A Treacherous Engagement

Chapter Two

A week after his inky encounter with Miss Duvall, Robert Goodrich-Bligh, heir to the confiscated earldom of Marchmont, slid off his horse and handed the reins to the boy at the Cock and Barrel Inn. Hefting his bag over his shoulder, he strode into the taproom, then took the stairs to the private chamber he used for swapping disguises. Now, he wished to become Mr C. Goodrich, Gent., tulip and man-about-town.

The Cock was a dingy, low-class establishment at the end of an alleyway in the unfashionable part of Dorchester. He paid the landlord well to say nothing of his clandestine activities, and the clientele had too many nefarious plans of their own to pay any attention to his.

He pulled out his watch. His prey, the current occupier of Donhead Castle, Mr Charles Addyman, invariably came into town on a Thursday to meet with his banker, visit his tailor and order large quantities of produce at the market stalls.

Addyman's habits were as familiar as his own. He'd been watching the fellow for two months now, looking for any clue that he might be running an underground escape route for French prisoners of war, mostly sailors taken during the Battle of Trafalgar the previous year.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Robert applied a liberal coating of fine chalk to his face, then highlighted his cheeks with a dash of cherry-coloured rouge. A powdered wig was placed over his golden locks and a couple of patches added to his visage, including one which hid the rather-too-distinctive dimple in his chin.

A high collar and jabot completed the disguise. He eyed the yellow suit and green striped waistcoat on the bed with distaste—for a man well over six feet in height, he feared the outfit made him look like a daffodil.

What would his mother say if she had lived to see what he looked like now? His jaw tightened. If she had she survived the horrendous birth of his sickly sister Aurora, seven years after his own nativity, life might have been normal. Their grieving father would never have embarked on his affair with one of the royal princesses. The results of discovery had been disastrous—a vengeful King George had stripped the fourth earl of his title and appropriated the Bligh family lands.

Robert took another look in the glass. It was good to remind himself why he was dressing up as a macaroni almost daily. If he proved Addyman's guilt, he could reclaim Donhead Castle.

Donhead. His family home, which he still visited in dreams, and longed for constantly during his waking hours. He was next in line to the title Earl of Marchmont, and if he brought down Addyman, agents of the Crown had agreed to restore his birth-right. He couldn't wait for the day he sent the letter to Aurora, where she languished in a Venetian convent, too ill to travel. The knowledge that their inheritance had been restored to them would perk her up, he was sure of it. If only he could get her well enough to come home! Perhaps once the earldom was prosperous again, he could find her one of the Moorish physicians who resided in Venice and claimed miraculous results with their patients.

Having shouldered himself into the disgusting yellow jacket and breeches—which were far too tight a fit—Robert left the room and pounded down the stairs into the cheerful May sunshine, swinging his walking cane.

First, he repaired to Paulet's to see if any other ladies looked as if they were replying to Addyman's advertisement about helping out the Foundling Hospital. Though certain it was a smokescreen for the man's very uncharitable activities, Robert had every hope of securing an invitation to one of the fundraising events and having a good poke around while he was there.

There was nothing happening in Paulet's, so he sauntered over to contemplate the contents of the haberdasher's window. This gave him a perfect view, via a wavy reflection, of the banker upon whom Addyman usually called every market day.