Dane stepped back in surprise at that statement, his eyes going wide. He stared again at the portrait and tried to compare it to the dead man in the other room.
"I … suppose we are alike in that we are both men and under five and thirty," he conceded slowly, reluctantly. "And our hair is somewhat alike in color."
"And your eyes. This portrait does not do him justice, and the light is out of them in the other room. But they are very close." Stalwood folded his arms, and suddenly he looked very smug.
"What are you getting at?" Dane asked, his hackles up and the little hairs on his neck at attention. This was danger. He knew the feeling well, though he'd hadn't felt it coming from Stalwood in years.
"I said earlier that if Clairemont were alive he might be of some use to us," Stalwood said.
Dane glared at him, trying to ignore the rising sense of dread in his chest. "Well, I've no magic to bring the man back to life."
"You've more magic than you think, Your Grace."
Dane shut his eyes. Over the years he'd served this man, he'd gone all over the empire, serving his king and country. He'd played many a role in those years, rich and poor, but never titled. Never a duke.
The very idea chafed at him.
"You want me to take over as Clairemont," he said softly.
Stalwood smiled. "There it is. Yes, I do. Imagine if we were inside that world. You'd be reading Clairemont's letters, seeing everything he does from his eyes."
"The only problem with that plan is that Clairemont's eyes are glassed over in the middle of a pool of blood in his library," Dane said, motioning wildly toward that room in the distance. "And people know it."
"Three servants and half a dozen agents to the crown known it," Stalwood corrected him. "And, I suppose, one murderer. Otherwise, there has been no announcement, no scandal, no information spread far and wide. To almost all of the world, the Duke of Clairemont is not dead on a library floor-he is sleeping peacefully in his own bed. He could stroll into a ballroom in London at any moment and no one would blink about it."
Dane drew farther back, as if stepping away would cease this foolish notion. "I might look something vaguely like the man, but it seems what you are suggesting is that I go into the bright light of Society and play the part. Surely dozens of people will mark me immediately."
"Oh, but they won't."
"In my duties as spy, I've met some of these people I'm certain to encounter," Dane insisted. "Someone might recognize me from a prior case."
Stalwood seemed to contemplate that. "You have. But often in physical disguise. You're my best agent-there is a reason that up until now I've not asked you to play a role without some kind of camouflage to protect you."
Dane gritted his teeth. Stalwood did have a point. But it made him no more excited at the prospect. "And what of Clairemont's friends and family? Certainly they'll look right through me if I'm pretending to be him."
Stalwood smiled slightly. "You said you've heard something of this man's involvement in criminal enterprise, but have you ever seen him?"
"I don't move in those circles outside of in the confines of a case, Stalwood, you know that," Dane snapped, sharper than he would normally dare be with the man who had rescued him off the street and trained him not just for this life, but to be the man he was now.
Stalwood nodded. "Well, I do. No one will mark you as a fraud because Clairemont has been a hermit for over a decade. No one we can find has seen him aside from his servants."
Dane blinked in confusion. "What?"
"His father died during Clairemont's time at school and he moved straight into his dukedom. And though he kept up a robust correspondence, he did not maintain any known friendships in person." Stalwood leaned back and folded his arms, looking very self-satisfied. "As far as anyone in Society knows, he could be anyone."
"Me, you mean," Dane said softly. "He could be me. Or I could be him, I suppose. Only I have no idea how to behave as a duke."
"You will learn," Stalwood assured him. "We'll have at least two months until the Season begins and it would even make sense to send you to London."
"And the murderer who cut this man down?"
"Can you imagine his confusion, his anxiety as days and weeks and months stretch by with no announcement of the death of the Duke of Clairemont? By the time you arrive in London, he will be on the edge. Dangerous, yes, but just as much to himself as he is to anyone else."
"At the minimum you hope to sniff him out," Dane said with a shake of his head.
