A Lady's Secret Weapon
Read A Lady's Secret Weapon Online
Authors: Tracey Devlyn
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical Romance, #Regency
Copyright © 2013 by Tracey Devlyn
Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Brittany Vibbert
Cover art by Aleta Rafton
Photography by Jon Zychowski
Models: Crystal McCahill and Lee Dahlberg/Agency Galatea
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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To all the silent, unsung heroes…
Thank
you.
Pain splintered inside Ethan’s skull the moment his head slammed against the cold surface. Against his will, a moan ripped from his throat, and his body curled into a tight, protective knot.
“
Dammit
.” His breath huffed against the floor, forcing a cloud of ancient dust into his face.
“Careful, my lord,” a voice rasped, a moment before something soft slid beneath Ethan’s head.
He tried to open his eyes but managed only a small slit, barely enough to discern the broken crate to his left and the hooded figure kneeling at his side.
“Where am I?” Ethan made another attempt to open his eyes, to no avail.
“In a warehouse near the London Docks.”
Docks
. Images flashed through his mind like the blast of a firing squad. Three Goliaths, an uncomfortable carriage ride, a sound beating in a dockside alleyway. A cool hand pressed against his throbbing forehead.
Ethan’s jaw clenched. He’d been so close to locating the Frenchman who had brutalized his sister. The anticipation of snapping the man’s neck had made him lose sight of his surroundings, for which he’d paid dearly.
“How did I get here?” He struggled to a sitting position. “Who are you?”
The cloaked figure’s gloved hands halted his clumsy attempt. “You were carried, and my identity is of no consequence.”
Unable to resist, Ethan eased back down. Even though the cloak’s hood hid his savior’s features, Ethan felt the stranger’s intense scrutiny. “Why do you protect your face? You have nothing to fear from me.”
“What makes you think fear is the reason behind my need for privacy?”
Ethan sensed, more than saw, his savior retreating. An unfamiliar terror gripped his gut. “Wait.”
“Rest, Lord Danforth. You are safe here.”
Quiet confidence laced the stranger’s raspy voice, soothing the edges of Ethan’s fear. Never had he felt so helpless, or so tired. He fought the pull of oblivion for all of ten seconds. Before he slipped into darkness, a single thought registered.
How
did
the
stranger
know
my
name?
***
Sydney paused to give her eyes time to adjust to the large, gloom-filled room. The moment the makeshift bed against the far wall took shape, she moved quietly to the viscount’s side.
The low light hid most of the destruction to his handsome face, as did the cold compress over his swollen eyes. However, she could still see the darkened flesh across his jaw. The apothecary she brought in to assess the damage had discovered severe bruises covering his torso and lacerations dotting his face and body. Thankfully, she had detected no broken bones, though the woman had cautioned her that he might have sustained injuries inside his body. Only time would reveal what’s hidden beneath the flesh.
Rest, cold compresses, and beef tea would see him through the worst of it, the apothecary had said. Sydney had no doubt. His lordship had youth, strength, and sheer stubbornness on his side. Besides, he’d likely survived far worse. Still, she didn’t want to wake him from his healing slumber. He’d hardly moved an inch since they placed him on the narrow cot hours ago. Every so often, she would hold her fingers below his nose to make sure Death had not visited while she’d been away.
Sydney sighed. No matter how difficult, she would follow the apothecary’s prescribed orders. The quicker his lordship healed, the quicker she could send him on his way. She set the tray containing a bowl of beef tea, a linen filled with ice chips, a glass of water, and a bottle of laudanum on the floor and then perched on the edge of his bed. The frame creaked, and his lordship shot upright, his steel-like fingers clamped around her arm, digging deep. The spent compress covering his eyes dropped to the floor with a
splat!
“What are you doing?” he asked between gritted teeth. He angled his head back to better see her, blinking several times for focus.
Sydney hunched her shoulders and tucked her chin to protect her features, even though she’d already rubbed coal dust on her face and pinned a large, frilly maid’s cap on her head to protect her identity. “I’ve brought you food and something to relieve your pain, m’lord.” She prayed her tone carried the right amount of submissiveness. “How are you feeling?”
