A Spy's Honor (19 page)

Mary the Brave heeded the call and turned back, snatching a cup from the work table as she left. John remained still, especially when she didn’t close the door behind her. Soon enough she returned, tossing a furry bundle into the room. As she closed the door John heard her say, “Yer dinner’s in there, Tom. Have at it.”

Tom had no trouble finding his “dinner.” He walked straight toward John, his feline eyes sharp. John held out his hand, and after a prolonged sniff the cat readily submitted to a pet.

“You’re a fine fellow, Tom. Though I cannot be your dinner, this should do nicely for you.” John tossed the cat a few ham scraps that had been left on a plate before making his way through the adjacent room and into a corridor.

A green baize door was ahead, at the top of a short flight of stairs. John pushed through it and finally found himself in the main part of the house, behind another staircase. He stayed still for a moment, listening. Someone, most likely a footman, should be stationed near the front door, awaiting the return of his lordship.

Ah, there it was: the slow, breathy sound of a man dozing. John inched along the wall and peered through the wrought iron railing of the stairs. A strapping footman, his eyes closed, head leaning against the wall, sat in an alcove near the front door.

John glanced down. The staircase was carpeted. Good, since he needed to go up. With one last look at the sleeping footman, he started up the stairs, making certain his boots landed lightly on the carpet. Once at the top he tried the first door he came to and slipped inside.

He found himself in a drawing room but left as quickly as he’d come, hurrying through two more doors until he stood in a small passage at the back of the house. There was a staircase ahead of him and a door to his right. He tried the door. Locked.

He reached into his pocket for the hairpin he’d brought, pausing before inserting it into the lock. The silver pin was unadorned, nothing special, except that it had once belonged to Claire. In the chaos of kissing her in that carriage five years ago, the pin had ended up stuck in his coat. Instead of giving it back, he’d taken it with him to the Continent.

Flipping it in his hand, he sighed. Knowing Claire, she would be inordinately proud to know how useful her hairpin had been in the war effort.

She would never know, though.

He inserted the pin and gave it a deft twist. Within seconds he was inside Romford’s study, the door closed and locked behind him. Using a tinderbox from the mantel, he lit the candle stub he had brought with him and went straight to Romford’s desk.

The man could not be considered methodical. Letters, scraps of foolscap, pens, ledgers, even a half-eaten biscuit lay strewn across the oak desktop as if they had washed ashore after a storm. Still, after inspecting each item, John returned it carefully to its former haphazard position.

Though some of the scraps of paper were clearly drafts of speeches Romford intended to make in the House of Lords, most focused on taxes and government bonds—important issues, but not what John was searching for. So he delved into the drawers, none of which were locked. A diary lay in the top one.

After pausing a moment to ensure the household sounds hadn’t changed, he paged through the diary. It appeared Romford wrote down dates and times of meetings with fellow Lords and MPs and then afterwards penned a brief description of what was discussed. From the topics, John could see that Romford leaned toward the radical side, meeting frequently with Lord Stretton and even occasionally with Kensworth, often discussing parliamentary reforms. But Romford’s opinions, at least according to what he wrote, seemed level-headed and not particularly inflammatory. He seemed to have a healthy respect for the prime minister, Liverpool, even though they were on opposite sides of the political landscape.

John was about to return the diary to the drawer when one of the dates registered in his brain. He returned to the entry for April sixth and found Romford had recorded a meeting with Stretton, wherein they had discussed the Gagging Acts at an inn on the northern outskirts of London.

Stretton had lied to John. That was…interesting.

As he contemplated the words written in Romford’s sloppy script, a raucous commotion erupted outside the study. Feet pounded up stairs, doors opened and closed. Someone shouted, “The tea! Don’t forget the tea.”

Spurred to action, John replaced the diary and stole toward the door. He turned the key carefully and eased it open a sliver. Servants were running everywhere.

Lord and Lady Romford must be returned.

