She then demonstrated. Billie wanted to die on the spot.

"Hmmm?" Lady Manston's face screwed up as she considered the placement of Billie's breasts. "Oh yes, I think you're right. They look much better up there."

"I'm sure it's not necessary..." Billie began, but then she gave up. She had no power here.

Crossy said something in rapid-fire French to her assistants, and before Billie knew what was happening, she'd been unlaced and relaced, and when she looked down, her bosom was most definitely not where it had been just a few moments earlier.

"Much better," Crossy declared.

"Goodness," Billie murmured. If she nodded she could actually touch her chin to her chest.

"He won't be able to resist you," Crossy said, leaning in with a confidential wink.

"Who?"

"There's always a who," Crossy said with a chuckle.

Billie tried not to think of George. But she wasn't successful. Like it or not, he was her who.

While Billie was trying not to think of George, he was trying not to think of fish. Kippers to be precise.

He'd spent the better part of the week at the War Office, trying to gain information about Edward. This had involved several meals with Lord Arbuthnot, who, before he had developed gout, had been a decorated general in His Majesty's army. The gout was a bloody nuisance (was the first thing he'd said) but it did mean he was back on English soil, where a man could have a proper breakfast every day.

Lord Arbuthnot was apparently still making up for his years of improper breakfasts, because when George joined him for supper, the table had been laid with what was normally morning fare. Eggs three ways, bacon, toast. And kippers. Lots and lots of kippers.

All things considered, Lord Arbuthnot put away a lot of kippers.

George had met the old soldier only once before, but Arbuthnot had attended Eton with George's father, and George with Arbuthnot's son, and if there was a more effective connection to press in the pursuit of truth, George couldn't imagine what it was.

"Well, I've been asking," Arbuthnot said, slicing up a piece of ham with the vigor of a red-faced man who'd rather be outside, "and I can't get much about your brother."

"Surely someone must know where he is."

"Connecticut Colony. That's as precise as it gets."

George clenched his fingers into a fist beneath the table. "He's not supposed to be in Connecticut Colony."

Arbuthnot chewed his food, then looked at George with a shrewd expression. "You've never been a soldier, have you?"

"Much to my regret."

Arbuthnot nodded, George's reply clearly meeting with his approval. "Soldiers are rarely where they're supposed to be," he said. "At least not ones like your brother."

George pressed his lips together, working to maintain an even expression. "I'm afraid I don't catch your meaning."

Arbuthnot sat back, tapping his steepled fingers as he regarded George with a thoughtful, eye-narrowed gaze. "Your brother is hardly an enlisted man, Lord Kennard."

"Surely a captain must still follow orders."

"And go where he's told?" Arbuthnot said. "Of course. But that doesn't mean he ends up where he's 'supposed' to be."

George took a moment to absorb this, then said incredulously, "Are you trying to tell me that Edward is a spy?"

It was unfathomable. Espionage was a dirty business. Men like Edward wore their red coats with pride.

Arbuthnot shook his head. "No. At least I don't think so. Damned unsavory, spying is. Your brother wouldn't have to do it."

He wouldn't do it, George thought. Period.

"It'd make no sense, at any rate," Arbuthnot said briskly. "Do you really think your brother could pass himself off as anything but a proper English gentleman? I hardly think a rebel is going to believe that the son of an earl is going to sympathize with their cause."

Arbuthnot wiped his mouth with his napkin and reached for the kippers. "I think your brother is a scout."

"A scout," George repeated.

Arbuthnot nodded, then offered the dish. "More?"

George shook his head and tried not to grimace. "No, thank you."

Arbuthnot gave a little grunt and slid the rest of the fish onto his plate. "God, I love kippers," he sighed. "You can't get them in the Caribbean. Not like this."

"A scout," George said again, trying to get the conversation back on topic. "Why do you think this?"

"Well, no one has told me as much, and to be quite frank, I don't know that anyone here has the entire story, but putting together the bits and pieces... it seems to fit." Arbuthnot popped a kipper in his mouth and chewed. "I'm not a betting man, but if I were, I'd say that your brother had been sent afield to get the lay of the land. There hasn't been much action in Connecticut, not since that thing with Whatshisname Arnold in Ridgefield back in seventy-seven."

George was not familiar with Whatshisname Arnold, nor did he have a clue where Ridgefield was.

There are some damned good ports on that coast," Arbuthnot continued, getting back to the serious business of cutting his meat. "I wouldn't be surprised if the rebels were putting them to use. And I wouldn't be surprised if Captain Rokesby had been sent out to investigate." He looked up, his bushy brows dipping toward his eyes as his forehead wrinkled. "Does your brother have any mapmaking skills?"

"Not that I'm aware."

Arbuthnot shrugged. "Doesn't mean anything if he doesn't, I suppose. They might not be looking for anything so precise."

"But then what happened?" George pressed.

The old general shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't know, m'dear boy. And I'd be lying if I said I'd found anyone who did."

George hadn't expected answers, not really, but still, it was disappointing.

"It's a damned long way to the Colonies, son," Lord Arbuthnot said in a surprisingly gentle voice. "News is never as swift as we'd like."