His harsh breaths penetrated the short space between them. Finally, his grip slowly eased, though he did not release her. As he lowered himself back down to his mound of pillows, his hand slid along her arm until his fingers bracketed her wrist.
“Like a ballroom full of drunken lords trampled my body.”
“Better then.”
He squeezed her wrist. “How long was I out?”
“All of a day and most of a night.”
“So long?”
“The apothecary gave you something to help you rest.”
A long pause. “I don’t remember.”
“You were fighting a fever.” Sydney pressed her palm to his forehead. “Much better now.”
“I have to get out of here. My sister—” He sent her a wary glance. “She’ll be worried.”
“You mustn’t move for a few more days.” She smoothed her hand over her rough, threadbare skirts. “If you’d like to give me her address, I’ll have a note sent around.”
An emotion Sydney didn’t understand hardened his jaw a moment before he shifted his attention away.
She bent to collect the tray but was unable to balance it with one hand. Pausing, she slanted a meaningful glance at her wrist.
He opened his fingers.
“Thank you.” When she reached for the tray again, his hand moved to her leg. She whipped her head around to peer at him, jarring a lock of hair free. “Kindly remove your hand, m’lord.”
His lips quirked into a spare smile. “I’m hardly in a position to ravish you.”
Sydney could barely think above the hammering of her heart. The heat from his palm penetrated the rough layers of her skirts, directing her attention to that small four-inch-by-four-inch area. Setting her jaw, she lifted the tray to her lap and tucked the loose skein of hair behind her ear. Then she laid the icy compress across his eyes.
He sucked in a startled breath. “Perhaps a little warning next time,” he said through gritted teeth.
“The same could be said to you, sir.” She opened a small bottle and tapped several drops of the reddish-brown liquid in the glass. She swirled the water around before removing the compress from his eyes. “Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“Water laced with laudanum.”
His lips firmed into a thin line before raising the shaking drink to his lips. Liquid splashed over the rim. “Damn me!”
“Here, m’lord.” She wrapped her hands around his, steadying the glass. “All of it,” she commanded when he tried to stop halfway.
When he finished, he shoved the glass away, scrunching his face at the bitter taste. “Next time, dribble your poison into some brandy. Might be a little more palatable that way.”
Ignoring his surly remark, she retrieved a bowl of broth and raised a brimming spoonful to his mouth.
“You’re not feeding me like a greenling cub.”
She returned the spoon to the bowl. “Then you’ll go hungry.”
“How do you figure, Miss—?” When she did not fill in the blank, he continued, “I’ve been feeding myself for a rather long time.”
“Not with those trembling hands.” She ventured another spoonful up to his lips. He waited a belligerent three seconds before opening his mouth.
Relief spread through Sydney. She didn’t know what she would have done if he’d refused the beef tea. For some men, pride forced them into making poor decisions that had terrible consequences. She was glad Ethan deBeau was not one of them.
Her relief quickly faded into agitation. She could feel the intensity of his stare all the way to her bones. An insistent quiver started at the base of her spine and worked its way up. The darkened chamber and his swollen eyes would limit his visibility. She knew this, believed it. But she could not shake her sudden, desperate sense of urgency.
“Where’s the cloaked chap that dragged my carcass in here?” Fatigue laced his words.
“I couldn’t say, m’lord.”
“I owe him my thanks.”
She quickened her pace, refusing any further attempts at conversation. The less he knew, the less likely their paths would ever cross again.
“Rest your head on the pillow again, please.”
“You’re leaving.” His voice was hollow, resigned.
Empathy gripped her heart. She glanced around the desolate chamber, hating that she had to keep him here. “Would you like a candle? A book? Perhaps another blanket?”
He grasped the ice-filled linen and placed it over his eyes. “No.”
Dismissed
.
Sydney gathered everything onto her tray and made her way to the door. An odd reluctance to leave him held her immobile. She chanced a glance over her shoulder at the same time he delivered a low, unmistakable warning.
“I won’t be this helpless forever, little maid.”
London, 1804
Ethan deBeau, Viscount Danforth, hated being a drunkard.