Though he’d long ago purged the cowardly blood running through his veins, his stomach always gave a little rumble of protest when his assignment intensified. Which made escaping all the more thrilling.

He closed and locked the study door once again. Then, despite his galloping heartbeat, he extinguished his candle and smiled. The window it would be.

The latch opened easily and he leaned out, already aware of what awaited him. He was two floors up and there was only a thin casement surrounding the window. As the study was at the back of the house, there wasn’t much in the way of a ledge or other ornamentation upon which to gain a foothold, but there was a short slanted overhang that shielded the rear door from the elements. Only trouble was, this small roof was off to the right.

John swung both legs over the window sill. The noise from within the house had dulled to a quiet bustle, meaning Romford and his wife were probably inside now.

Shoving against the sill, he leapt toward the gable. His feet hit the slick slate, and he bent his knees and in one motion pushed off toward the ground. Tucking in his shoulder, he rolled a few yards across the damp earth and then bounded to his feet. A mad dash got him through the garden gate within seconds.

“You there! What are you about?” a groom shouted after him.

Head bent, John raced down the mews. He’d surprised the youth into immobility at first, but the boy gave chase. John’s lead was too much, however, and once he zigzagged through the connecting lanes, he lost the groom.

Though he wouldn’t have minded running the rest of the way to Grosvenor Square, he slowed to a walk when he reached the main street. It was late, but not nearly late enough for the streets to be empty.

Despite the exhilarating events of the evening, John’s mood quickly descended into one of reflection. When he had spoken to Stretton the previous evening, the older man claimed to have returned to London on Tuesday, April eighth. According to Romford’s diary, the two peers had met on the sixth of April.

Why would Stretton have lied about when he returned to Town? Was he involved with the plan to assassinate Liverpool? He certainly had the radical credentials. The very idea made John’s head ache—and perhaps pricked his heart as well. He had always admired Stretton. Now he would have to investigate the man further.

After climbing the rear garden wall of Allerton House, he sneaked around to the side. A window near the servant’s staircase was almost always left open.

Chapter Fourteen

Claire slipped her arms into her striped wrapper and cinched the tie snugly. She couldn’t sleep, so she made her way to the kitchen to sneak a bun. Not that eating had ever succeeded in assuaging a single one of her emotions.

Which currently were guilt and shock. Stephen’s unspoken revelation had stunned her. He loved her. She’d seen it in his eyes. When had that happened? Had she been blind to it from the day he proposed, or was this new?

The guilt came from not loving him back. He was so worthy of her love. How could her heart be so stingy as to deny it to him? But deny him it did. Even employing her sister’s tactic in kissing him hadn’t changed her body’s indifference.

She took a bite out of the bun and hoisted her lamp as she climbed the back staircase. If she couldn’t return Stephen’s love, or his passion, she needed to think about the wisdom of marrying him. No good choices were open to her. It wouldn’t be fair to marry him if she didn’t love him. Yet, crying off would ruin him—emotionally, socially, politically. His newly minted aristocratic family hadn’t the wherewithal to endure a scandal.

Halfway up the second flight of steps, an eerie creak splintered the nighttime silence. Scraping and scuffing ensued, and she whirled to find John clambering through the landing window. He straightened, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

“Where have you been? Why are you returning through the window?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I went for a walk. To think things over. I knew the staff had probably retired for the night, so I decided not to disturb anyone and used the window.”

She’d heard better lies from her nephew Marden. Claire descended a few steps and raised the lamp. “You look much disheveled for merely walking. Did you lose your cravat along the way?”

Indeed, his coat was rumpled and a streak of dirt marred his sleeve, but more than anything she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his bare throat, which the missing cravat should cover. If it wasn’t for that dirt and the clump of grass in his hair, she might think he’d been having a rendezvous with a woman.

“John?”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and then down.

His behavior was most odd. Skulking about in the night. Whereabouts and activities on the Continent unknown. A mangled hand. A former position at the Foreign Office. Fluency in multiple languages. Seemingly playing roles after a long absence. All of this coalesced in her brain in less than thirty seconds.

