Revealed, p.1
Revealed, page 1
Revealed
Lord Dixon’s Shadows book 3
By Adella J. Harris
--*--
Spy Sam Nelson has one last chance to prove he can still be useful to the Crown, retrieving a blackmail letter at one of Lord Dixon’s infamous house parties. Lord Brisban knows Mr. Nelson’s only interest in him is as a means to get into the party, but when Sam is chosen as part of the entertainment for the party, Brisban knows he’ll need help to carry out whatever his true reason for attending is.
--*--
copyright (c) 2017 Adella J. Harris
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
About the Author
Chapter 1
***
SAMUEL RUSSELL WASN’T SURE WHAT to expect as he went up the stairs to enter Lord Lanford’s London townhouse, and that worried him. Lord Lanford was his contact, so he was used to receiving odd and random invitations from the man. But this one did not fit the pattern, and that was making him uncomfortable. For starters, it had been issued in Sam’s real name. The invitation was usually the first clue he had to the identity he was to take on. It was usually followed by a dossier with details—more clues, really, but enough to enable him to assume the character required for the mission. The event listed in the invitation would either be his dress rehearsal or his first foray into whatever enemy territory he was about to infiltrate. Only no dossier had followed. And the party was at Lord Lanford’s own home. It didn’t make sense. But then his other missions had all involved foreign locals. Perhaps things were different now that he was back on English soil.
Lord Lanford had a large home as befitted his status as a high-ranking member of parliament. Sam was shown into the ballroom, which was filled with other guests mingling, mostly young ladies with their mothers and eligible young bucks, with a few stodgy members of Parliament looking on. Sam spotted Lord Lanford at once, but he was speaking to someone Sam didn’t know, so he didn’t approach. Sam took a glass of something from one of the servants milling unobtrusively around the edges and found a sheltered spot near a window, hidden enough that he could keep an eye on Lord Lanford, but no so obvious that anyone would know he was hiding. It took almost forty-five minutes and three glasses of what had turned out to be weak punch before he saw Lord Lanford on his own. He moved as quickly as he could without looking like he was rushing.
“Mr. Russell, I was wondering where you were.”
That surprised Sam. Something was wrong. Things couldn’t be that different in England, yet Lord Lanford had greeted him loudly enough to be heard by anyone nearby. “Your lordship.”
“Are you enjoying the party?”
“Yes, very interesting.” Sam sidled closer so he could whisper, “I didn’t get the rest of the dossier.”
“What do you mean?” Lord Lanford did not whisper.
“The rest of the dossier was never delivered.”
“What dossier?”
Sam was beginning to see that this was not at all what he was used to. “For the mission.”
“Mission?” Lord Lanford was genuinely confused. “There is no mission. Why do you think I used your real name?”
“Then why did you send me an invitation?”
“I suppose I’m used to contacting you that way. The war is over, Sam. It’s been over for some time now. And you’re known. Too many people have seen you in too many roles.”
Sam could see where this was going now. It was worse than he’d thought. “But there are threats here. Smugglers and conspiracies.”
“Your time with us is finished, Mr. Russell. You were a good spy. You completed more missions than most. Be happy with your service. The Crown is.”
He was being cut free. No wonder Lord Lanford had sent him the invitation. It had gotten him to this party, where he couldn’t make a scene without everyone in the room knowing what was happening, and then there would be no way to continue as a spy, not if everyone knew he’d been one. “Please, Lord Lanford, I know I can still do good work for you. You know I can. No matter what the mission. I have the scars to prove it.” Quite literally; he thought of the scar along the back of his shoulder, the one from the saber cut that had almost killed him in Spain, yet he’d kept going, brought the troop positions to his handler, saved the day. He knew the pain was all in his head, but then so were most of the scars.
“You’re too well known, Russell. We’ll give you a pension. You’re young; you’ll find other work. Farnsdale! I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Sam didn’t move. He was not going to be ignored. He stared pointedly at Lord Lanford.
But Lord Lanford was an old hand at the game. He didn’t so much as flinch. “Sir Robert, this is Samuel Russell, an acquaintance of my sister’s son. I’m showing him the town.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir.” Sam bowed politely but continued to glare at Lord Lanford.
“If you’ll excuse us, Russell, I have things to discuss with Sir Robert.”
Sam highly doubted that he had any business with the man, particularly as Sir Robert did not look pleased to be going with him, but there wasn’t any way for Sam to protest without drawing attention to himself, and he was still enough of a spy to want to avoid attention. He bowed to the men and went towards the drinks table and took another glass of the weak punch. He didn’t want to lose his senses in drink. He found a quiet spot near a different window and watched Lord Lanford. He wasn’t surprised when Lord Lanford took his leave of Sir Robert a few minutes after Sam had left. Not nearly enough time to discuss any sort of business. So why had he wanted to be rid of him? Sam kept watching Lord Lanford, but Lanford was an old hand at the game, and he slipped into a side room. Sam knew he couldn’t slip in after him without drawing attention to himself, so he watched, hoping to see someone sneak in after Lanford, but no one did. There must have been another entrance. Sam knew he’d been in the same place for too long and started to walk the room, pretending he was looking for someone.