The occupation enjoyed none of the creature comforts to which he was accustomed. Indeed, for the past hour, he had been forced to lounge on the hard ground, propped against a gnarled tree, in too-tight clothes that reeked of unwashed flesh and stale liquor. And if that weren’t enough, his surveillance position was directly above a rather active anthill.
Once Lord Somerton appointed him Chief of the Nexus, Ethan would never again have to fend off insects, sit on the hard ground, or warm a woman’s bed for the sole purpose of coaxing information from her. Of course, not being in the field meant long hours behind a desk, reading mounds of reports, and attending meeting after meeting. He wasn’t sure which would be worse—the ants or the paperwork.
One niggling thought caused his pulse to jump. He didn’t know his competition for the job. The Nexus was so shrouded in secrecy that one agent could be dancing with another and not even know it. He knew the identities of only two agents. Others he suspected, but it wasn’t as though he could work the question into a conversation. What would he say?
Hello, I’m an agent with the Nexus. My specialty is seducing information from women and retrieving prisoners of war. What’s yours?
And when the person looked at him with a blank stare, it’s not as if he could enlighten them.
Never
heard
of
the
Nexus? We’re a secret section of the Foreign Office attempting to prevent Napoleon from taking over the world. Like to
join us?
At that precise moment, a larger, more inquisitive ant raced along his inner thigh, heading straight for his groin. He flicked it off, the movement jarring his too-large pilfered hat, so that it now blocked his view of the boys’ home. He swiped his hand across his forehead, pushing his hat back into position. The moment he could see again, he noticed a child emerging from the lower-level servant’s entrance of the Abbingale Home for Displaced and Gifted Boys, also known as the Home or Abbingale. The boy, perhaps seven or eight years old, scrambled up the stairs to street level, then took off.
Ethan raised a half-empty bottle of gin to his lips while he followed the boy’s zigzag progress down White Horse Lane. Once the child disappeared into the crowd, Ethan turned back to the boys’ home and continued to mentally catalog every rippling curtain, passing silhouette, inquiring vendor. He noted anything and everything of possible interest and would sort through the morass tonight.
As soon as he understood Abbingale’s daily operation, he would make plans to penetrate the home, search for Giles Clarke, and extract him. He had never heard of the boy until a sennight ago, when his dying mother had begged the Nexus to rescue her son. And so they would, even though settling domestic issues was not one of the agency’s objectives.
The Nexus’s main purpose was more far-reaching. Some would say far more important than saving a single child. Operating under the auspice of the Alien Office, a little-known section of the Foreign Office, Nexus secret service agents worked tirelessly to prevent Napoleon Bonaparte from breaching England’s shores.
He would see to the boy’s safety—assuming he was inside Abbingale—and then return to discover why a murdered Nexus agent mentioned Abbingale Home in one of his last coded messages.
A black carriage, with a driver in front and two footmen hanging onto the back, rolled to a halt outside Abbingale. Ethan’s senses perked up, even while his body slouched farther into its uncomfortable pose. The footmen jumped down, one running to help his employer alight and the other to rap on the door.
Through the carriage window, Ethan glimpsed two feminine profiles before their shadowy figures slipped out of sight. They reappeared a few seconds later, ascending the front steps. The women were opposites in every way. One stood several inches above the other, with dark hair, square shoulders, and clothes stylish enough to grace any
ton
drawing room, while the shorter blond wore more sedate clothing and clutched a notebook to her chest.
The door swung open, and the women strode inside. Ethan’s gaze shifted to the bewigged footmen, who appeared, from this distance, to be a perfectly matched pair. Handsome, too.
Bravo
, he thought. Accomplishing such a difficult feat assured their mistress a place of envy amongst the hostesses of her set. Why the wealthy put so much stock into something of so little consequence, Ethan didn’t know. But then again, he had once spent an entire sennight searching for a matching pair of bays to complement his new phaeton.
When the footmen put their heads together in conversation, Ethan slung his knapsack over his shoulder and rolled to his feet. He paused to draw hard on his gin bottle before toddling across the cobbles toward them in an uneven line. The more clean-shaven of the two footmen noticed his approach and eyed him like one would a rabid animal.
