Office? I can arrange an appointment time.’
‘And work with you?’ Chris thought of how he would come off next to Will and shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t take me. And I’d die of boredom there after a day at a desk, thinking about infinitely boring people at infinitely boring foreign courts.’
Will laughed, a rare, rich sound. ‘Not every job there is as tedious as formal diplomacy, Chris. There is a lot there that would suit you very well indeed. And I’ll be leaving for India soon; they need more men at the London office. You should think about it, anyway. Father will start making noises again about the church and Mother will find you an heiress to marry if you don’t head them off with a different plan.’
Chris grinned. Both of those were tacks their parents had taken with him many times. Both sounded like the depths of wretchedness. Maybe Will had a point. If he had a different job in mind, there could be no vicarages in his future. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Good, do think about it. Now, should we go in? Surely it’s time for tea and no one could ever fault Miss Grantley’s for their excellent cook.’
‘True. I’ve been thinking about those raspberry tarts all day.’ Chris followed Will towards the arbour where maids were setting up the tea service and he was glad the day was almost done. But he could swear he heard the echo of Emily’s laughter following him at every step.
London—spring 1891
Christopher Blakely was sure his eyes were crossing from the mounds of paperwork. He had been making his way through them for hours and still the piles of documents loomed high. This was by far his least favourite part of the job.
He pushed the papers away and sat back in his chair with a laugh. Surely he would be more useful at a party somewhere, drinking and laughing, drawing people in—and learning their secrets. Wasn’t that why the Foreign Office had hired him in the first place, after his useless years at university? His light-hearted ways, his charm, his genuine interest in people and their strange ways. Such charm drew people close, invited their confidences, in a way that cool professionalism, such as that possessed by his brother Will couldn’t hope to accomplish. At least not as quickly as Chris, with his dimpled smiles and endless bottles of wine, the way he seemed born to read people and situations and adjust his reactions accordingly, could achieve.
He sighed as he plucked the document off the top of the pile—a report from an operative in Berlin, where trouble always seemed to be brewing. Even though the Kaiser was Queen Victoria’s own grandson, he was a troublemaker of endless ambition and jealousy. It was certainly difficult work, there on the ground in the embassies, a tightrope of keeping secrets while ferreting out everyone else’s, especially in etiquette-ridden places like Berlin. Yet Chris found he rather envied those men. They were respected, known. His own work, once so exciting, now seemed rather—dim.
The parties, the laughter that hid so much behind the bright masks, the satisfaction of drawing out hidden dangers and using that information to help his country—it had been everything to him. It was all he could have wanted, using his own gifts to do some good, gifts so different from Will’s, from what his parents had always demanded. It gave him a deep fulfilment. Pleasure, even.
But he was not as young as he once was. Chris ruefully ran his hand through his hair and wondered when its golden colour would turn iron-grey. When his ‘light-hearted rogue’ act would no longer be useful. It was already dull to himself.
He glanced at a photograph in its silver frame, set on the edge of the desk as if to remind him that he did have a family, that he owed something to other people. Will and Diana Martin on their wedding day more than a year ago, all elegant morning coat and white satin, all joyful smiles. Even after all these months, the soft way they looked at each other, those secret smiles only for themselves, were still just as tender as they had been on that day.
It made Chris smile to think of them. And it made him feel discomfited. Nothing like that was on the horizon for him. He had become too good at his work. His reputation as a rake put him beyond serious marital consideration, even if he had wanted to marry. Society mamas let him dance with their daughters and flirted with him themselves, but he knew they did not see him as a good prospect. They only saw what he chose to show them.
Even if he did marry, he could never really be honest with a wife, could never be his true self. He wouldn’t put a person he cared about in a perilous position, not when his work included all manner of people and situations. Risking his own safety and reputation was one thing; he couldn’t do such a thing to a lady. Even if there was one out there who would have him.
Against his will, an image appeared in his mind as he thought of a lady he could care about—an image that came up too often sometimes. Emily Fortescue.
He saw her as she was at Di and Will’s wedding, her pale blue silk gown like the sky itself, her laughter as she caught the bouquet. Emily, with her sharply edged intelligence, her hazel eyes that always saw too much, her lips that tasted so sweet under his. So irresistible. She made him want to spill all his secrets to her, to tell her everything, and that was dangerous indeed.
Chris glanced again at the wedding image. Will and Di were Emily’s friends, too. Diana was practically her sister. He could never offer Emily, who meant so much to so many people, the kind of marriage she deserved; neither could he trifle with her. Not that he could imagine anyone trifling with Emily’s affections at all. She was too intelligent, too independent, and she had made it clear she did not intend to marry.
So, Emily Fortescue was the only lady he could imagine marrying—and the last lady he ever could. It was a prison of his own making and one he could never back out of now. His work depended on it; too many people depended on it, even if they would never know it.
He pushed away memories of Emily, as he so often had to do, and reached for the pile of papers again. Even the problems of Berlin were less complicated than romance.
Luckily, a knock at the door interrupted the tedious task. ‘Come in,’ he called in relief.
It was Laura, Lady Smythe-Tomas, another of the office’s secret agents and one of their most successful. A beautiful, redheaded young widow, she had a rare sense of style, a deep, husky laugh and royal connections to the Marlborough House Set. She and Chris had worked together often before and he always enjoyed her company, even if they were far too similar to ever be romantically involved. It was too bad; he wouldn’t have to hide his work from her.
‘Christopher, darling, are you ready for...?’ She paused in adjusting her kid evening gloves and sapphire-blue gown, her luminous green eyes narrowed as she took in his shirtsleeves and tousled hair. ‘I see you are not. Are we going to be fashionably late?’
‘Late for—what?’ Then Chris suddenly remembered. A gambling party at a very secret, very exclusive club, one which high-ranking German and Russian diplomats favoured.
Laura laughed and perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Too engrossed in all those fascinating reports, I see. Well, there is plenty of time. It’s better if we give them time to find the claret, then they’re easier to talk to. And we must appear to be carelessly late fribbles, anyway, yes?’
‘Fribbles we must be.’ Chris went to the wardrobe in the corner where he kept his extra evening clothes for just such emergencies. He glanced back at Laura, who was sorting through her beaded reticule and humming a little waltz to herself. She had been widowed for many years, left almost penniless by her titled older husband. Was she ever lonely? Did she ever regret the work? ‘Laura...’
‘Yes, darling?’ she answered, tucking a strand of dark red hair into her beaded bandeau.
‘Have you never considered marrying again?’
She gave a startled laugh. ‘Why, Chris! Are you proposing to me?’ She laughed even harder when he was afraid he looked rather alarmed.