Page 11 of Presenting Miss Letitia (Once a Wallflower 1)

“Very well.” Her aunt moved her shoulders in a nervous gesture. “But you must write to your uncle every week and tell him how you go on. Any sign of trouble, and he will come and get you.”

“I will, Aunt. You are not to worry. You must rest and regain your strength.”

“It is my wish for you to find a decent man to marry, Letitia. Do not be swayed by rakes, I beg of you. I’m not entirely sure that Arietta…well, never mind. I shall rely on your commonsense.”

“What are rakes like, Aunt? How will I know if I meet one?”

“Mm. They’re excessively charming, often handsome. Have quite a way with words and their manners.” She shook her head with a faint sigh and said, “Are faultless.”

Letty thought they sounded rather nice. Although handsome, apparently Mr. Cartwright was not one. For indeed, he had not been charming, and his manners left much to be desired.

Her aunt narrowed her eyes. “But rakes are intent on something a young lady must never give them.”

“What is that?” Letty asked. “I shouldn’t think I have much to offer. I am hardly an heiress.”

“Your virtue,” Aunt Edith said, firming her lips. “And that’s all I will say on the subject.”

Brandon met Fraser Willard in a coffee house and passed on the information he’d overheard. “So, it concerns this Journal Noir. It appears Fraughton’s interest in seeing Lavalette dead is not entirely related to his Bourbon sympathies.” Brandon sipped his ale. “It certainly is intriguing, is it not? Could this be what Lavalette believes will be of interest to the British government?

His spymaster looked pensive. “We aren’t sure what the comtesse is offering. She approached us for help with the promise we will not be disappointed. Once she has our agreement, she’ll reveal what it is. It could be a ploy on her part to help get her husband safely out of France. But if we can help save him, I’m sure he’ll be eager to show his gratitude. And with Napoleon gone to cool his heels on Saint Helena, he has only his own hide to care about.”

Brandon glanced at the meeting taking place at the next table where three men argued over some venture. “I gather you have accepted her offer?”

“We have. Should the plan be successful, we will send someone to France to furnish Lavalette with a passport and escort him over the Belgian border.”

Brandon put down his coffee cup. “He hopes to escape the Conciergerie? Seems a bit farfetched. How might that come about?”

“His wife has something in mind, but she’s keeping it to herself until she’s sure of us. Let us put that aside for a moment. Our interest must remain on Fraughton. Go to the Anchor Tavern and find out what you can from that pair of conspirators.”

“And if I learn nothing?”

Willard raised his eyebrows. “Is it possible that Lady Fraughton might render assistance?”

“I doubt she knows anything,” Brandon said. “She appears disinterested in her husband’s activities. And he in hers, which is a sore point with her. That might work in our favor. I will pursue it.”

It was past dusk, and the candles were alight when Brandon arrived at his house to change his clothes. His valet, Hove, had ordered a trunk to be brought down from the attic. It now sat on the carpet in Brandon’s bedchamber. Brandon opened the lid and rifled through it.

“Shall you require burnt cork or ash, sir?” Hove inquired.

“Both, I imagine.” Pulling out several items, Brandon began to change his clothes.

When he’d dressed, he stood before the mirror. A shabby shirt open at the neck, a brown coat that had never been of good cloth, breeches, and scuffed boots. Nodding approval, he sat while Hove applied the burnt cork to his whiskered jaw, where he had foregone shaving and his new beard sprouted. Ash was ground into the back of his hands and under his fingernails. He pulled a faded hat low over his expensive haircut.

“Look the part do I, Hove?” Brandon slipped a knife into his boot and pocketed his pistol. Outside the window, the sky was relatively clear of clouds and lit by a mistrustfully serene moon.

“Indeed yes, sir.” The valet grinned. “Would think twice before I gave you any lip.”

Brandon left his townhouse via the mews behind. Keeping to the shadows, he walked to the busy thoroughfare where he hailed a hackney. The jarvey pulled up and eyed him, unsure whether to drive on. Brandon held up a small, fat leather bag of coins. “The Anchor Tavern at London Dock.”

“Don’t go down there at night, guv’nor,” the jarvey said, studying the bag as if to assess the weight of it. “Not worth the risk.”

“Your decision.” Brandon went to place it in his pocket.

“Tell yer what. I’ll drop yer at the top of Pennington Street. It is located near the northern edge of the dock.”

“Agreed.” Brandon opened the bag and tipped out half of it. “You’ll get the other half if you come back for me in two hours.”

“Right you are, sir.”

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