"And while you train, we'll come up with a list of suspects in regards to who Clairemont was working with. London will give you ample opportunity to evaluate them." Stalwood came closer. "Dane, I know this isn't the kind of assignment you relish, but it is important. As you said, one of our agents is already dead because of this man and his cohorts, and untold numbers of soldiers have likely already been endangered. This is good work, important work."
Dane couldn't help but smile. Good work. That was what Stalwood had once said to him, years and years ago, when the earl was trying to recruit him off the street. Good work had appealed to Dane then.
It appealed to him now.
"Very well," he muttered, pushing down the swell of doubt that rose in his chest again and again. The one that said he was nothing but a street tough, a no one who would never fit in as a duke, hermit bastard duke or not.
Stalwood smiled. "I'm pleased you agree. Otherwise I would have had to pull rank."
Dane motioned Stalwood back toward their murder scene. "You know I don't give a damn about rank."
"When you're a duke you'll be above me, if it helps."
That elicited a laugh Dane couldn't contain. "Actually, that's the best reason I've heard yet to do this foolish thing. Outrank the Earl of Stalwood? I cannot wait."
But deep in his heart, Dane knew that was a lie. A bitter lie at that. He was not looking forward to this. But he knew his duty and he would serve his king with all the honor he'd been trained to uphold.
Chapter Two
April 1811
Celia Fitzgilbert sat at the pianoforte, letting her fingers dance over the keys as she played out a mournful song. Her sister, Rosalinde, preferred a happier tune, but tonight Celia could not manage it. Her heart hurt too much not to express it with the music she played. The loss was too great.
As if on cue, Rosalinde stepped into the room. Her sister's beautiful face was lit up with pure happiness, her blue eyes aglow with what Celia knew was deepest love and joy. And why wouldn't she be so happy? Her marriage less than six months before was one filled with love and passion.
After all they'd been through in their lives, Rosalinde's contentment was wonderful to see. But it was also isolating. Celia had spent so much time telling herself that she didn't need those things, now being in such close quarters with Rosalinde and her husband, Grayson Danford, slapped her in the face with reality. In truth, she longed for such a deep connection as they shared.
Her fingers faltered on the keys and she stopped playing with a sudden, incongruous note.
Rosalinde stepped forward with a shake of her head. "Oh, please don't stop playing. I love to hear you."
Celia forced a smile to her face and looked up at Rosalinde. "I'm afraid I must stop playing. After all, we should leave for the ball soon."
Her sister slipped a gentle hand to her shoulder and squeezed lightly. "You sound anxious."
Celia shrugged. "It is only the second ball I have gone to since our return to London last week. I cannot help but remain nervous."
Rosalinde shook her head. "But there has been no scandal following you after your broken engagement. From what I've seen at every event we've attended, there are a few whispers, but the overall response is positive."
Celia held back a sigh. Just a few months before, she had been pledged to marry the Earl of Stenfax, who was the brother of her sister's new husband. It had been a loveless match, to be certain, and one that had been fought strenuously against by her new brother-in-law and eventually, her sister, though they each had very different reasons.
Breaking the engagement should have destroyed Celia in the eyes of Society. But it hadn't.
"You and Gray saved me from the worst with your true love story. The idea that I would step aside so you could marry into the family for love made both Stenfax and I look like heroes. So no, it has not been unpleasant. But it's an adjustment, regardless."
"What has been an adjustment?" Gray asked as he entered the room.
Rosalinde's face brightened immediately and she all but glided toward him. The expression on his hard face softened as she straightened his cravat, and Celia had the very strong impression that had she not been standing there, the two might have kissed. Not that her being there stopped them every time. They were enjoying what was obviously a very happy honeymoon period. Some nights there was no denying it at all.
She cleared her throat as heat filled her cheeks. "Rosalinde and I were talking about my nervousness about the ball tonight."
"Ah," Gray said as he stepped away from Rosalinde and toward Celia. He held out a hand and she took it. "What can I do to help?"