Page 25 of Presenting Miss Letitia (Once a Wallflower 1)

“Enough.” A smile lifted a corner of Willard’s mouth as he waved him to a chair. “Brandy?”

“Please.”

Willard went to the drinks tray and poured two snifters of brandy from the crystal decanter, returning to hand Brandon one. He took the chair opposite. “What have you uncovered that requires this visit?”

Brandon told him.

“A good evening’s work. I shall alert the comtesse to the danger although she is well aware of it. The lady is intent on pursuing her plan at whatever cost. So, what is this market they speak of, I wonder? And how does it relate to the Journal Noir?”

Brandon felt the familiar kick of excitement tighten his chest. “I’ll try to discover it without delay.”

Willard nodded. “Yes. Time grows short. But now we have the gentlemen’s names. Wealthy and powerful men who will be difficult to bring to justice. We must have proof, and until we get the journal, we need to catch them red-handed at something unlawful. However, the investigation shall continue. I trust you will be nearby when they attend that meeting?”

“Depend upon it.” Brandon drained his glass and stood. “I shan’t keep you from your bed, and I must confess, I am ready for mine.”

As Willard saw him to the door, Brandon turned. “Remember that business with Sir Gareth Kendall? Killed himself when he came under a cloud of suspicion after he was accused of working for the French. He tried to make me the scapegoat, but failed when Whitehall took measures to silence him.”

“Yes, agents paid him a visit and persuaded him to keep his mouth shut.”

“Is there evidence that he was working for the French?”

“The Home Office had enough information to arrest him. He would have been hanged, knew it, of course, and beat them to the punch. If indeed it was suicide,” he said after a thoughtful silence. “The postmortem was inconclusive. Some evidence of interference.”

This was new to him. Brandon whistled silently. “What about his wife? Could she have been involved?”

“Lady Arietta? Nothing to suggest it. I felt rather sorry for her at the time. She fought tooth and nail for him. A loyal and loving wife, it would appear.”

“Foolish. But love can blind one.” He shrugged into his greatcoat.

“Eh?” Willard opened the door. “Rather late in the evening for such a deep philosophical thought, is it not? You aren’t in love, by any chance?”

Brandon shook his head with a wry smile. “No. Spies have no business falling in love. Best we avoid the parson’s mousetrap while in the business.”

“You’ll consider it one day, surely.”

“I doubt I’m husband material.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Brandon.” Willard frowned. “I sometimes wonder if I

did the right thing dragging you into this.”

“You didn’t drag me in, you rescued me,” Brandon said as he donned his hat. “Goodness knows where I might have ended up if you hadn’t.”

“You would have righted yourself.” He rubbed at the beginnings of a beard on his jaw. “I should have resisted, perhaps. You were young, but I recognized your potential when you saved me from those footpads in Covent Garden. A handy piece of work.” He nodded. “My judgement was on the money. About your potential, I mean.”

“I don’t regret it. I hope you don’t.”

Willard smiled. “That goes without saying. Just as long as you stay alive. I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

Brandon merely grinned and picked up his cane from the hall table. With a nod, he departed into the night in search of a hackney. It had been raining, the roads wet and not a carriage in sight. Sighing, his cane over his shoulder, he set off down the street. When would he toss it in? Did the reason he took this path no longer drive him? He had become involved in his early twenties. His father had cut him off, accused him of being a wastrel after he’d been sent down from Oxford in his final year. It was the result of a wild escapade that ended in tragedy.

After a night spent in the local pub drinking into the early hours, he and Freddie Maxwell emerged in their cups and decided to climb the church tower. He couldn’t remember whose decision it was, and it didn’t matter. The pain of what followed would have equal force either way when Freddie had lost his grip and fallen to his death.

His father’s contempt for him was justified. For a while, Brandon made sure he lived up to it, carousing in London with a rowdy group of bucks, until he was approached by Willard and took up the offer to become an agent for the Crown. He’d gone into it back then because he agreed with his father’s assessment of his character and didn’t care if he lived or died. He continued to do it because he wanted to prove something to himself, that he wasn’t that complete wastrel his father considered him, and because the work he performed was important to the nation’s security.

Seven years later, his father, who was a respected member of parliament, still disapproved of him. Brandon rarely visited Fernborough Park, the family’s country home in Surrey. His reception had not changed through the years, still the veiled criticism from his father, whom Brandon chose not to tell of his work for the Crown. And should he discover it, his father would put it down solely to his son’s reckless need for excitement and danger. Then there was the constant urging from his mother to marry and provide her with grandchildren. As if that was the panacea for all ills. He had little to offer a wife. Far simpler to remain single.

As the rain started again, a jarvey pulled up his hackney and called to him. With a nod, Brandon gave him his direction and climbed inside. He removed his hat, shaking off the rainwater and smoothed his damp hair.

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