Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(5)
His mouth was drier than an old, worn shoe. But he wouldn’t show his weakness to Carlisle. Not today. Not after discovering he’d been followed. “I learned that Miss Vanreid is exactly as I’ve suspected over the month I’ve been observing her. She is beautiful, clever, and manipulative. She… seems to have little concern for her reputation. I inquired whether or not she had a beau at home in New York as you requested, but she refused to answer one way or the other.”
Carlisle nodded as though none of the information came as a surprise to him. “I imagine she turned her wiles upon you, Trent.”
Hellfire. It took all of his years of training to suppress the heat that wanted to rise to his cheekbones. “I requested this meeting so that I could be relieved of my duties in regards to Miss Vanreid. Nothing I have uncovered over the last month has led me to believe she has any knowledge of dynamite production, Fenianism, or any plans to otherwise aid in the setting of bombs throughout London, to say the least of what happened in Salford. I respectfully request reassignment, as I can think of innumerable ways to better utilize my time and talents than chasing after an American minx as she flirts her way through the ton.”
Carlisle was silent for far too long, sipping his coffee as if he hadn’t a care. The only sounds in the room were caused by his cup tinkling back into its saucer. At last, he deigned to speak again. “I beg to disagree. Have you forgotten just who the girl’s father is?”
Of course he hadn’t. James Vanreid was well-known to the League, his entanglement with Fenians in New York undeniable. Though his father had been Dutch, his mother had been an Irish immigrant, and Vanreid had not forsaken his roots. He was sinfully wealthy, having amassed a fortune as a shipping magnate, and presided over no fewer than a dozen thriving factories. One of those happened to be an armament factory. And an inordinate number of illegal Vanreid firearms had recently been circulating in London. Vanreid had strong ties to the most aggressive of the Fenians in America, he had ships, he had an endless well of funds from which to draw, all beneath the guise of his various business holdings, and he was, simply put, a grave danger to England.
Sebastian had known all of those facts the first time his eyes had lit on Daisy Vanreid amidst a ballroom crush. But like the many men who hovered about her, drawn by the blinding combination of her sultry beauty and her fortune, he hadn’t cared. For the first time in his years with the League, his assignment had been to gather intelligence on a woman as harmless as a reticule. He’d been drawn to her first, irritated second, and confounded by his inconvenient attraction to her last.
All that aside, he had been watching Daisy Vanreid closely. And he was a damn good spy. He wasn’t about to allow Carlisle to run roughshod over him. His instincts were rarely wrong. Coupled with the fact that his observation of her had produced the same results as he would’ve anticipated had he been monitoring any other debutante, Carlisle’s insistence that Daisy Vanreid was some sort of secret menace was ludicrous.
“I know bloody well who her father is,” he gritted. “I also know that she eats eggs, poached with hollandaise for breakfast, she can’t abide by strawberries, she prefers chocolate over tea, she receives callers from one o’clock to three o’clock in the afternoon, she reads as if it’s her occupation, and that she enjoys courting scandal. Her aunt is meant to chaperone her, but the old biddy gets soused instead, and Miss Vanreid leads her suitors on a merry dance while good old Aunt Caro is snoring into her bosom or having a go at a randy rake in a dark alcove.”
He paused, attempting to rein in the anger that had begun to burn within him as he spoke before silencing his superior with a raised hand and continuing in his diatribe. “Jesus, do you hear how ridiculous this sounds, Carlisle? Do any of those insignificant details seem important, by God? Our nation’s security is at risk, and I’m chasing a vixen about ballrooms and running intelligence through her bloody chambermaids so I know which ball to attend. I feel like a lad in leading strings playing at being a spy with his younger brother.”
Carlisle raised an imperious brow. “Have you finished with your little tantrum, Trent?”
Tantrum. Bloody hell, Sebastian longed to smash his fist into the perfection of Carlisle’s long, aquiline nose. “I’m not having a goddamn tantrum. I am informing you that this nonsensical assignment must come to an end. Daisy Vanreid is as dangerous as an elderly governess, and I’m tired of trailing her about like a bloody spaniel.”
“She’s incredibly valuable to our cause.” Carlisle slammed his fist down. Coffee splashed over the rim of his cup, the delicate china clinking in protest. “She’s the daughter of the man responsible for financing the Fenians in New York, a daughter who is undoubtedly privy to all manner of information that could prove useful for us to possess. Keeping close to her keeps us close to Vanreid. The more we know about Vanreid, the better we’re prepared to dismantle his web and prevent him from harming anyone on our watch. We need to do everything—bloody well anything—we can to uncover the identities of the dynamitards hiding in our midst. If we do nothing, more will come, and we’ll be bloody well inundated. They’ll stop at nothing until they see England brought low.”
“I understand the importance of the task at hand,” Sebastian snapped. “I merely question the wisdom of wasting so much time and resources upon one bloody female.”