Ethan stubbed his toe on a nonexistent stone, making a big show of catching his balance. “Damn me, who put that there?” He glanced around while grumbling to himself and scratching the back of his head.
The eagle-eyed footman finally decided he posed no threat and rejoined his companion. After a couple more tottering steps, Ethan came within hearing distance.
“My bones hurt,” the stubble-faced footman said.
His partner sent him a sharp glance. “How long?”
“Not quite sure,” stubble man said. “You know how it is.”
“Perhaps you could make a guess.”
“No need to get testy, Mac. The pain started gradual-like. Sometimes it’s there for a while before my brain registers the discomfort.”
Eagle-eyed Mac sighed. “When did you first notice your bones, Mick?”
“When we were leaving the agency.”
Mac glanced up at the Abbingale’s facade. “You should have told me before now, dammit.”
Ethan veered around the two men and stumbled up onto the foot pavement, belting back a drink and swaying to the side.
“What?” Mick asked. “You think you could have stopped her?”
“That’s not the point. I could have warned her to stay alert.”
“Do you even realize what you’re saying?” Mick asked. “Have you ever known Miss Hunt—”
A
shhh
-ing sound stopped stubble man mid-sentence.
“Right.” Mick glanced around. “Have you ever known
her
to go into a situation with blinders on? Get your head out of your heart, brother.”
“My head is exactly where it needs to be,” Mac said in a lethal tone. “As will be my fist, if you don’t shut your trap.”
“There’s nothing that can come of it. You’d be better off paying more attention to the looks Amelia keeps giving you.”
“Amelia, is it?”
Mick’s mouth curled into a roguish smile. “Since you weren’t interested, I’ve become quite friendly with the wee assistant. Sweet thing.”
Mac stepped forward. “Keep your filthy hands off Mrs. Cartwright.”
“You can’t have them both.”
Hoping the footmen would continue their conversation, Ethan plopped down on Abbingale’s steps and curled up in a nap-worthy ball. His new position shook things up a bit, causing him to burp loudly. Gin fumes stung his nostrils. The two brothers on the verge of a nice bout of fisticuffs turned to him. Both had the same rugged features highlighted by the lightest blue eyes he’d ever seen. They were indeed perfectly matched. Twins.
“Here now.” Mick grabbed Ethan’s arm. “You can’t bed down there.”
Ethan knocked his hand away. “I’ll cut ye heart out if ye try to steal me medicine again.”
“Medicine.” Mac snorted in disgust. “We don’t want your damned gin.” He moved to the other side.
Strong hands clasped Ethan by his upper arms and yanked him into a standing position.
“Good God, man,” Mick said. “Are you drinking your spirits or bathing in them?”
“Let me go, ye bleeders. Ye got no cause to send me on me way.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mac said.
“Can’t have you blocking our mistress’s way when she comes out,” Mick said. “Besides, don’t want you scaring any of the children.”
They half dragged, half carried him several feet away before propping him up against the building next door. “Too fine a lady to walk around?” Ethan mumbled, checking to make sure he still had his knapsack.
“The very finest,” Mac said.
Mick tugged on Ethan’s coat at various places, presumably to make him more presentable. “Sober up first, my friend,” he said with a pat to Ethan’s shoulder.
Ethan frowned, not understanding the footman’s advice. “First for what?”
But the stubble-faced footman only winked at him before they resumed their positions near the carriage. Beneath the rim of his hat, Ethan studied the footmen, marveling at their firm, yet respectful care of him. They obviously held their mistress—Miss Hunt—in high regard. Every time they spoke of her, their voices took on a reverent tone.
Abbingale’s entrance door opened and the estimable Miss Hunt and her assistant swept through the opening. Halfway down the steps, Miss Hunt’s gaze found her footmen, and she sent them one hard shake of her pretty head. The action struck a discordant note with Ethan, but he was at a loss as to say why.
From his new vantage point, Ethan affirmed his earlier assessment of the lady and developed some new ones. High cheekbones, black eyebrows above emerald eyes, and a strong, yet feminine jawline made her an intriguing contrast to many of England’s delicate, oval-faced beauties. Even though she wore a high-necked gown and pelisse, one could not miss the elegant quality of her statuesque frame. She not only walked with a confident stride, she gazed into a man’s eye with absolutely no timidity. Like she was doing with him right now.
