Page 3 of Presenting Miss Letitia (Once a Wallflower 1)

Jane’s green eyes danced. “And you so pretty in your fashionable new gown.”

Three weeks almost to the day, Letty and her uncle arrived weary and disheveled, at the Golden Cross Inn, a huge and thriving establishment in the village of Charing Cross, after an exhausting trip which required several overnight stops at uncomfortable coaching inns along the route.

Under lowering clouds, the streets were crammed with wagons, coaches, and pedestrians either seeking to travel or with that lost look of having just arrived, as she supposed she and her uncle did. Letty wrinkled her nose at the chimneys belching dark smoke into the gray air, and the piles of steaming horse dung, but couldn’t tamp down the thrill of being here at last. She glanced at her uncle, knowing he was already affirming his poor opinion of the city, as he went to hail a hackney carriage to take them to her aunt’s townhouse in Mayfair. Letty was a little nervous at the thought of spending a whole Season in her company. She hadn’t met Aunt Edith who’d never visited Cumbria after Letty came to live with her uncle.

In Mount Street, Aunt Edith’s narrow townhouse with black iron railings in front, was one of a row of identical two-story buildings of warm brick. As they alighted from the cab, a man selling pies wandered past them, calling in a loud voice. He paused to offer one to her uncle, who dismissed him with a sharp shake of his head.

A maid with a white apron and mob cap greeted them in the gloomy hall and led them to the parlor where Aunt Edith, close in age to her brother, dressed in a dark gray cambric with a lace collar and cuffs, rose from the sofa, a book held against her chest as if she regretted having to close it.

“My dear Edith, how very good to see you.” Uncle Alford hurried across to kiss her cheek. “But I don’t know how you can bear to live in this noisy metropolis.”

“One becomes accustomed to the noise. Better by far than the bleating of sheep. Goodness, Alford, how white your hair has become.” She turned to Letty. “And this is Letitia.” As Letty rushed to hug her, Aunt Edith held out her hand. Letty had no recourse but to shake it.

“How do you do, my dear.” Aunt Edith gazed at her myopically. “You are nothing like your dear mother. She was fair with blue eyes. It seems you favor your father. Well, never mind, we shall make do.”

“Letitia is quite pretty, Edith,” Uncle Alfred said with a frown.

For a moment, Letty feared an argument would ensue. She had visions of being carried off back to Cumbria. But Aunt Edith tapped Letty’s chin. “Well yes, I now see a little of your mother in your features, and you get your dark hair and eyes from your father. A pity, when fair hair and blue eyes are so fashionable.” She turned to the young maid. “Mary? Don’t stand there as if you’re frozen to the spot! Bring in the tea tray. Alford, I’m sure you and Letitia would care for tea? Good. Shall we sit? Don’t tell me you came in a hired chaise? So extravagant.”

Letty sat beside her aunt while Uncle Alford chose the overstuffed armchair. “No, we took the stage, and I must say…”

As they conversed, Letty sank back against an embroidered cushion. The room was old fashioned with big heavy pieces of furniture not in the modern style at all, the walls papered in dark green which made the room quite dark, even with the matching velvet curtains drawn aside. Outside the window was the brick wall of the house next door. She wished she didn’t feel so flat. With a sigh, she acknowledged the trip had left her weary. She remained confident that tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, everything would look a great deal better.

The coal fire sent flickering lights over the Turkey carpet of Fraser Willard’s cozy library, the walls covered in mahogany bookshelves stacked with tomes. A branch of candles, the only other light in the room, perched on the table beside a crystal decanter.

A whiskey in his hand, Brandon Cartwright lounged in the leather wing chair, his legs stretched out over the crimson rug as he blew a cloud of smoke from the cheroot he held between his long fingers. “So, I’m to find out all I can about Lord Ambrose Fraughton?”

“Become his shadow.” The firelight warmed Willard’s gray-streaked, fair hair. Brandon’s superior at the Home Office, seated opposite him, took a pinch of snuff from an enamel box. “Whatever ball or soiree Fraughton attends, you attend. We want to know who he meets, and if possible, what is said.” He sniffed delicately. “This mission is eminently suited to you, because as Sir Richard Cartwright’s heir, you can inveigle an invite to any affair.”

Brandon stubbed out his cheroot in the dish. “I’ve met his wife, but I don’t know Fraughton. If I’m to be of service, I’ll need to learn more about him.”

“There’s a scheme afoot to rescue the Comte de Lavalette from the prison of the Conciergerie, before he is executed,” Willard responded. “As I’m sure you realize, to aid a French subject in escaping his country’s justice is a sensitive matter. It must be kept under a cloak of absolute secrecy. Difficult, when we have the problem of a group of monarchists wishing to make an example of him. Blood runs high after the deposing of a king, and these men are looking for someone to punish.”

“Who is this Lavalette, may I inquire?”

“It’s a very interesting story,” Willard said. “The Comte was Napoleon’s postmaster and at one time, his aide-de-campe. He was appointed to the position so he could open, read, and then reseal suspicious mail on the grounds of intelligence gathering. The real purpose was to identify threats to Napoleon from the monarchists as well as others. Lavalette’s wife, by the way, is the niece of the former empress, Josephine.”

“And what is Fraughton’s interest in this affair?”

“He is one of those who are determined to see Lavalette dead.”

“What is the government’s interest in Lavalette?”

“We are informed he has information vital to the interests of the British government.”

Brandon took a deep sip of the smooth whiskey. “Why not arrest Fraughton, keep him out of the way until the business is done?”

“Can’t do that. We have to wait to see what information Lavalette has passed on to his wife,” Willard said, returning his snuff box to his pocket. “We also need to learn what it is these monarchists are planning.”

“So, I’m to hide in the rooms where they gather,” Brandon said dryly, pushing back his dark hair with an impatient hand. “Under the sofa?”

“I’ll leave that to you. They are unlikely to view you as a threat. You’ve worked hard to create the image of a harmless rake.” Willard’s lips twitched. “You have quite a reputation with the ladies, not to mention your much talked about affair with Lady Mary Stanhope.” He cast an eye over Brandon’s snugly fitted, dark blue coat which spoke of the expertise of Schweitzer & Davison who enjoyed the patronage of the Prince of Wales. “You are known to be a dab hand at the reins since you won that curricle race to Brighton some few years ago. You strip well at Jackson’s boxing salon and are an excellent judge of horseflesh at Tattersalls.”

Brandon laughed at what he considered an unflattering description of his talents. “Exhausting work, but it befalls me to make the sacrifice.”

Willard smiled. “I’m sure. Especially your well-earned reputation with the fairer sex. These men will not know about the work you performed for foreign affairs in Madrid during the war, or the other undercover operations for Whitehall you’ve been involved with. By the way, Princess de Vaudémont has requested we recruit you.”

Brandon raised his eyebrows at that. The princess was a political plotter par excellence. He had always admired her intellect. “Did she indeed? Then I can hardly refuse, can I?”

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