Page 70 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

“I gave it up,” Scott explained, as if he could guess what Maxim had been thinking. “Mrs. Scott took the notion I should just before we left for Brighton, as a matter of fact. I don’t miss it…much. Mostly when I’m trying to think.” And with that, he rescued the pipe from its near burial and clamped the stem between his teeth.

Certainly, over the course of several conversations since his return to London, Maxim had given him plenty to think about: the intelligence he had brought from France about Napoleon’s plans in Spain, which could send the war in a new and terrible direction; the information he had managed to extract from Leclerc about the network of French spies operating in Britain; and now Maxim’s decision to travel into Northumberland before the weather turned and take up the mantle of Duke of Hartwell, to reclaim the title from its associations with his grandfather’s cruelties.

Scott looked neither surprised nor especially disappointed. “I shall miss your insights. No other of my men knows France and the French the way you do. But,” he concluded with a sly smile, “I suspect your duchess is happy to have you home to stay.”

Maxim still could hardly convince himself it was true. Caro’s trust and love were unexpected and precious gifts he would happily spend the rest of his life trying to earn—and to repay.

Setting aside his pipe, Scott reached down to open a desk drawer and withdrew a decanter and two glasses. After pouring a splash of amber liquid in each, he handed one across the desk to Maxim. “A toast. To your lady’s health.”

“And to yours. Santé,” Maxim replied with a nod before tossing back the contents of his glass, a surprisingly mellow Scotch whisky.

The general took a more careful sip, savoring the brew. “I had it from one of my men, now stationed—er, settled in the Highlands.”

“Settled, eh?” Maxim twisted the tumbler in his fingers. “I wonder, sir, whether there isn’t some truth to the rumors about your matchmaking. Six years ago, I was certain you must have sent me to Earnshaw’s because of some suspicion you had about the man.” He watched a droplet of liquid skate across the bottom of the glass. “Was it in fact Lady Caroline Brent you wanted me to meet?”

“Oh-ho-ho!” The exclamation was drawn out with a sort of laugh that, to Maxim’s ear, did not sound much like a denial, though it was followed by the general saying, “I would have thought you, of all people, unlikely to put much faith in rumors.” He winked. “Besides, how was I to know which of the seven eligible young ladies invited to Earnshaw’s party would best suit?”

It was surely the closest to a confirmation of Scott’s machinations that Maxim would ever get. Still, he found unexpected comfort in the knowledge that the general had imagined him worth saving—and not just for his ability to speak fluent French.

He rose and bowed. “I should go and help my wife finish our preparations for the journey northward.”

Scott too got to his feet. “I wish you and your duchess safe travels, Hartwell, and much happiness. And may I extend the same on behalf of Mrs. Scott? Our wives became great friends during our visit to Brighton, you know—and not at my instigation, lest you were wondering. Though when I later explained the situation, Helen had her doubts about—well…”

“Me?” Maxim suggested.

“And me,” Scott answered with a shrug. “She called the match a fiasco. But I encouraged her to have a little faith.”

“Then sent Mrs. Drummond and Lieutenant Hopkins to the seaside to keep an eye on us. Just in case.”

The general appeared not the slightest bit chagrined. “You know the old saying. All’s fair...”

“In love and war. Yes.” Maxim tried—and failed—to muster one of his terrible scowls. “Did you and Mrs. Scott lay a wager about whether I would come to my senses?”

“Not in any formal terms, you understand. Let us simply say that tobacco was not the only habit Mrs. Scott was inclined to have me forgo. I am relieved not to have to give up another.” Aimlessly, he fingered some papers on the desk, no longer meeting Maxim’s eye. “Before you go, I do have one more favor to ask.”

“Twenty years of spying for you isn’t enough to even the balance sheet?” he asked, the words themselves mild, but underlined by the sharpness with which he set his tumbler on the corner of the desk.

The general folded his hands behind his back, perfectly unperturbed. “You tell me.”

No. Of course not. Nothing could repay Scott for having put in motion the plans that had led him to Caro. “Go on.”

“I know you’ll be busy with your new life. But there may come a time when you see, or hear, something you think I might find of interest. I hope if that happens you will keep in touch?”

Suddenly, Maxim understood just how Scott knew what often seemed impossible for one man to know: the network of supposedly retired secret agents he’d managed to install throughout the country and abroad, under the guise of seeing his men happily married.

But that was a cynical interpretation of the situation. Outside the windows of this office, a storm loomed—one that had nothing to do with the steely late October sky. It was impossible to forget that the British forces’ ability to stop Napoleon depended in large measure on the brave men—and women; one must not overlook Mrs. Drummond—who reported to this man.

It was also impossible to doubt that Scott was a romantic at heart, someone who wanted everyone, especially those who risked so much and served so loyally, to be as genuinely happy as he and Mrs. Scott. So he had somehow managed to bring together two disparate worlds, military intelligence and romance, more successfully than anyone would have guessed.

“Love and let spy, as it were?” Maxim’s lips quirked.

Scott’s blue eyes twinkled. “Precisely.”

Maxim bowed. “You have my word, sir.”

* * * *

Inside the grand, high-ceilinged entry hall of Hartwell House, near Hanover Square, Maxim conferred with the butler.