off apparently after just unloading several trunks which sat on the front steps of the Manor.
Turning Hector’s reins over to Grimsley, Melvyrn skirted the trunks as he mounted the stairs. Entering the cool interior of the main hall, he saw Hixon carrying a tea tray which included a glass of brandy into the drawing room. Stripping off his gloves, he followed on the heels of his major-demo and smiled. “London must be devilishly dull without your presence, Denholm. Whatever brings you to Folkestone?”
“If anyone but Roeburn had asked me, I wouldn’t be here.” Simon Goreham, Viscount Denholm, rose from his chair with a hand outstretched for Melvyrn. Tall and slender, Lord Denholm’s aristocratic nose, chiseled jaw and cheekbones, and hard gray eyes were set off by dark brown hair brushed back from his high forehead. “I’ve come bearing a diplomatic pouch that the War Office wants Wellington to have immediately.” He raised one dark eyebrow and added, “I’m told you’re the man for the job.”
Melvyrn laughed. “More like the smuggling gang I’ve hooked up with.” Denholm’s countenance never changed, but Melvyrn could tell he’d caught his friend’s interest by the glint in his eyes.
“Rum business you’ve gotten yourself into, pardon the pun.” Denholm took a healthy sip of brandy, then raised his glass. “Excellent French brandy you serve, too.”
“Easy to come by in these parts, if you’re interested,” Melvyrn said.
Denholm elevated one dark brow. “Hawking the stuff as well, are you?”
Melvyrn laughed. “No, but I know a few fellows who do.” Going to a table pushed against the wall with several decanters and glasses, Melvyrn poured himself a glass of brandy and sat across from the Viscount. “Roeburn could have dispatched a pouch by regular courier.”
“Yes, but this one is particularly urgent, and since the Marquess hadn’t heard from you, he sent me to . . . get the lay of the land, so to speak.”
“My understanding is that all dispatches are urgent,” Melvyrn said.
“True,” said Denholm as he rose from his chair and closed the drawing room doors. Turning back to face Melvyrn, he said, “ As you know, the Prussians declared war on France, and the Little General has been marshalling his forces with the idea of focusing the fighting on the Prussians. The War Office feels Wellington should use this opportunity to strike at Joseph Bonaparte, Napoleon’s brother and self-declared king of Spain, at Vitoria. It’s imperative that Wellington, who’s in Portugal, gets this directive immediately.”
Melvyrn nodded his understanding. “There will be a run to France tomorrow night.”
“Where to?”
“Wissant, where I am trying to set up agents for getting dispatches to Marquise which already has a small network of British agents and sympathizers. From there, the dispatches go directly to Paris to our intelligence officers, who can deliver them to Wellington.”
“I’d like to go with you,” Denholm said.
Melvyrn shook his head. “It’s not likely you’ll be able to, for the smugglers are a suspicious bunch. How long do you stay?”
Denholm s hrugged. “Two or three days at the most. Roeburn’s expecting a report on how things stand here.”
Melvyrn chuckled. “Then I believe I’ll take advantage of your presence to deflect some unwanted attention. I’ve been hooked into a picnic tomorrow and an upcoming ball by Lady Chadlington and her daughter, Sylvia Chadlington. Father’s a baron. Do you know them?”
“Afraid not.”
“That must be rectified,” Melvyrn said with an evil grin. “I’ll send a note to Lady Chadlington, advising her of your arrival, and ask her permission to drag you along.”
“Daughter’s a homely chit?”
Melvyrn shook his head. “Quite the contrary. But I get the impression the family’s holding out for a wealthy title to bring their standing up in
Turning Hector’s reins over to Grimsley, Melvyrn skirted the trunks as he mounted the stairs. Entering the cool interior of the main hall, he saw Hixon carrying a tea tray which included a glass of brandy into the drawing room. Stripping off his gloves, he followed on the heels of his major-demo and smiled. “London must be devilishly dull without your presence, Denholm. Whatever brings you to Folkestone?”
“If anyone but Roeburn had asked me, I wouldn’t be here.” Simon Goreham, Viscount Denholm, rose from his chair with a hand outstretched for Melvyrn. Tall and slender, Lord Denholm’s aristocratic nose, chiseled jaw and cheekbones, and hard gray eyes were set off by dark brown hair brushed back from his high forehead. “I’ve come bearing a diplomatic pouch that the War Office wants Wellington to have immediately.” He raised one dark eyebrow and added, “I’m told you’re the man for the job.”
Melvyrn laughed. “More like the smuggling gang I’ve hooked up with.” Denholm’s countenance never changed, but Melvyrn could tell he’d caught his friend’s interest by the glint in his eyes.
“Rum business you’ve gotten yourself into, pardon the pun.” Denholm took a healthy sip of brandy, then raised his glass. “Excellent French brandy you serve, too.”
“Easy to come by in these parts, if you’re interested,” Melvyrn said.
Denholm elevated one dark brow. “Hawking the stuff as well, are you?”
Melvyrn laughed. “No, but I know a few fellows who do.” Going to a table pushed against the wall with several decanters and glasses, Melvyrn poured himself a glass of brandy and sat across from the Viscount. “Roeburn could have dispatched a pouch by regular courier.”
“Yes, but this one is particularly urgent, and since the Marquess hadn’t heard from you, he sent me to . . . get the lay of the land, so to speak.”
“My understanding is that all dispatches are urgent,” Melvyrn said.
“True,” said Denholm as he rose from his chair and closed the drawing room doors. Turning back to face Melvyrn, he said, “ As you know, the Prussians declared war on France, and the Little General has been marshalling his forces with the idea of focusing the fighting on the Prussians. The War Office feels Wellington should use this opportunity to strike at Joseph Bonaparte, Napoleon’s brother and self-declared king of Spain, at Vitoria. It’s imperative that Wellington, who’s in Portugal, gets this directive immediately.”
Melvyrn nodded his understanding. “There will be a run to France tomorrow night.”
“Where to?”
“Wissant, where I am trying to set up agents for getting dispatches to Marquise which already has a small network of British agents and sympathizers. From there, the dispatches go directly to Paris to our intelligence officers, who can deliver them to Wellington.”
“I’d like to go with you,” Denholm said.
Melvyrn shook his head. “It’s not likely you’ll be able to, for the smugglers are a suspicious bunch. How long do you stay?”
Denholm s hrugged. “Two or three days at the most. Roeburn’s expecting a report on how things stand here.”
Melvyrn chuckled. “Then I believe I’ll take advantage of your presence to deflect some unwanted attention. I’ve been hooked into a picnic tomorrow and an upcoming ball by Lady Chadlington and her daughter, Sylvia Chadlington. Father’s a baron. Do you know them?”
“Afraid not.”
“That must be rectified,” Melvyrn said with an evil grin. “I’ll send a note to Lady Chadlington, advising her of your arrival, and ask her permission to drag you along.”
“Daughter’s a homely chit?”
Melvyrn shook his head. “Quite the contrary. But I get the impression the family’s holding out for a wealthy title to bring their standing up in