LITMIR.BIZ

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A trickle of sweat ran down his back. It was unseasonably hot. It seemed his host, who had a formidable reputation for scheming and machinations, had also organised the weather. He envied the ladies their light muslin gowns, so much more suited to the heat than his silk waistcoat and heavy dark-blue coat, but a quick glance around the room confirmed that he had correctly interpreted the ‘informal’ dress code stipulated for this welcoming party as being ‘London-smart.’

      Fergus was not particularly in the frame of mind to be welcomed. In fact, the prospect was distinctly unwelcome. The truth was, Fergus was beginning to have some reservations as to the wisdom of accepting this invitation and the potential consequences.

      ‘I have made a small wager with myself that you are Colonel Kennedy. May I pat myself on the back and preen indulgently?’

      The man who stood before him was of indeterminate age. Clad in what looked to Fergus like an emerald-green silk dressing gown emblazoned with gold-and-scarlet dragons, he carried a similarly painted fan. His skin was powdered, but he had a disconcertingly determined chin, and the pale-blue eyes which shone beneath the perfectly plucked arched brows were piercing.

      ‘You may do both if you so wish, though attempting them simultaneously may prove problematic. Fergus Kennedy, at your service. I am afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.’

      The thin mouth formed into a delighted smile. ‘I knew it! One look at those shoulders and that ramrod straight back, and I knew you must be a military man. What a shame you decided against wearing your regimentals, Colonel, the ladies do love a Red Coat. I’m rather partial myself. But where are my manners! Allow me to introduce myself. Sir Timothy Farthingale, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

      ‘How do you do.’ Farthingale’s exotic appearance was decidedly at odds with his firm handshake, Fergus noted. ‘May I ask if you are acquainted with our hosts? I have not yet introduced myself to them.’

      ‘Never fear, they will make an appearance directly,’ Sir Timothy responded with an airy wave. ‘Marcus and Alicia always choreograph their grand entrances carefully, and I believe we are still several guests short of a party. You have been based in London since Waterloo, I believe?’

      ‘I am, at the War Office, on Horse Guards.’ Fergus winced inwardly. How he hated that blasted desk in that poky office. Tedious did not begin to describe his administrative duties. Someone had to keep track of supplies and equipment but why did it have to be him? It had been bad enough when he was recuperating from the injury he’d sustained at Waterloo, but he’d been fighting fit for at least eighteen months now.

      ‘I am surprised our paths have not crossed before now, Colonel,’ Sir Timothy said, ‘I know everyone who is anyone. It cannot be a lack of invitations which keeps you squirrelled away, for I understood you to be one of Wellington’s brightest protégés.’

      As had Fergus, though his belief had waned, as request after request for a transfer to active duties had been refused, and Wellington’s vague promises of saving him for the right appointment had remained unfulfilled. Until now. ‘You seem uncommonly well informed about a man you have never met,’ Fergus said.

      Sir Timothy’s smile was knowing. ‘Oh, I make it my business to be well informed, Colonel. One never knows when the information may prove useful. That man over there, for example, the one who is dressed like a vicar with the face of a cadaver, is Desmond Falkner. A very rich fish indeed, though he reeks of the city. I might—or I might not—choose to dangle a little business proposition in front of him. The three young bucks standing beside him are Douglas Brigstock, the Earl of Jessop, Jessamy Addington and Jeremy Giltner. Now, they are the duke’s ideal pawns—personable, popular, not too bright, not too dim, well connected and, I am sorry to say, utterly interchangeable.’ Sir Timothy smiled archly. ‘No doubt Brockmore has plans to match each of them up with one of the gaggle of young ladies over by the fireplace. They make a pretty picture, do they not? And don’t they know it!’

      Fergus, who himself was required to have a particular interest in one as yet unidentified young lady, eyed the group with a mixture of dread and anticipation, though he made sure to keep a neutral expression, having quickly deduced that the apparently eccentric Sir Timothy was as sharp as the proverbial tack. ‘Your knowledge of our fellow guests is positively encyclopaedic,’ he said, knowing full well that the man would be unable to resist rising to the bait, thus providing him with much-needed intelligence.

      He was rewarded with an indulgent smile. ‘But I have barely scratched the surface. The buxom blondes are, needless to say, the Kilmun twins, Cecily and Cynthia. Anything you wish to know about anyone—provided you cannot locate me—you will glean from them. The demure-looking lady in white over by the windows is Florence Canby. Don’t be fooled by those innocent doe eyes of hers, Colonel Kennedy. A kissing miss, who never misses a kiss, if you take my meaning?’

      Fergus shifted uncomfortably. Sir Timothy tittered. ‘I see you do. I see also that one of the most lovely of the ladies has not yet arrived. Miss Zara Titus, are you acquainted? No? She is indeed a true beauty but, I regret to say, a jilt. Quite a scandal, our Miss Titus caused less than a month ago. I will wager you any amount that her mother will bag a husband for her before the week is out. There are a few candidates, though she would do well to ignore that tall, rather intimidating gentleman who has just joined the young bucks. That is Mr Kael Gage. I am not at all sure why he is here, but it is certainly not to make a match. I wonder, Colonel, if you could possibly be a candidate for Miss Titus’s hand?’

      ‘You have, then, eliminated yourself from the list of runners and riders?’ Fergus quipped.

      ‘Most people of my acquaintance would assume that I would ride a horse of a very different colour.’

      ‘I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d like most people of your acquaintance to think, Sir Timothy, but over the years, I have commanded men from all walks of life, and all persuasions. Your secret is safe with me.’

      ‘Bravo,’ Sir Timothy responded with a silent clap of his hands. ‘A man who has a sharper eye even than I. I congratulate you, Colonel Kennedy. I find that my little charade encourages people to underestimate me, which from a business perspective suits my purposes very well. You are no doubt wondering where Lady Verity is. If you will cast your eyes to the doorway, you will be rewarded. A lovely piece, the duke’s niece. You see, I do know why you are here, but your secret is safe with me. You will excuse me now. I do believe I must delve a little further into Mr Gage’s motives for turning up uninvited.’

      Alone again, Fergus watched the Brockmore party make their stately progress around the room. The Duke of Brockmore, known as the Silver Fox, was a handsome man, with a broad intelligent brow under a thick coiffure of silver hair that was more leonine than fox-like. His wife, her gown of watered silk the exact same shade as her husband’s waistcoat, Fergus noted with amusement, had the kind of elegance and grace that gave the impression of timeless beauty.

      And then there was the duke’s niece. Feeling slightly sick, Fergus turned his attention to Lady Verity Fairholme. Lustrous golden locks, china-blue eyes, a swan-like neck, a retroussé nose and a rosebud mouth, she was, in her blue-and-cream gown, perfection itself. Wellington had not, for once, exaggerated in order to get his way. Fergus, ridiculously, wished he had. He ought to be relieved, and extremely grateful. He ought to remember why he had agreed to be here.

      He did not need much reminding. Wellington’s summons a week ago had been an enormous relief. Finally, his days languishing behind a desk were over. ‘Egypt,’ Wellington had told him with one of his rare smiles. ‘Henry Salt is the Consul-General in Cairo. A good man, though his penchant for collecting antiquities could prove a problem. Locals don’t like it. Italians and French want to beat him to it. Tricky situation, potentially. We need a practical, trusted man on the ground, and that’s where you come in.’

      Relief had given way to excitement. Until Wellington explained the price. The diplomatic posting required a suitable wife to host social events and entertain guests. Apparently his friend, the Duke of Brockmore, required a husband for his niece. An excellent piece of serendipity, Wellington called it. Unfortunately, Fergus could not have one without

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