I Spy a Duke (26 page)

 
Dropping his hand, Vivian took a seat on the black cushioned bench, unbuttoning the tiny fasteners on her walking boots. As she did so, her eyelids drooped, her shoulders slumping. Guilt plagued him. The last thing she needed was him acting like a stallion sensing a mare in heat.
 

“I’ll get Northley.”
 

She let out another yawn, louder this time, as he stepped out into the hall. Within a few minutes, he’d managed to locate the maid and send her back to their room. He remained in the parlor, going over the files he’d brought with him on different Clocktower cases, until enough time had passed that Vivian should be ready for bed.
 

When he reentered the room, she was curled up underneath the covers, sound asleep. After changing into his own nightclothes, he crawled into bed next to her.
 

He brushed a kiss across her cheek and turned over, blowing out the candle. He’d attempt sleep, though he had no real hope it would come to him.
 

Tomorrow he’d confess everything to her—and hope to God she understood.

When he awoke the next morning, his arm was slung about Vivian’s waist, his right leg swung over the top of hers. The faint scent of roses drifted from her blonde locks splayed out across her pillow. How did she smell so good after a day’s worth of traveling? He doubted he smelled as fresh, after helping Nixon to fix the carriage wheel.
 

Her scent was doing wicked things to him. Making him far too aware of the lushness of her curves, the way her body fit against his like the perfect key to his locked up heart. He swallowed, trying to will his erection down. Yet he couldn’t help himself—snuggled up to her, he felt he was right where he should have been all along.
 

He hugged her tighter to him. She dozed peacefully, her breathing steady. A primal part of him recognized that as an achievement. His woman slept soundly by his side, confident that he could protect her from harm. She’d felt safe in his embrace. Comfortable.

Would she still feel so content when he told her the truth?

He grimaced, that reminder dimming his sultry thoughts. He’d always considered it a point of pride that he’d never had to reveal his real identity to an asset. There were missions that required such exchanges of information, but his cover had always been deemed too valuable to expose. But such competence in his profession meant he had no point of reference for a conversation like this. Every opening line he thought of sounded trite to his ears.
 

Gently, he extricated himself from the bed, careful not to disturb her. His arousal would decrease, as long as he kept away from her. By the time she awoke, he’d be able to look her in the eye without his mind being a lust-addled jumble.

The main bedroom had no windows, which made it easier to guard but much harder to ascertain the time of day without the rays of sunlight. He lit the candle by the bed, looping his thumb in the handle of the brass chamber candlestick and carrying it over to the dresser. He did a double take as he caught sight of the clock face.

Six in the morning.

He’d slept until dawn. Christ, he hadn’t done that since Louisa’s death. Setting the candlestick down on top of the dresser, he tunneled his fingers through his hair, trying to remember if he’d stirred at all during the night. He couldn’t recall dreaming. Only the soothing blackness of night, the reassuring hum of Vivian’s breathing.
 

He spun around, facing the bed again. Lost in slumber, she looked almost angelic, her golden hair a halo. Yet he knew her to be more salacious than her appearance dictated, and he found himself loving the real version of her far more than the visage. Her hand curled around the counterpane, the sapphire ring on her finger flashing in the candlelight. He didn’t need a ring to mark the claim she had on him. She’d done what no other woman before her had managed. She’d broken through his carefully constructed walls.
 

And that scared the devil out of him.

He allowed himself one last look before turning back around. Sliding the dresser drawer slowly to minimize the noise, he pulled out his clothes for the day. He dressed behind the privacy screen, not wanting to shock her in case she awoke. Without a valet, his toilette was much simpler by necessity.
 

He pressed his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss to Vivian’s sleeping form, then crept from the room.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

James didn’t see Vivian until after breakfast. He’d spent the early hours with Nixon, going over potential scenarios of attack. On the very remote possibility that the bastard managed to locate their safe house, they’d be prepared to fight Sauveterre. Between Nixon, Arden, and himself, he felt confident that they’d be able to defend Vivian. Still, he would remain vigilant. Never again would he underestimate his opponent.

When he came back to the house, he followed the sound of voices to the parlor. Vivian was talking with Arden, a steaming cup of tea in her hand. For a second, he stood in the doorway, observing their interaction. Vivian smiled, laughing at something Arden said. He loved the way she laughed—freely, unrestrained, so genuine. He’d forgotten what it meant truly to laugh without a gambit to follow until she’d sauntered into his life.

Arden caught his eye, raising one brow in question. He nodded, and her grin widened.

“James, do come here,” she called. “We were discussing Robert Burns’s poetry, particularly
Auld Lang Syne
. I’m sure Vivian would love to hear your diatribe.”

Grimacing, James sat down on the couch next to Vivian. “The man can’t write.”

