The Insignificance of Being a Spy...

By Suzy Stewart Dubot

Marcus Beaumont, a spy for his Majesty's government, has to appear insignificant. His life depends upon it. In Britain's struggle against the tyrant Napoleon, his missions find him involved in murder, mystery, and, surprisingly, love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzy Stewart Dubot
• Release date: Mar 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465767462

Suzy Stewart Dubot

An Anglo/American who has lived in France for nearly 40 years, she began writing as soon as she retired. She moved to London in 2012 and spent more than a year there with family. The spring of 2014, she returned to France, Her laptop has never had any trouble following her.Before retiring, she worked at a variety of jobs. Some of the more interesting have been : Art and Crafts teacher, Bartender, Marketing Assistant for N° 1 World Yacht Charterers (Moorings), Beaux Arts Model, Secretary to the French Haflinger Association...With her daughters, she is a vegetarian and a supporter of animal rights! She is also an admirer of William Wilberforce.(If you should read her book 'The Viscount's Midsummer Mistress' you will see that she has devoted some paragraphs to the subject in Regency times.)PLEASE BE KIND ENOUGH TO LEAVE A REVIEW FOR ANY BOOK YOU READ (hers included).

Book preview

This is dedicated to my friend,

John ‘Byron’ Thomas.

He suddenly left this world and it will be a sadder place without him.

(5th Nov. 1940 – 3rd Nov. 2011)

The Insignificance of Being a Spy

Originally published under the title of

‘Oh! What a tangled web we weave…’

Copyright © 2011 by Suzy Stewart Dubot

Published with Smashwords

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

http://suzystewartdubotbooks.weebly.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1

February 1815

Brisk footsteps on the flagstone pavement warned Marcus Beaumont that someone was coming up behind him in a hurry. He hated the way his body became tense, alert and ready to react to any aggression directed at him, or another, for that matter. Common sense overrode his body’s desire to take on the defensive position that had saved his life on several occasions.

He was in Clapham, for pity’s sake, on a chilly Sunday morning, and it was doubtful that the enemy was up and about at eight in the morning, unless they were on their way to church. Did the enemy go to church? There was still little chance they would know who he was, anyway. Besides, he had taken all the usual precautionary measures to elude anyone who might have tried to follow him from his home in Bloomsbury.

As a rule, he would be aware if there were someone watching him, but even when certain that there wasn’t, he never went to a meeting without the ‘detour’, the doubling back and taking passages which had several issues. Sometimes, it would cost him a couple of hours to make a twenty-minute journey, but this was not a game. Lives depended on him being vigilant—his own included.

A hand came down on his shoulder in a friendly gesture as a deep, cultivated voice greeted him by name. He made himself relax slowly as he turned to his friend Conrad.

Good grief, Conrad! Are you out and about this early trying to see how many men you can strike down with a heart attack before noon? he asked, half joking. Grab a few more of us like that and you may yet beat your record.

Good morning to you, too, Marcus, Conrad replied with a chuckle. I see you’re back from your stint in Belgium. You look quite fresh after a night out, so it must have been a night in. Conrad laughed as his mind raced ahead. Who was the lucky girl, or have you finally set up a mistress?

Marcus shook his head in an off-hand manner, but ignored his friend’s overt suggestion that he’d spent the night in tangled passion with a woman, by answering with a question.

You’re looking a little worse for wear, dear chap, he said as he took in the weary look of the man. It seems that your night was longer than mine. Did you win or lose?

"You know me so well, Marcus. As it happens, I came out on top this time, but I’m lucky if it all balances out even by the end of the year. It’s the thrill of the toss that I buy each time, you know. But, of course, you wouldn’t know, would you? Gambling isn’t in your blood."

Conrad Winston, Lord Hemel, was a good-looking man, even after a night out. He was bordering on six-foot tall with a straight back and a good pair of shoulders. Dark brown hair made his hazel-coloured eyes more apparent, and this morning’s crop of bristles made him look a handsome rogue, indeed. Not even his rumpled coat could take that away from him.

