The Lady in Disguise

Chapter Nineteen

Byrne cursed fluently as he attempted to open his map while also trying to hold onto his umbrella in a vain attempt to keep it dry. The rain was still a drizzle, but with enough wind to make it thwart every attempt to hide from it.

He should have hired a horse. That way, when he got himself lost, at least it might be of shorter duration. He'd now circled this same hill from one end to the other and had no idea where his land might lie. A man of his standing should own a compass. He vowed he would purchase one before the day was out. But that wouldn't help him now.

Byrne growled and unfolded his map, trying to keep it open, even with the umbrella in his other hand, rather wishing he'd come here on some earlier day, so he'd been prepared. It was the sort of thing he usually did before an important meeting in London — walk the distance to the place or have Connolly drive the route at the same time the previous day to predict delays. He always wanted to know what he was walking into.

That must be why he felt like he was on the back foot today. He should have met with Gunn two days ago, at least. He could have had time to ponder this sudden opposition. And he hadn't thought this house party would be as great a distraction as it was. Silly of him, he now realized. It wasn't as if co-hosting four gentlemen and four ladies — now five — and their assorted chaperons was ever going to be simple. It might not be his house, but it was mostly his staff.

Still, he'd thought this part, though more important, would be easier, quicker. He was to secure Coton, then spend time on his marital prospects — and proper ones, not Miss Crewe — but it looked as if both would be more complicated than he had originally thought.

"Damn Gunn," he muttered, though he knew it was unfair. Gunn was not the cause of ill news, just the bearer of it.

"I doubt this venture of yours is going to be as simple as you originally thought," Gunn had said vaguely earlier.

Byrne had held his mug up, but didn't drink. He'd need all his wits about him today. "That's quite the departure from Rowley's last report."

Gunn scoffed. "No one talked to that fatwit when he was here. Their words, not mine. Me, I think he's more of a birdwit." He tapped his mug lightly against Byrne's. "Give him my best when you see him next."

"I will," Byrne said, though he doubted Rowley would appreciate it. Rowley didn't approve of Gunn, complaining that associating with such suspicious persons would tarnish the reputation Byrne was building, but Byrne was certain more of that was fear than actual disdain. The poor, older man flinched whenever Boniface Gunn — first name never used and very likely detested — appeared in the office. And appear, he did. He would often come in so quietly that no one had any notion he was there until he was suddenly standing behind them. And his disguises, while often simple enough, were effective and rather uncanny to behold when he removed them.

Without the disguises, he was still a rather fearsome looking fellow — scarred on what Byrne could see of the backs of his hands and forearms, also from the left corner of his mouth to the ear, and with a nose that looked like it been broken several times. Gunn had never revealed to Byrne how any of it had happened and Byrne could find no way, outside hiring Gunn himself, to find out more on the man's past or even present. But what did that matter? Perhaps it was the farmer in him, but Byrne felt more likely to trust a weathered man than one unmarred. They were more likely to deliver.

And Gunn always did.

His demeanor when himself, if he even was himself with Byrne, was devoid of nonsense, but Byrne sometimes suspected that was yet another disguise, the kind that would please a man such as Byrne.