The Ardent Lady Amelia by Laura Matthews

advice they were getting from the field, in the voices of Sir John Moore and Sir Arthur Wellesley. He intended to see that they listened more seriously to that advice.
    But more than that. Verwood handed his hat and gloves to the footman who approached him at Boodle’s. Lamps burned in the hallway but no sound penetrated from behind the heavy wooden doors on either side. “Is Lord Welsford here this evening?” he asked, thinking it just possible Peter would have escaped some boring entertainment to come.
    “No, milord, I haven’t seen him.” The footman draped Verwood’s coat over his arm, careful to avoid wrinkling it.
    “Monsieur Chartier, then?”
    “Yes, he’s in the room on the right.”
    Verwood was led to an enormous room, its Axminster carpet mellow in the light from several crystal chandeliers. There were large, round green-baize-covered tables down the street side of the room, and smaller square tables opposite. A lamp stood on each of the larger tables, while the smaller were in partial shadow, though the play at them seemed no less serious. He nodded to Tytherly, who was paired off with a gentleman Verwood had never met, probably playing piquet. He didn’t stop to find out, but cast his gaze over the fuller tables, where he felt sure he would find Chartier.
    The Frenchman was only recently arrived in London, within the month, he said. Which was one of the things about him that interested Lord Verwood, since he had himself seen the fellow two months previously leaving Dr. Braithwait’s house in Golden Square. Dr. Braithwait had his surgery in his home, through a separate entrance at the side of the house. Verwood had become quite familiar with it during the period when the worst of his sufferings were over, but he was instructed to drop by weekly so the good doctor could check his progress.
    On the day he’d seen Chartier, he’d been suffering some pain, and had stopped beside the railings to give the leg a short rest. He’d taken two balls at Rosetta, one in the thigh and one in the knee. The wound in his thigh had healed quickly, but the knee injury, though not as disastrous as it might have been, continued to plague him because of the constant strain placed on that joint by walking. Not that Braithwait had counseled him against exercise; the doctor had insisted he must use it to keep it from stiffening completely.
    It was when he was leaning over to rub the aching knee that he happened to glance through the railings at the sound of a door closing. A man came out of Dr. Braithwait’s surgery, a very ordinary man, so far as Verwood could see. He was obviously well-dressed, young, with neatly brushed hair and attractive features. Verwood hardly noticed him, except when the young man inadvertently stepped in dog dirt on the pathway and gave vent to a very Gallic exclamation and shrug. The fellow was still scraping his boot against the pavement as he passed Verwood, whom he didn’t notice at all.
    If the viscount hadn’t happened to be introduced to the young man two months later, he would never have recollected the incident. But in the course of their conversation Chartier happened to mention he’d only recently (within the month) come to stay in London. In conjunction with his obviously French background, this struck Verwood as rather suspicious, and he asked if Chartier had never been to London before.
    “Oh, many times, many times,” the fellow replied cheerfully. “My sister and I live in Hampshire, with relatives. But I have come to stay in London, and soon, soon, I will bring her here as well.”
    So the matter might have ended, except that it nagged at Verwood. When he asked Dr. Braithwait about Chartier, the good doctor insisted he’d never met the man. A thorough check of his records, which the viscount urged, revealed no listing of his name. Verwood decided it wouldn’t hurt for him to form an acquaintance with the elusive Frenchman. A false name, a deliberate lie — there might be