Alex rose and offered him a bow. "No, thank you. I must, of course, respect your decision. However, you are wrong about me, and I hope to someday prove it to you."
He refused to meet Captain Randolph's gaze as he walked stiffly from the office.
Once outside the building, he faltered. What was he to do now? The future yawned bleak before him. Was he such a care-for-nothing that no one believed he could be useful?
He straightened his sagging shoulders and forced himself to stroll up the street with his usual ennui. He would let no one see how much the blow hurt. Refused by the War Office, not once, but twice! And this while England begged for soldiers to fight Napoleon. He passed around Whitehall for Pall Mall and could not suppress a shudder at the sight of a captain leading in a group of raggedy men for recruits. There was always room in the infantry, if he could stomach the work. Surely there were better ways to entertain himself.
But what if not the Lord Hastings's cadre? His personal affairs needed no attention. His estate in Hampshire was run by an experienced, honest, capable steward. He had no interest in assisting. The few times Alex had sat in with him, the discussions of enclosures, rents, and pasturage had gone in one ear and out the other.
His town house was run by an equally capable butler, his stables by a consummate master of horse. He did, of course, pick his own mounts at Tattersalls, but he left the care, feeding, and training thereof to more experienced hands. As long as the horse was fast and did not clash with his riding jacket, he did not question his horse master's decisions.
No more did he need to dabble in the Exchange. His considerable fortune was managed by an astute financier. He was vaguely aware that he was invested in a number of activities like rubies in India and sailing ships in the Caribbean. It seemed he might even own an estate in Canada of all places. As long as he had funds when he needed them, he saw no reason to meddle.
He also didn't feel particularly useful in political circles. He had tried to do his duty in Parliament, but the endless speeches dulled his mind and most of the measures seemed petty or of little use to anyone. The intrigue of trying to convince various members to vote for a particular measure was mildly interesting, but who could stand to compete with a high stickler like Castlereagh or the endless chatter of Lady Jersey?
At one time he had even tried to do something to improve the country. After hearing of several worthwhile charities, he'd gone to a meeting of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Climbing Boys. Unfortunately, while he had endowed their cause with a sizable donation, he could not find it in himself to sit week after week and discuss the burning and maiming of children.
No more could he stand to simply return to his previous pursuits. One could only win so many carriage races. Chas Prestwick currently held the record in that arena anyway, and Alex had no reason to challenge his friend. Gambling was of no interest when one could be virtually assured of winning. And while he could not deny a certain attraction to the ladies, even the attentions of the delightful Miss Lydia Montgomery, the lovely actress he had been pursuing, had begun to cloy.
Perhaps Hastings was right: Life was too easy for him. He had excelled in school, on the practice fields, and in the ballrooms. Too many other pursuits were simply boring. He felt as if there were a vacuous hole in his life, sucking him down. All the more reason to take on a new challenge.
And what better challenge than to embrace the duties of an agent for the King? He could easily imagine dodging behind enemy lines, seducing duchesses for vital information, and daringly eluding capture to return the information to England. Some would consider such exploits as beneath a gentleman, but he could see how vital the role was to defeating the Corsican monster. Wellington's war on the Peninsula could only accomplish so much if military information was already in the hands of the enemy. The French were notorious for their use of secret agents to ferret out England's most closely held information.
He shook his head as he turned down Pall Mall. He would not be the one to stop them. Hastings had been clear in his refusal. He thought Alex a wastrel. What a conundrum! His wastrel life was entirely what he hoped to change. He had thought surely the fact that he was being followed would be sufficient for the old boy to reconsider the case.
The problem had started several weeks ago, shortly after the opening of this 1813 Season. For the last year he had taken to walking from diversion to diversion. His coachman complained of boredom, and his valet lamented the wear on his boots, but what could one do? A man could not count on a vehicle or animal for transportation behind enemy lines. He needed to be fit to join the cadre. He already boxed twice a week and fenced three times. Walking provided additional exercise and kept him limber. Occasionally a friend would raise a brow at his habit (none of them were willing to soil their slippers); however, most people paid him no attention. Perhaps that was why he had noticed when he developed an extra shadow.