Marcus had met him at Oxford more than ten years ago, and it still surprised him they had become friends. Besides being handsome and much sought after by the ladies, he was charming and amusing. He was also the heir to an earldom that would one day put him among the wealthiest men in Britain—if he didn’t gamble it all away on credit beforehand.

Marcus himself was well set up, having inherited his uncle’s title, his estates, and his funds. He was now the fifth Viscount Driscoll. Where he differed from Conrad was in his looks and charm, or rather, the lack of them. He was an ordinary fellow. He’d be a fool not to recognise the very thing that had propelled him into the field where he excelled—espionage for his Majesty’s government.

His brilliant studies and talent for languages had no doubt been what had got the attention of those seeking new recruits for Britain’s ongoing battle with the French and their allies. They were forever losing their men in the field through treachery or unforeseen circumstances. Undercover work sometimes led agents into less than savoury situations, which could turn out to be life-threatening. Marcus knew about those situations, because he had extricated himself from them on several occasions. Even a few sous, low value French coins, could tempt a man to commit serious bodily harm, or sometimes murder, because it would mean he could eat and drink something that day and the next.

The ‘Revolution’ was a thing of the past, but the only thing it had rid the French of had been their aristocrats. Poverty was still rife.

When you have been involved in the complexities of espionage for a long time, and survived, you either become sloppy from overconfidence or you suspect everyone. Marcus was cautious and suspected everyone, including Conrad. A lot was at stake, and who better would need funding but an inveterate gambler? The French would pay a generous amount to have someone in the English ton spying for them. However, all the investigations he’d set in motion to monitor Conrad had not yet revealed the slightest hint of treason. It didn’t make him feel any the better about being with him, though; now it bothered him that he had not trusted his friend.

So, are you off home now? Conrad asked. Or would you like to partake of a little breakfast with me? I know a decent inn not far from here.

Marcus had been up early. Though he’d had a coffee and a roll before setting out on his journey, he decided he would shed the last of his stress with Conrad. He would collect his horse later. His report had been delivered to his contact, so he could now breathe easier… until his next mission. He never knew when he would be needed again, but after eight years, the whole business was beginning to take its toll.

It was easy to guess what drew Conrad to gambling dens, because he had experienced that thrill on his first successful mission. It seemed the adrenalin had coursed through his blood for days—before, during, and after—as he had known his life was at stake, not the sovereigns or promissory notes of a gambler.

Today, knowing he would be saving lives was the basis of Marcus’s motivation, because the excitement of deception had long ago dissipated.

Here we are, Conrad stated and dragged Marcus down a short passageway between two buildings, bringing them out into the large courtyard of an inn. There was a surprising amount of activity at this early hour. It seemed a private coach was just departing through the archway of the inn’s main entrance.

‘The Dog and Duck’ appeared to be a respectable enough establishment to Marcus as they went in for breakfast. The ceiling with its low oak beams gave the place a cosy atmosphere, while the fireplace was having no trouble warming the main room. The landlord greeted them genially, seeing they were proper gentlemen. He soon had them seated at a table and their orders taken, while the pleasant aroma of bacon and fresh bread had them waiting impatiently for their meal. Coffee arrived straightaway with a slice of buttered bread to help them pass the time until their cooked breakfast arrived. The chatter and the clatter made by other customers contributed to the overall impression that it was a popular place.

I take it you come this way often? Marcus mused when they were alone again.

Every now and then when I feel lucky. I like to move around, but I seem to have become a familiar face wherever I go these days. Perhaps if I found a woman to love and to love me, I would give it up.

Marcus grinned because they both knew that nothing would make him give it up. Conrad had already loved more than his fair share of women and half of the women in London loved him, and yet here he was in the streets after a sleepless night of gaming.

You didn’t answer my question earlier, Marcus. A girl or a mistress? Can’t imagine why else you would be here at this early hour, Conrad prompted for an answer.