Sam had barely made two circuits of the room when he heard his name whispered, “Russell.” Sam recognized Lord Lanford’s voice. He was tempted to ignore him, pretend he hadn’t heard his name at all. But Lord Lanford was still his only living contact with the spy network, the only one who could recommend him for more work. He slowed until he was near a quiet corner then stopped and waited for Lord Lanford to catch up to him.
Lord Lanford passed his corner and went into an alcove window. Sam positioned himself leaning against the wall by the curtain of the alcove so he could hear anything Lord Lanford said and waited.
“I may have a job for you yet.”
Sam leaned closer to the curtain. “Anything, sir.”
“You’ve heard of Lord Dixon?”
“Everyone has, sir. Owns brothels, has house parties.”
“And I need someone to infiltrate one of them. I’m willing to let you try.”
It wasn’t the sort of mission he wanted. He’d caught French spies and found maps of troop positions. But it was something. Something to prove he was still valuable. “Very good, sir. What am I looking for?”
“Not here. I’ll put together a dossier and send it to you in the morning. And that gentleman you just met? Sir Robert Farnsdale? He might be able to get you in.”
“Very good, I’ll start with him.” Pity he’d been introduced under his real name, but he hadn’t used it in years; it should be safe enough. And perhaps he could find another way in, although if Sir Robert would be at the party, he would still have to use his own name. He heard Lord Lanford move out of the alcove. Sam waited for seven breaths then started a final circuit of the room before leaving for home.
The day after the party, Sam waited eagerly for the dossier, but it ended up being of little help when it arrived the following afternoon. His mission would be to secure a letter which was being used to blackmail a peer on a “personal and private matter of no importance to us” but which also contained proof of Dixon’s involvement in smuggling operations during the war. There were no other details given on the letter. The rest of the pages were filled with information on Dixon, most of which Sam had heard before. A brief history of the Marquessate of Brisban and how Brisban’s fortune predated the title by centuries and was almost as old as England and recently bolstered by the discovery of tin on his property in the north of England. Lists of addresses of his known brothels. Long, clinical descriptions of the house parties he threw, which centered on what he called his concubine, a whore he kept at his beck and call for a year of well-paid sexual servitude. From the lack of detail, Sam could tell no one preparing the report had been allowed inside either the parties or the brothels. Dixon’s name was old enough and wealthy enough to keep anyone out that he didn’t want to let in, which was where Sam came in, although that was not explicitly stated. He was supposed to seduce his way in and search the house.
It was the last line that surprised him, though. “The concubine appears to change yearly and be kept near Dixon to serve his whims. It would grant unfettered access to all of his houses and private rooms.” In other words, if he didn’t find the letter at the party, he should try for the position and use the access it gave him to keep looking. No wonder Lanford had been willing to give him the job.
Sam shoved the papers under a floorboard in his small bedroom. If that was what it took, he’d have to at least try. He had no other skills but spying, and one couldn’t exactly get a reference from an employer for that. If he were thrown out on his ear, he might very well have to work in a brothel for his bread, not for information. And how bad could it be? He’d played a whore in brothels across Europe and had seduced worse men than Dixon, just not for a whole year at a time. It shouldn’t be the worst thing he’d done, although it would probably be among them.
And he could avoid all of that if he could find the letter at the house party. A letter that no one was expecting him to go looking for. One that no one thought contained a great secret that would harm Brisban if he was also using it to blackmail someone. The only entry they had offered was Sir Robert Farnsdale. Sam was sure he could do better.
--*--
Sam spent almost two weeks trying to find some way to get into Dixon’s house party on his own, thereby proving he was still a valuable asset even in London, but all of his attempts had met with failure. Three tries to get into Dixon’s most exclusive brothels had been met with stony-faced doormen and nothing else. His efforts to find staff congregating in the yard behind the house only found bolted windows and painted-over doors. Even late-night tree climbing had done nothing. The only glimpses of Lord Dixon he’d gotten were at the theater, where the man was pointed out to him, but he was given no chance to speak to him. His best information had come from disguising himself as a prostitute looking for work and getting the gossip. No one at the brothels Dixon owned would talk to him beyond saying they had no work—although he did get a look at the men who did work there and confirm that he would fit in if necessary—but there were other places in town with plenty of young men bored during the day and willing to gossip about some other employer. There he learned the sort Dixon liked and more details about the parties, although all of it secondhand. It seemed he hired someone he called a centerpiece to be the whore for the entire group at his house parties; often it was the person he called his concubine, the role Sam would have to try for if he didn’t succeed at first. Always men for both roles, not that Dixon himself preferred men. “At least that’s what he says,” Sam’s best source of information—a half-drunk young man who had been a client of one of the whores he’d spoken to and hadn’t been able to get into the parties either—told him. “Really, I think he likes having a man on his knees willing to follow orders, even if he doesn’t find him arousing normally. ’Course, he does keep them busy servicing the servants, so they do need stamina.” He’d laughed at that, and Sam had laughed along.
