Page 1 of The Secret of Flirting
Prologue
Dieppe, France
1827
Gregory Vyse, Baron of Fulkham, sipped a glass of fine brandy, savoring its smoky bite. Drinking decent spirits was one advantage of passing through France on his travels. And the taproom of this particular Dieppe inn provided the best, even if he had to pay far too much for his room to get it.
Not that his companion, Captain Lord Hartley Corry, seemed to appreciate the liquor. Hart knocked the brandy back as if it were cheap ale. As if he were nervous, actually.
Hmm. What was that about? This was supposed to be a simple delivery.
Hart pushed a package wrapped in string across the table. “Here are the letters, Fulkham. Youwillbe able to get them to my cousin soon, won’t you?”
Gregory slipped them into his greatcoat pocket. “It shouldn’t take more than a few days if the weather holds. Corunna isn’t far by boat. And Niall is expecting me.”
When Hart said nothing more, Gregory asked, “Have you no messages for me from Gibraltar? From John?”
Hart blinked. “Were you expecting any?”
“I suppose not.”
Though he’d rather hoped... His younger brother, John, and Hart were best friends, and had both been posted to Gibraltar with their respective regiments until recently, when Hart’s regiment was sent home briefly in anticipation of their new posting. John could at least have sent him an update; Gregory should have received a report days ago. The next time he saw John, he’d give his feckless brother another lecture about the importance of reports.
Hart called for another brandy, and Gregory raised an eyebrow. He’d never heard that the marquess’s son was a heavy drinker, soldier or no. Clearly something was on the man’s mind. Gregory could tell by the tense line of Hart’s lips, the drumming of his fingers... his darting gaze.
So Gregory waited him out. Because that was the best way to elicit the truth, something at which he excelled.
It didn’t take long. Hart drank some brandy, then settled back in his chair. “Speaking of John, he told me that you sometimes... er... pay for information.”
Damn John and his big mouth. “Did he?”
Hart’s gaze shot to him. “John says you like having eyes everywhere.”
“I do when they belong to someone I can trust. Which is clearly not the case with my little brother.”
John ought to know better. But despite his marriage a year ago, the bloody fool was apparently as reckless as ever. That was precisely why Gregory hadn’t wanted to use him in this work. Gregory had only agreed when it became clear that if he didn’t dictate his brother’s actions to some degree, John would get himself killed on his own.
Hart leaned forward. “Don’t blame John for speaking of it. When he offered to get you to deliver letters to Niall in Spain, I badgered him until he explained your connection to my cousin. I mean, given that Niall... well...”
“Killed a man?”
“Yes. I was worried you wanted to capture him and carry him back to England. Youarewith the government, after all.”
“True.” The foreign office, to be exact. But although officially Gregory served as undersecretary of state for war and the colonies, his unofficial position was a trifle... murkier.
With another glance about the taproom, Hart lowered his voice. “But John explained that Niall sometimes provides you with information from Corunna, which is why you overlook that he’s in exile for dueling, and I was thinking—”
“That you could do the same, now that you’ll be posted elsewhere than Gibraltar.”
“Exactly.”
Gregory didn’t answer right away. He took his time sipping his brandy, letting the silence stretch out and gauging Hart’s reaction.
To his credit, Hart didn’t fidget or frown. Most people would.
“Why exactly would that be an advantage to me?” Gregory finally asked.
“Because you don’t have eyes at Fort Bullen on James Island.” Hart paused. “Wait, do you?”