Recognition struck Ethan sharply in the chest. His path had crossed with hers once before. But where? The answer danced just out of range, then disappeared altogether.
The woman raised a brow, and Ethan realized he’d been staring. Cursing beneath his breath, he blinked owlishly. “Ye gents didn’t tell me yer lady was so buxom. I wouldn’t have been so easily removed.” He produced another belch for good measure.
She slashed another glance at her eagle-eyed footman, who shrugged his shoulders. “Come along, Mrs. Cartwright.”
The assistant nodded, and the women started down the steps.
“Mrs. Henshaw, your gloves.” An older woman emerged from Abbingale’s entrance door, holding out a pair of kidskin gloves to… Miss Hunt.
Ethan’s gaze sharpened and he saw Miss Hunt’s hard features transform into a vapid expression he’d seen a hundred times in ballrooms across London.
“Oh, dear me,” Miss Hunt tittered. “I would have been quite distraught without my favorite pair of kids.”
Ethan cast a brief glance to the footmen standing at the bottom of the steps. Mac’s stony expression revealed nothing, as usual; however, his brother seemed to be holding back a smile.
“Thank you, Mrs. Drummond.” Miss Hunt’s assistant accepted the gloves from the older woman and handed them to her mistress.
Miss Hunt clasped her kids to her chest and flashed a brilliant smile at the older woman. “Good day, Mrs. Drummond. I shall see you again soon.”
“We look forward to your return, Mrs. Henshaw.”
Twirling about, Miss Hunt led the way to the carriage. Once the women were settled inside, Mac secured the steps and closed the door. Within seconds, the carriage lurched forward and the footmen jumped onto the rear. As they passed, Mick gave Ethan a jaunty salute.
Ethan swiped his nose.
Mick laughed.
After following the carriage’s progress for a while, Ethan glanced back at the Home. What he saw there surprised him. The older woman—Mrs. Drummond—watched Miss Hunt’s conveyance roll away with something akin to hatred sparkling in her eyes.
What exactly was going on? A footman in love with two women, a well-dressed lady whose business at the boys’ home upset the staff? A lady who also answered to two names? What did her footmen need to warn her about?
Any other mission, Ethan would dismiss the incident and refocus on his original assignment. But his ultimate target was more than likely linked to this place, which meant Ethan had to follow every possible trail. Besides, he wanted to know where he’d come across Miss Hunt before. Her name—or names—wasn’t at all familiar. Something about her features had sparked an air of familiarity, one he would attempt to connect with again.
Ethan turned to gauge the carriage’s location and cringed at how far it had traveled. Time to go. He would return to Abbingale tomorrow.
Careful not to break his cover, he took another drink of his gin and got to his feet, readjusting his knapsack over his shoulder. The older woman’s malevolent gaze shot to his location, and Ethan raised his near-empty bottle in her direction.
The woman squared her shoulders and sniffed the air as if she’d caught scent of something offensive before pivoting to reenter Abbingale. She shut the door with ominous finality.
Feeling a sense of urgency now, Ethan wove his way down the foot pavement, stopping occasionally to scratch an inappropriate area or to cough up a disturbing amount of phlegm. A few minutes later, he straightened his spine, tossed his bottle in a bush, and laid his coat across a bedraggled woman curled up beneath a lamppost.
He quickened his step. When Miss Hunt’s carriage turned a corner, he changed his stride to a full-out run. His hat flew off, and he tightened his grip on his knapsack’s strap. Rounding the corner, he came to an abrupt and jarring halt. Miss Hunt’s carriage sat idle in the lane, waiting for traffic to clear.
Ethan searched for a doorway, a cart, a building, anything large enough to hide his big frame. He started for a nearby alleyway when the sound of his name stopped him cold.
“Danforth,” an incredulous voice said, “is that you, old boy?”
Equal parts relieved and frustrated, Ethan considered ignoring the Marquess of Shevington. The gentleman’s slurred words were a testament to too much drink and not enough sleep. Knowing Shev, he probably hadn’t slept at all and would likely not even recall hailing Ethan ten minutes from now.