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Rafe moved closer to Mrs. Crawford. He had to practically shout before she acknowledged him. “May I ask how long Miss Sparrow has been your companion?”
The great lady frowned in consideration. “Oh, about two months, I’d say. She’s helping me write my memoirs, you know. She’s a sharp girl and takes excellent notes. I’m planning to take her on a tour of Egypt after Christmas. At my age I simplyrefuseto endure another English winter.”
“How generous of you.”
“Yes, it is. She’s never gone anywhere, poor thing. Spent nearly all her life in some miserable little village near Oxford. Hollychortle or Chortlewood. Something silly like that.”
“Where did you ever find her?”
“That was all Georgiana. She’s involved in some women’s employment society. Teaches them skills so they can earn a living and then places them in positions. That sort of thing.”
Rafe nodded. Interesting. “And I take it Miss Sparrow had undergone training at this society?”
“No. She’s had some formal schooling. But she did write to them asking for help finding a position in London after her father died, some middling scholar I’ve never heard of.” She considered this for a moment and then airily waved a hand. “I can’t recall the particulars exactly, but it is no matter. Her references were excellent, and her work has been far superior to my last secretary, a gentleman down from Cambridge who believed he wasmuch too importantto be working on the memoirs of an old lady.”
“He sounds like a fool.”
“Indeed, sir,” Mrs. Crawford heartily agreed.
He then waited a moment before turning to Lady Arlington, who was watching him closely. “So, then, you did not know Miss Sparrow before that?” he asked lightly, with a distinct edge of polite boredom.
The viscountess continued to sip her tea, but her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the delicate porcelain handle. “No, Mr. Davies.” Then she met his gaze with a piercing blue stare. “I did not.”
He smiled at the lie. So that was how she flourished in a marriage to the viscount––swathed in silk with a backbone made of steel.
“How fortunate for you both,” Rafe said. “I confess I thought she had been with you much longer.”
Lady Arlington returned his smile. “We are very lucky to have found Miss Sparrow.”
And this time he believed every word.
***
After tea ended, some guests adjourned to the billiard room while others took advantage of the sunshine to tour Castle Blackwood’s legendary labyrinth, which had been a point of interest in the area for nearly two hundred years. Wardale met Rafe’s eyes and gave him a subtle nod before he left with a lady on each arm. There had been time for only a brief introduction after Rafe’s arrival before the guests had started congregating for tea, so they’d planned to rendezvous afterward in Wardale’s study.
Rafe slowly made his way upstairs, taking in the timeworn interior’s vaulted stone ceiling, while a mixture of questionable art, faded tapestries, and other baronial memorabilia hung from the walls. He had been in his fair share of stately residences over the years, but nothing that came close to the pure majesty of a damnedcastle. One could practically feel time passing through with every breath.
“And now it’s in the hands of a man born in an East End slum,” Rafe murmured.
John Wardale was a man of obscene wealth and even more influence, having pulled himself out of grinding poverty to eventually become one of the most successful land developers in the country. These days he had a finger in nearly every promising business in England, whether as an investor or member of the board or outright owner. The blue bloods held their noses at his East End roots as they attempted to curry his favor for their own endeavors, while the working class saw him as something of a modern-day folk hero.
A generation ago such an ascent would have been unimaginable. Today it was extraordinary.
Rafe couldn’t help but respect the man. He had made something of himself instead of simply being born lucky. As he turned down the hallway that led to the study, Rafe was surprised to find the door open and Wardale already sitting behind a massive rosewood desk. Based on the furious scribbling he was currently engaged in, he had been there for a while.
Wardale glanced up. “Ah, Davies. Come in. And close the door, will you?”
“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
The rest of the room was decorated in dark colors and heavy furniture, while tobacco scented the air, lest anyone was foolish enough to mistake this as anything other than a supremely masculine lair.
Wardale set aside his work. “One of the first things I did when I came here was explore all the back stairwells and secret passageways. This place has more twists and turns than a rookery,” he said with a laugh. “Now I know it like the back of my hand.” Rafe was pleased to see that Wardale didn’t try to hide his roots, unlike other self-made men he had met. “Have a seat. I understand you met with your brother this morning?”
Rafe nodded. He had returned from a delightful evening spent in the bed of an elegant older widow to find Gerard Davies, his older half brother, current earl, and all-around twat in his sitting room. Rafe could count the number of times they had met on one hand, but Gerard had recently been given a prominent position in the Home Office, thanks to his support of the current government, and wasted no time all but ordering Rafe to take the next train to Glasgow. Though Rafe technically worked for the Foreign Office, men with his particular set of skills were few and far between, so it was common for Crown agents to carry out missions for different branches of government when called upon. Still, Scotland seemed an odd place to send him given the growing worries about German militarization and rising tensions with the French regarding control of Egypt—not to mention a likely conflict with the Boers on the horizon. But while Rafe would have loved to experience the thrill of denying Gerard something, the truth was he had begun to grow tired of London, especially after having spent much of the last few months mingling with society to ensure he was the last mananyonewould suspect of working for the Crown. In this case, the desire to leave town and meet the legendary John Wardale proved to be stronger than his contempt for Gerard.
“Yes, but he wasn’t very forthcoming with the details, sir,” Rafe began as he sank into a sumptuous leather armchair. “He mentioned that you had recently purchased the castle and suspected a group of Scottish separatists in the area were stirring up trouble.”
Gerard had also made it clear that, seeing as Mr. Wardale was a “great friend” to the prime minister, Rafe’s assistance would not go unnoticed.
