Morgan and Archer: A Novella by Grace Burrowes Page A

flowers.
    “Oh, the Foreign Office, as if that den of intrigue wouldn’t have something to do with this.” Moreland sat back and waited, having learned patience from his children as well.
    “We’re close, Your Grace, and if I have to haunt every social function every night for the rest of the Season, and follow every damned lord to his mistress’s house, or every lady to her milliner’s shop, then I’ll do it.”
    Something had shifted in Portmaine’s demeanor in recent days. He’d gone from dependable to dedicated, from careful to calculating. The transition was not pretty, like the blooming roses turning to bracken and thorns were not pretty.
    “And how long do you think you can work at this pace without your opponents finding you in a weak moment? How long do you think to serve your Regent with exhaustion and carelessness?”
    Portmaine’s head came up, a battle light in his eyes. “Carelessness, Your Grace?”
    “Sooner or later, somebody will catch you falling asleep at keyholes, young man, or worse.”
    Exhaustion was indeed taking a toll, because Portmaine’s gaze traveled over the gardens and up to a certain balcony, a silent admission if ever His Grace had seen one. “Somebody already has, Your Grace.”
    Portmaine scrubbed a hand over handsome, drawn features and hunched forward, bracing his elbows on his spread knees. His posture was rife with weariness, perhaps even defeat.
    “I have investigated you, Your Grace.”
    The Papists had a name for this “Oh-my-God, I-am-heartily-sorry…” business. “Of course, you have. I have investigated you, too. Precautionary measures are what pass for the civilities in the dark business you’re engaged in now.”
    Gratifying, to see he’d surprised such a clever young man. A bee went lazily inventorying the few flowers not yet budded out.
    “I have been in your home without your leave, after dark, and I’m hoping others will think I was simply nosing about in your affairs.”
    A chill slithered down the ducal spine. “Portmaine, explain yourself.”
    “I have come and gone from your domicile by dark of night on more than few occasions, Your Grace. I am not proud to admit this.”
    “You are not ashamed either, I daresay. Was your investigation so very thorough, then, Portmaine?”
    “It was, but that took only a single visit. The rest of the time…”
    Young people were given to dramatics, but Portmaine wasn’t being dramatic. Beneath his cool demeanor, something dark and desperate lurked.
    “Her Grace saw you, my boy. She and I trusted to your honor and Morgan’s good sense. You are no longer committing felonies on my property, I hope.”
    “I am not, Morgan’s good sense having carried the day, but I fear it’s too late.”
    Too late didn’t bode well at all. “Spell it out, man.”
    “Somebody followed me the last time I visited Miss James, Your Grace. From the depth of the tracks left in the mud under the tree, I’m guessing they waited a good long time, until I left, then followed me home as well. I was distracted, exhausted, as you say, and careless. I hope I have not endangered you, or worse, endangered Miss James, with my folly.”
    This was not good, but it explained Portmaine’s absence of a late night—also his desperation. A dozen plots might blossom against a monarch, and it was nothing more than a challenge for a good investigator, but a smitten swain could not abide danger stalking his lady.
    “I would offer to thrash you, Portmaine, but your conscience has no doubt flagellated you ceaselessly. If you fear you’ve lead the enemy to my doorstep, then what in God’s name brought you here in the broad light of day? Nothing else would confirm my hand in this investigation as clearly as the conference we’re having right now.”
    Something approaching a smile touched Portmaine’s lips, though it wasn’t a friendly sort of something. “I hope you’re wrong, Your Grace. I hope I can turn recent events into a way to solve