“You were a spy.” She narrowed her eyes. “But surely you aren’t spying in England?”

His posture shifted, his expression loosened. He was someone else now. “Fanciful Claire,” he drawled.

She was done with games, took two more steps down. “Will you lie to me again?”

He straightened his spine and set his features, John once more. After a moment’s hesitation he shook his head ever so slightly. “No, I won’t, but I cannot speak to you of my work.”

“I don’t care.” She didn’t. Relief and happiness mingled and bubbled up inside her. John wasn’t a shiftless layabout. He had continued his work for the government, albeit in a different form. “I could not quite reconcile the idea of your idling away your time while a war raged on the same continent.”

That brought out a smile. “I had gathered as much from your interrogations.”

It was just like him to go off and discreetly continue working for the country. He preferred standing away from the crowd but that did not change his desire to do right, as he had done when he’d quietly stepped forward and whisked her away to Scotland. She found it a rather admirable trait—though she did not appreciate the lying that seemed to accompany his occupation.

Despite his teasing, she felt she owed him an apology. “I apo—”

“No, don’t.” The glimmer vanished from his eyes, leaving them darker, more intense. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

***

Claire.
John couldn’t look away from her. She stood on the landing of the back staircase, a lamp in one hand, a bun in the other. Her wrapper might once have been tied tightly around her waist, but her exertions up and down the stairs must have loosened it for her lawn nightgown peeked through. Pulled into a loose queue, gloriously sleek coffee-colored hair framed her surprised face. God, he’d been so stupid to walk away from her. If only he could have a second chance…

“You are a man of many secrets. The quiet ones always are.”

Ha, there were secrets even he himself didn’t know. Such as, why did he want Claire so much? But how was he supposed to stand mere inches away from her in a darkened corner of the house in the middle of the night and
not
want to push her against the wall and kiss her until she moaned?

“Secrets aren’t meant to be shared,” he said, hoping she would take his meaning and scurry off to bed.

Bed.
Best not dwell on that overlong.

Her eyes sparkled now, and she was almost dancing about in her slippers. The wrapper loosened even more. “I will say nothing. But…is there any way I can help?”

Oh, God. He did not need Claire involved. He needed distance from her, not shared secrets. She had pulled her lower lip in, probably attempting to contain her eagerness. This was the Claire of the past, the animated, carefree girl he had fallen in love with on that carriage ride toward Scotland. He couldn’t crush her spirit any more than he could stop loving and desiring her despite her hulking fiancé.

“If I find myself in need of your assistance, I won’t hesitate to ask. Although, I daresay my superiors would not approve.”

She stepped closer and clutched his arm. “Truly? You would let me help you?”

Where had the bun gone? She was too near—and too alive. Why didn’t he have it in him to spurn her request with an unkind reply that would cause her to leave in a huff? “At the moment I don’t see what you could possibly do, but I will not forget your offer.”

She was staring at his neck again, or perhaps it simply pained her own neck to look any higher. “John…”

They had been speaking in relatively low voices all along, but now she whispered. His muscles clenched at the breathy sound of his name on her lips. He voluntarily tightened them further, trying not to move, desperate to remain honorable and not ravish her.

Then she rose on her tiptoes, and with those plump, pink lips ascending toward him, he could resist no longer. He lowered his head and met her soft mouth halfway.

Again, she offered no resistance. Again he took advantage, pulling her closer and yet pressing them both against the wall behind her. The lamp she carried clanked against the paneling. Neither of them paid it any heed. John urged her lips apart with his tongue; Claire slid her cool fingers up the length of his neck and drew him closer still.

Having gained what he’d desired most—a soft, willing Claire in his arms—John reined in his passion by a degree or two and took the time to explore the woman before him. She tasted of cinnamon and no longer kissed like a novice. Her fingers slid through the hair at the back of his head, her tongue fenced with his, and her glorious body arched into him.