Marcus knew that the nearer one stayed to the truth, the better. It had been ingrained into him that the more we lie, the harder it is to remember the lies. So, he gave a half truth.

I brought a package from Brussels to deliver for someone in the family, and as I couldn’t sleep, I decided not to waste time. Clapham is pleasant even on a cold Sunday morning; an invigorating ride with virtually no traffic.

He paused as he took a sip of his coffee and then continued.

"However, I am open to suggestion, if you should happen to know a lady to introduce to me. If she were willing to keep me warm on a morning such as this, I would, without a doubt, consider staying off the streets at such an unearthly hour. I’ve reached that stage in life where it would be pleasant to laze long hours with the right person."

Marcus spoke words he thought would be expected of him, while drawing the subject away from his real reason for being there. Once said, they did seem to hold a good amount of truth, though. The only trouble was that as long as there was chaos on the continent he could not, would not, commit himself to anyone. When he left on a mission, he never knew if he would return alive, and the information he had just delivered spoke volumes about what might be in the making.

Well, as it happens, I do know someone who might suit you. She’s a war widow with a small child. For some unfathomable reason, I didn’t interest her at all! It may have had something to do with my oath when her child spat up on my oxblood boots. Conrad laughed. "She is really quite lovely, though."

In that case, keep me in mind for an introduction, dear lad. I’ve nothing against children either.

This wasn’t a lie. Before he had become embroiled in all the secrecy and subterfuge, he had imagined himself with a family. It was the aspect of his life where he had felt deprived. His uncle had been childless—which is how he had come to inherit—so no cousins, and he had no siblings due to the early death of his father. He was lucky if he saw his mother twice a year. Even now she was away enjoying a voyage with her childhood friend; Jamaica, he seemed to think.

Hell! He hadn’t wanted to think along those lines, which always left him with a feeling of bleak emptiness. There was no joy in any of it. When the damn war on the continent was over, he would devote himself to his estates and the search for a woman to soothe away all the unpleasantness of the last years. It had been easy to leave the house at dawn this morning because he slept so little. The need to be on his guard over the years had spoiled him for ever sleeping a full night. The idea of retiring to one of his estates with a woman was the light at the end of the tunnel that kept him on his toes and moving forward.

When they had finished breakfast and were ready to leave, Conrad proposed they ride back together. They separated long enough to retrieve their horses and then met once again for the ride back to London. It was a little after ten in the morning as they started on the return journey. A determined sun was trying to warm the day, Conrad was yawning unabashedly, and Marcus’s thoughts were already working on the book he was writing.

They parted promising to meet during the week at the club to which they both belonged.

Chapter 2

It was true Marcus might be taken for somebody quite ordinary and bland. He was of average height for a man, with brown hair and brown eyes, and pleasant features which were unmemorable. Perhaps his teeth would be considered good, being straight and a healthy white, but he would need to smile more for them to be appreciated. He did everything he could to comply to that image of ordinariness, because he needed to be forgotten. If he remained in the background, seemed shy, it was a figure he cultivated to camouflage the work he did, which was not always away from home. It was far easier to observe when one was unobtrusive.

If Britain had spies abroad, then so did the enemy.

Conrad knew about Marcus’s trips to Belgium, which were genuine enough as he had dealings with a cousin who owned a bookshop in Brussels. The library was an outlet for his publications in French, as well as English, which provided him with the perfect reason to be travelling with manuscripts and books. Except, they were the mere prelude to his real business. Each mission began with a trip to Brussels from whence he was able to slip away to his true target—France or Germany. However, he never returned to Belgium from either country once he had acquired what he’d gone for. It might be taking the hunter to his lair, and that was something he was keeping back as a last resort; to be used as a dire necessity.

The last time he had been in France for nigh on two months, he had been disguised as a wealthy German businessman wishing to support Napoleon, should he be thinking of leaving Elba. His persona had been based on a real man whom the British were detaining. Marcus’s excellent German had