“Really? I thought it was quite lovely.” Vivian chuckled, resting her hand on top of his. The ease of her gesture soothed him—she was comfortable around him. Comfort he was about to destroy.

“Burns took much of the first verse from James Watson.” He spoke without passion, unable to summon up the energy that normally accompanied this lecture. “And Lord knows who Watson took his from; as yet another version of the poem was compiled by Allan Ramsay. I detest how Burns has made his fame off the work of others.”

Arden and Vivian continued discussing Burns’s work, but even the prospect of ranting against his least favorite poet could not interest him when his chance for a happy existence might shatter in a few moments. These last few days with Vivian had given him hope that maybe they could have a marriage based on more than friendship. He wanted that with every fiber of his being.

His right leg jiggled as he sat on the couch, his foot tapping against the carpet. He couldn’t be still. Vivian’s hand had not moved from his left knee, yet her touch did not reassure him as it usually did, for it reminded him of how relaxed she’d become around him. Was all that about to change? He rubbed at the back of his neck. Kept his eyes on the clock, ticking away the minutes until he could get Vivian alone.
 

Finally, when five minutes had passed and still they showed no signs of stopping their conversation about literature, he cleared his throat, interrupting them. They both turned as one to look at him.
 

“Would you mind giving us a minute alone, Arden?” His voice came out smooth, but his hands were clammy.
 

Christ, he’d faced off unarmed against four assassins with less tension. Still his heart thumped against his chest.

“I told Nixon I’d help him with the horses, anyhow.” Arden directed an inquisitive glance at him, but she stood up, smoothing her hand down her skirt.
 

Once Arden closed the door to the parlor, he turned on the couch so that he faced Vivian. But that didn’t help. All he could think about was how her eyes met his, such trust in her expression. He didn’t merit her faith. He jumped up from the couch. His boots ground into the carpet as he paced the width of the room.
 

Vivian’s teacup clinked against her saucer as she set it down. The sound made him turn his head, but he did not stop moving.
 

Her brows furrowed. “What’s wrong, James? Have you found Sauveterre?”

That would have been an easier conversation. Locate the target. Identify their weakness. Strike in an opportune manner. He was trained for that.
 

Honesty was another matter entirely. Already, he could think of seven convincing falsehoods that would ensure she fancied him. For too long he’d been cowardly, hiding behind lies because the truth was more complicated and unpleasant.

But it was not just about him. Vivian deserved to know that her brother had died protecting the nation. He hadn’t told her when they were at Abermont House because the servants could easily overhear. Here in Guildford, in the middle of the bloody forest, he didn’t have that pretext.

 
“When I married you, I promised I’d honor you. You deserve the truth, or as much as I can tell you without endangering your life or the lives of others.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t understand.”
 

He forced himself to slow. To face her. “What I’m about to tell you, you can’t tell
anyone
, do you understand me?”
 

Her eyes tapered. “Who would I tell?”
 

“
Touché
.” He crossed to the couch, but he did not sit, too restless for such torpor. “In my investigation into Sauveterre, I have come upon information about your brother.”

“Evan?” She leaned forward, the anxiety in her features replaced by eagerness. “Do you know why he was in Seven Dials that night?”

“I do.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Evan was a courier for the Alien Office. He relayed documents or messages from one place to the next.”

“A courier for the Alien Office?” She repeated, blinking up at him. “The Alien Office keeps records of all foreigners who enter the country. Why would they have business in the rookeries?”

This was the part of every interaction with an asset he hated—when he was about to turn their world inside out. But Vivian wasn’t just an asset he could forget about once the mission was over.
 

Whether she wanted to be or not after this conversation, she was in his life forever.
 

He took a deep breath. “Because that’s not all the Alien Office does. After the revolution in France, all espionage personnel were routed through the Alien Office, under the control of William Wickham.”
 

Her jaw fell. “Espionage? Are you saying Evan was a
spy
?”

He leaned against the arm of the couch, wanting to stay near to her, yet still trying to respect her space. “That is exactly what I am saying.”

“No, no, that can’t be true,” she sputtered. “Evan worked for Hoare’s Bank. He got the job because I wanted to relocate to London. If I hadn’t asked him to move to Town, he’d still be alive today.”

If nothing else good came from tonight, at least he could persuade her she wasn’t responsible for her brother’s death.

“Your desire to move was but a happy coincidence, for the Alien Office had already recruited your brother,” he said. “All those trips he made for the bank he worked at when you were in Devon.”
 

Recognition dawned in her eyes. She remembered her brother’s travels; now he simply had to give her the rest of the pieces to put the puzzle together.
 

“Just as he did in Devon, Wickham used Evan’s banking career as a cover for their missions. I began to suspect it as soon as I saw how many of Evan’s trips overseas overlapped with known Alien Office missions.”