George accepted this with a slow nod. He was going to have to pursue some other avenue of investigation, although for the life of him, he did not know what that might be.

"By the way," Arbuthnot added, almost too casually, "you wouldn't happen to be planning to attend Lady Wintour's ball tomorrow night, would you?"

"I am," George confirmed. He didn't want to, but his mother had spun some convoluted story that had ended in his absolutely having to attend. And frankly, he hadn't the heart to disappoint her. Not while she was so worried about Edward.

And then there was Billie. She'd been roped into attending as well. He'd seen the look of panic on her face when his mother had dragged her from her breakfast to visit the modiste. A London ball was quite possibly Billie Bridgerton's personal hell, and there was no way he could abandon her when she needed him most.

"Are you acquainted with Robert Tallywhite?" Lord Arbuthnot inquired.

"A bit." Tallywhite was a couple of years ahead of him at Eton. Quiet fellow, George recalled. Sandy hair and a high forehead. Bookish.

"He is Lady Wintour's nephew and will most certainly be in attendance. You would be doing a great service to this office if you would pass along a message."

George raised his eyebrows in question.

"Is that a yes?" Lord Arbuthnot said in a dry voice.

George tipped his head in affirmation.

"Tell him... pease porridge pudding."

"Pease porridge pudding," George repeated dubiously.

Arbuthnot broke off a piece of his toast and dipped it into his egg yolk. "He'll understand."

"What does it mean?"

"Do you need to know?" Arbuthnot countered.

George sat back, regarding Arbuthnot with a level stare. "I do, rather."

Lord Arbuthnot let out a bark of laughter. "And that, my dear boy, is why you would make a terrible soldier. You've got to follow orders without question."

"Not if one is in command."

"Too true," Arbuthnot said with a smile. But he still did not explain the message. Instead he regarded George with a level stare and asked, "Can we rely on you?"

It was the War Office, George thought. If he was passing along messages, at least he'd know he was doing it for the right people.

At least he'd know he was doing something.

He looked Arbuthnot in the eye and said, "You may."

Chapter 19.

M.

anston House was quiet when George returned later that evening. The hall was lit with two candelabras, but the rest of the rooms seemed to have been shut down for the night. He frowned. It wasn't that late; surely someone ought to be about.

"Ah, Temperley," George said when the butler stepped forward to take his hat and coat, "has my mother gone out for the evening?"

"Lady Manston had her dinner sent up to her room on a tray, my lord," Temperley said.

"And Miss Bridgerton?"

"I believe she did the same."

"Oh." George shouldn't have been disappointed. After all, he'd spent the better part of the past few days avoiding both of the aforementioned ladies. Now they seem to have done his work for him.

"Shall I have your dinner sent up as well, my lord?"

George thought for a moment, then said, "Why not?" It seemed he wasn't to have company that night regardless, and he hadn't eaten much of Lord Arbuthnot's repast.

It had to have been the kippers. Honestly, the smell had put him off the entire meal.

"Will you have a brandy in the drawing room first?" Temperley inquired.

"No, I'll go straight up, I think. It's been a long day."

Temperley nodded in that butlerish way of his. "For us all, my lord."

George regarded him with a wry expression. "Has my mother been working you to the bone, Temperley?"

"Not at all," the butler replied, the barest hint of a smile cracking through his somber mien. "I speak of the ladies. If I may be so bold as to offer my observation, they seemed rather tired when they returned this afternoon. Miss Bridgerton especially."

"I'm afraid my mother has been working her to the bone," George said with a half-smile.

"Just so, my lord. Lady Manston is never as happy as when she has a young lady to marry off."

George froze, then covered his lapse by devoting an inordinate amount of attention to the removal of his gloves. "That would seem somewhat ambitious, given that Miss Bridgerton does not plan to remain in town for the Season."

Temperley cleared his throat. "A great many parcels have arrived."

Which was his way of saying that every item required for a young lady to successfully navigate the London marriage mart had been purchased and delivered.

"I'm sure Miss Bridgerton will meet with every success," George said evenly.

"She is a very lively young lady," Temperley agreed.

George smiled tightly as he took his leave. It was difficult to imagine how Temperley had come to the conclusion that Billie was lively. The few times George had crossed her path at Manston House she had been uncharacteristically subdued.

He supposed he should have made more of an effort, taken her out for an ice or some such, but he'd been too busy hunting down information at the War Office. It felt so bloody good to do something for a change, even if the results were disappointing.

He took a step toward the stairs, then paused and turned back. Temperley had not moved.

"I always thought my mother hoped for a match between Miss Bridgerton and Edward," George said casually.

"She has not seen fit to confide in me," Temperley said.

"No, of course not," George said. He gave his head a little shake. How the mighty had fallen. He'd been reduced to dangling for gossip from the butler. "Good night, Temperley."

He made it to the stairs, his foot perched on the first step, when the butler called out, "They do speak of him."

George turned around.

Temperley cleared his throat. "I do not think it a breach of confidence to tell you that they speak of him at breakfast."