler. “Good day, sir,” he intoned with a face devoid of emotion.

“Sir Robert Powell to see the countess.”

Robbie detected a flicker of surprise in the servant’s eyes, which quickly vanished. While Cruthers knew him from other visits, the butler might not be aware of Robbie’s new form of address. Cruthers bade him enter and took his hat. “Lady Claremont is receiving in the parlor, sir.”

Robbie left the entry hall with its crystal chandelier and gilded staircase and followed the butler to the sitting room where the elegant older woman sat on one of two ivory sofas flanking a white marble fireplace that harbored a warming fire. The scent of flowers drew his gaze to a large bouquet of pink roses sitting on a table next to the far window.

The countess beckoned him near. A woman of classic taste, she wore a dark gray gown set off by the ivory sofa. Around her neck hung her usual adornments, a long string of pearls and a quizzing glass on a gold chain. She was never without them.

“Do come in,” she said. And then to Cruthers, “Some brandy for Sir Robert and sherry for me, if you will.”

The butler bowed, walked to the sideboard and poured the requested drinks.

Once Robbie had his brandy in hand, Muriel raised her glass of sherry. “A toast to you for your daring and courage that has saved the Cabinet and perhaps the king as well.”

“How did—”

“You forget, Sir Robert, the king and I are old acquaintances. He simply told me. Quite proud of you he was, too.”

Robbie dropped his gaze to his amber drink, a fine cognac. “It’s not generally known I was involved.”

When he looked up, there was a twinkle in her gray eyes. “Yes, yes, I am aware. You have no cause to worry that I will say anything. I asked you here to congratulate you on your service to the king. And to beg a favor.”