The Earl's Forbidden Ward. Bronwyn Scott
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be told and what could be left out. ‘This is strictly confidential, Dursley.’
Peyton smiled. Most of their conversations over the years had included that phrase. ‘I assumed it would be.’
Brimley grimaced. ‘An unstable Russia weakens Russia’s power to influence Turkey and that’s good for us. We need the waterway for our Indian trade routes.’
He was talking about the Dardanelle Straits, which Turkey controlled. A conquered Turkey, a Russian-controlled Turkey, would be an intolerable situation for Britain. Passage through the Dardanelles made it possible to cut weeks off the trip between London and Bombay, making passage around the dangerous African Horn unnecessary.
But this explanation would be commonplace to a man who’d been keeping up on current events. There was nothing confidential here. Such information was bandied about the House of Lords daily. Peyton shook his head. ‘That’s not good enough, Brimley. I know all that already. How does the list influence Russia?’
Brimley seemed to concede. ‘All right. It has come to my attention that Branscombe compiled the list on behalf of some ambitious and wealthy businessmen who would be glad to fund an internal rebellion to overthrow the Czar. In exchange, they are asking for guarantees from the new government to leave Turkey, and the Dardanelles, especially, alone.’
Peyton let out a low whistle. Foreign involvement in plotting revolution was serious business. He didn’t need to be told Branscombe had been well paid by these men to make the necessary connections and compile the list. Even after the disastrous 1825 December uprising in Russia, secret revolutionary societies still abounded. The promise of cash for weapons and munitions probably appealed to the most organised groups.
But where there were secrets, there were traitors. The 1825 Decembrists had been betrayed to the Czar at the last minute and apparently Branscombe’s intentions had met with the same fate. A suspicion crossed Peyton’s mind. ‘How did Branscombe die? I don’t think you mentioned it.’
‘For all intents and purposes, it was a natural death. He passed quietly in his sleep,’ Brimley hedged.
‘But you don’t believe that, do you, old man?’ Peyton pressed, not willing to be fobbed off. He didn’t understand yet what his role in all this was to be, but he certainly wasn’t going to commit himself without knowing all the details.
‘Well, I only know what the doctors tell me. He was a thousand miles away in another country, after all. At this distance, I am heavily dependent on second-hand information,’ Brimley prevaricated.
‘I don’t doubt the doctors told you exactly what you told me. But you suspect otherwise?’
‘I only know the Russians knew he had made a list and what he intended to do with it. Which gave them a motive to put their best assassins on the case.’
Peyton recognised he wasn’t going to get anything further from Brimley on that account. ‘All right. We can leave his demise at that. The more burning question for me is what can I do here? I am not clear at all as to why you’ve contacted me. I hardly knew the man and I’ve only met him a few times.’
‘The list is not in Russia. It’s not at the British embassy in St Petersburg. If it’s anywhere, it’s in England.’
Peyton raised his eyebrows, encouraging Brimley to be more forthcoming. ‘Yes?’
‘The list is in England. As of today, a highly alert delegation from Russia is also on British soil.’
‘So, we search the man’s residences quickly.’
‘We’ve tried that, but we’ve run into several stumbling blocks.’ Brimley seemed discomfited. The man shifted in his chair. ‘Precisely, four stumbling blocks in the form of Branscombe’s daughters. The biggest stumbling block is his eldest daughter, Miss Tessa Branscombe.’
Peyton found the room had grown hot. His cravat seemed extraordinarily noose-like. Brimley’s discomfiture was contagious and for good reason. He had his suspicions about where this conversation was headed.
‘I want you to get close to the girls, Miss Branscombe particularly. I’ve arranged for a codicil to Branscombe’s will to be drawn up regarding your ability to act as a guardian for the girls. With the exception of Miss Branscombe, the other three are all under eighteen. But they will all be under your guardianship. Once you’ve established the girls under your protection, you’ll have access to the house. You can search it at will and in broad daylight without arousing their distrust.’
Peyton spread his hands out before him as if he were warding off an unseen blight. ‘No, I will not play nursemaid to four silly females. What do I know about young girls in the schoolroom? I raised brothers. The condition of my unwed state alone would make the arrangement unseemly. I am a bachelor.’ What Brimley suggested was not diplomacy at all, but babysitting in disguise.
‘A bachelor with an impeccable reputation for honour and responsibility,’ Brimley reminded him. ‘Not to mention a formidable aunt in the Dowager Duchess Bridgerton.’ Brimley meant Peyton’s father’s sister, Lily.
‘Lady Bridgerton will be the perfect guide to help Miss Branscombe through the Season,’ Brimley said, beaming over his thorough plan. ‘And you’ll be the perfect escort.’
Peyton gripped the arms of his chair. ‘Wait, this is a new development. Why does Miss Branscombe need a Season?’ He had no intention of doing the pretty. When he’d come up to London, he hadn’t meant to stay longer than was necessary to take care of this ‘small’ issue with Brimley and settle things with Lydia. He was eager to return to his family in the country and his new nephew.
‘Escorting her around town will give you a chance to gain her confidence. The more time you spend together, the more willing she might be to confide in you.’ Brimley appeared untroubled about the breach of ethics the scheme demanded.
Peyton did not share the man’s detachment. This was becoming more unpalatable all the time—a forged codicil to create an imaginary guardianship, and a veiled request to seduce the father’s secrets from the daughter, smacked of dishonesty and double dealing.
Peyton got up from his chair and walked to the sideboard holding an array of brandies. He poured himself a glass and turned back to face Brimley. ‘I won’t do it merely to support the pockets of self-serving businessmen. You should have known I was the wrong man for the job.’ He took a long sip of brandy, spearing Brimley with his eyes, letting him see the disdain in which he held Brimley’s proposal.
‘You’ll be well paid,’ Brimley said obtusely. ‘I don’t ask you to do this without reward.’
Peyton set the heavy tumbler down hard. ‘There is no sum of gold that would entice me to flirt with an innocent young girl under false pretences and to betray her sisters at a vulnerable time in their lives.’
Brimley rose. ‘I am not offering you gold, Dursley. We all know you’ve got more blunt than the rest of us. I am offering you lives.’
Brimley took a folded sheet of paper out of his coat pocket. ‘Read it. British intelligence reports that the Russian army is preparing to mobilise against Turkey. It will be war by this time next year and British boys will be on the front lines. Internal instability in Mother Russia would be a powerful piece of leverage for our diplomats in St Petersburg to negotiate with. With the right persuasion, our diplomats will be able to halt the war before it begins.’
Peyton scanned the letter, weighing his options. But that was the irony—there were no options to weigh. He could not countenance the discomfort of four young girls against the lives of hundreds of soldiers. Neither could he countenance his own discontentment at escorting Sir Ralph Branscombe’s daughter through the Season when it would prevent British soldiers from enduring far worse discomforts on the battlefield.
Peyton Ramsden, fourth Earl of Dursley, lifted his glass in a toast. ‘Well, then, here’s to king and country.’ He drank a large swallow. It had been a hell of a night.
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