So Sam was left with Sir Robert Farnsdale as a way in, which was a real pity since he’d already been introduced to the man as himself. Still, it couldn’t be helped. He set out for Sir Robert’s residence to try and determine where the man himself could be found.
He was almost shocked to be shown inside. Not shocked that he was admitted—he had a letter of introduction from Lanford—but that the man was home. The last time Sam had been in London, Farnsdale had been known for his close management of the companies that made him his fortune. Hearing that the man was actually at the townhouse he owned in Mayfair was almost like hearing the king was down at the pub. It restored a bit of his equilibrium to find the man in his study, answering letters. If he was at home, he was still dealing with business.
Farnsdale looked up when Sam was announced and gave him a slow appraisal. Sam did the same more subtly. Farnsdale was in his mid-thirties, very handsome, taller than most, fit. Trustworthy. That was the word Sam would use. Hard to imagine he needed to use Dixon’s brothels to find willing partners. Sam would be quite happy to find himself in Farnsdale’s company at the sort of orgy that had been described to him.
“Are you a friend of Matthew’s then?”
Straight to the point. Sam liked that. He thought of what he knew of Farnsdale. Matthew would be Matthew Greensleigh, a younger son, inherited a business from his uncle. Farnsdale was helping him run it. Close to Sam in age, hence the confusion. Lived at his mentor’s townhouse, so no good lying. “No, I’m afraid not. A mutual friend suggested I come see you.”
“Then please sit. Who was this friend?”
Sam sat in the lower of the two chairs so he could look up at Farnsdale. He ignored the question and fiddled with the button on the chair, tracing circles on the surface. “I told him I wanted to visit one of Lord Dixon’s parties while I was in town, and he suggested I come to you.”
“Dixon’s parties? Are you certain?”
That was the problem with trustworthy people; they were unwilling to send a lamb to slaughter. He couldn’t play too innocent with Sir Robert, or the man would refuse him outright. He looked up, as if once the initial mention was over, he was more comfortable. “I’ve done those things before. With my friend.” That had been wrong. He wouldn’t have done it with the friend, not for Dixon’s. It would have been some prostitute.
But Farnsdale didn’t seem to notice the slip. “So you know what goes on there?”
“I’ve heard. Floggers. Whips. I’ve been tied up.” That was the truth, but he wished he could blush on cue. It would add to the effect. Of course, after twelve years as a spy, he doubted anything could make him blush any longer.
“And you want to see something more extreme.”
“Oh yes, sir. Will you take me? I would be most grateful.” He tried to hold Farnsdale’s gaze, let him know how he would express his gratitude. For once, it would be no hardship. It was still a risk—anything that made him seem less innocent than he was playing was a risk—but Farnsdale wasn’t going to let someone that naive go to Dixon. In other circumstances, he would have admired the man for it, but not now when it was making his mission so difficult.
Farnsdale leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid your friend’s information is out of date. I haven’t seen Dixon in over two years. I won’t be much help getting you into his parties.”
Sam wondered if Farnsdale had chosen that phrasing on purpose or by chance. He was certainly going to tell Lanford that his information had been out of date, and would take great pleasure in doing it when he’d successfully found better on his own. Unless Farnsdale was simply trying to brush him off. That was possible. To be sure, he tried fluttering his lashes a little while loosening his lower waistcoat buttons. The combination of suggestiveness and innocence should be enough to seduce anyone in Dixon’s set if the prostitutes he’d spoken with had been right. “Please, I’d really like to get in. If there’s anything you can do to help me.”
“And how far are you willing to go for that help?” Farnsdale’s eyes drifted to the buttons Sam was undoing.
Sam smiled and looked up from under his lashes. He had to hit the note exactly if he wanted this to work, explicit enough to convince him and hesitant enough to stay in character. “I could crawl under your desk right now and...and suck you. I’m very good at it.”
Farnsdale shook his head and pulled a piece of paper to himself. “All right, you win. I’m going to give you another name. Wilfred Portman, Lord Brisban. Here are some addresses to try and a letter of introduction. You’ll probably find him at his club at this hour. He knows Dixon, but whether he’ll invite you is entirely up to him.”
Sam realized Farnsdale was not going to take him up on the offer of sex. He felt a little disappointed, but he rose and took the paper. “Thank you, sir. If I can ever...”
“Yes, yes, I’ll keep you in mind. Good luck. I hope your friend knows what he’s doing.”
Mathew Greensleigh felt himself relax the minute he opened the door to Robert’s townhouse. He’d spent the morning giving orders to the men who managed the day-to-day running of his small shipping business, and it wasn’t natural to him. He enjoyed coming up with the strategies but not ordering people to carry them out. And Robert understood that. That was why he’d told him to come home after, even though it was barely noon.
