To mask an outright laugh at Alex’s horrified expression, William drew out his handkerchief and blew his bulbous nose loudly and extensively. He knew full well there wasn’t a single matter involving a debutante that could be reasonably described as simple. They were a thoroughly complicated and enormously terrifying lot.
If Alex were any other man, William might have worried over gaining his cooperation, but for more than four hundred years, the Rockeforte line had served the nation’s interests in what ever capacity was required. Soldiers, spies, ambassadors, what ever the War Department or its earlier counterparts asked, the Rockeforte men answered without question, complaint, or demand. It was a quiet honor ingrained in every male of the family. Alex, honorable to the bone, would rather die than fail to live up to that legacy. He would even forsake his usual pursuit of actresses and courtesans and enter the dreaded world of ambitious debutantes and their title-hungry mamas.
For a time. And not without first ascertaining if it might be avoidable.
“There are limits, William.”
“I’m not asking you to wed the chit,” he argued reasonably. “Just make nice.”
“I have no experience making nice.”
“Nonsense, I’ve seen you perfectly amiable on at least two occasions.” William shoved his handkerchief back in his pocket and leaned back in his seat to savor the experience of watching his friend squirm. “I need a man on the inside, and a courtship of Loudor’s cousin will provide ample opportunities for you to be in his company, in his home.”
“We could just as easily arrange for the two of us to be introduced—”
“And have him wonder why the generally reclusive Duke of Rockeforte has taken a sudden interest?” William shook his head. “Woo the girl, Alex, and woo Loudor in the process. Find out what he and his cronies are about.”
Alex scowled, swore, squirmed.
Then, as William had expected, capitulated. “Bloody hell, very well. What do we know about this woman, this Miss…?”
“Everton. Miss Sophie Everton. Her father owns the estate of Whitefield. I believe Miss Everton holds the place in particular regard, as did the girl’s mother.”
“Deceased?”
“Yes, as well as her sister, both killed in a carriage accident. The viscount left England with his daughter shortly thereafter, and gave over the business of running the estate to his cousin.”
Alex nodded absently. “Loudor. How long ago was that?”
William reluctantly set down his drink, licked a bit of brandy off his fingers, and shuffled through the mountain of papers on his desk before finding what he needed. “Twelve years this past February.”
“And how old was Miss Everton at the time?” Alex asked suspiciously.
“Twelve.”
“Excellent,” Alex grumbled, “a spinster.”
It wasn’t a complaint, per se, more a statement of dread.
“Come now, man,” William chided. “Have a heart. She’s spent the last decade continent-hopping with her father. There hasn’t been an opportunity for the poor girl to make a suitable match.”
“She’ll be husband hunting.”
Setting the paper aside, William once again relaxed in his chair and smiled. “Is that fear I’m hearing, Your Grace?”
“Yes.” Alex took a gratifyingly large drink before continuing. “What else do we know?”
Chuckling, William dug through his papers again. It was a pointless exercise (he’d long since memorized them) except in that it provided an opportunity to draw out the moment. “Ah, here we are. Hmm…Seems she’s a bit of an oddity, actually…. Speaks a number of languages, of which only English and Latin can be counted as civilized…. Raised by her father and a governess turned chaperone by the name of Mrs. Mary Summers, and an English-educated Chinese man—old friend of the family. The latter two are traveling with Miss Everton, although Mr. Wang will be journeying on to Wales. As for the young woman herself, she has a reputation for being somewhat outspoken, shares her father’s interest in antiquities with no material value, and has had a rather alarming series of mishaps.”
Alex digested that information for a moment before speaking.
“Any indication she’s traveling to London to aid Loudor?”
“None, but that doesn’t negate the possibility that she is, or will be, sympathetic to his cause. They’ve been in contact by post regarding her father’s estate, but it’s hardly uncommon for a young woman to keep up regular correspondence.”
“Hmm. Have any of these missives been intercepted?”
“A few, wouldn’t do to have them become suspicious.”
“And were they useful?”
“They were positively benign. He asked after her welfare, hoped her father’s spirits were improved.” William waved his hand around. “That sort of thing. Chatty letters.”
Alex frowned into his brandy and William imagined he was currently thinking of all the reasons, some of them possibly even legitimate, not to accept the assignment. All the excuses he could use to politely extricate himself from what he knew was his duty. But he was a Rockeforte, and in the end he asked only, “What does she look like?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Miss Everton, what does she look like?”