In Bed with a Spy (19 page)

“T
HEY DIDN’T MAKE
you feel uncomfortable, did they?” Angel leaned into the open door of the Fairchild carriage. The lights of the opera house blazed behind him.

“Not at all.” Lilias settled back against the seat. It sighed beneath her. “But they tread lightly around you.”

“What?” His brows jerked up. “Me?” The door was just barely wide enough for his shoulders. He blocked out the front of the opera house, the porter, the theater-goers as he leaned in.

“Yes. They are afraid for you.” She tugged at her opera gloves. They were beginning to slide down her forearms. An inferior cut, she decided. “They are afraid something will happen to you before the title is secure. They are afraid of you being a spy—which they are quite aware of, even if they pretend they are not. And they hurt for you because of whatever pain you hold inside you.”

He said nothing. Only continued to lean part in, part out of the open carriage door.

“I’m not afraid for you, Angelstone. Or of you. Whatever dark place you have, I have it, too.” Why she was irritated by this subject she could not say. She thumped her fist on the front panel of the carriage to signal the coachman. The horses jerked in their harnesses, ready. “Now, get out of my carriage.”

He surged forward. His hand cupped the back of her head. Lips met hers. Hard and possessive and full of heat. Her hand fisted in his cravat. She wanted to make love to him. Here, in the carriage. Now. He could join her under the pretext of escorting her home.

But it wasn’t that simple.
They
were not that simple. It had gone beyond the mindless give-and-take, the mindless need. She could feel his anger, his desperation as he captured her mouth and consumed her as though this kiss were a final good-bye and he must take the memory with him forever. Her heart trembled, her breath hitched as that desperation seeped into her.

He let her go with a final nip at her bottom lip. The door snapped shut without even a semblance of good-bye. She exhaled. One long, full breath. All that hunger and need translated to a marvelous kiss. The kind that took a lady’s breath and scattered it.

The carriage began to roll. She sank into the cushions and watched London pass her window. She was becoming far too attuned to Angel. His moods, his emotions, even his slight irritations. She wondered if he was becoming accustomed to hers. And what did that mean?

His family was quite protective. But she supposed they would be. Three direct males to inherit the title but only one survives—and that one is a spy. Not particularly good odds for keeping the line intact. And they were all dependent on him to some degree.

She hadn’t realized the level of his family commitment. The affection had been clear in his tone, his teasing. It was a level she hadn’t thought of. He was, to her, a spy. The man with a family of females clamoring after him was someone she hadn’t known existed.

The carriage rumbled to a halt with a muttered “whoa” from the driver’s perch above. Lilias frowned. It was too soon to be back at Fairchild House. She hadn’t been paying attention, but she was certain not enough time had passed.

She pushed the curtain aside. Beyond the window, shadowed buildings rose above the street. Curtains hid the candlelit interiors so that she could not judge the quality of the neighborhood. She didn’t recognize the street. It was shabbier than the fashionable districts. Broken wrought iron fences grinned at her like mouths with missing teeth. She could wait and see, she supposed. No doubt it was a lame horse, or—no. They should not even be here. They were in the wrong part of town and stopping when they had no reason to stop.

Her brows snapped together. She half rose from the seat and pushed open the carriage door. Peering out, she searched the shadows for any threat.

Nothing. Only darkness punctuated with squares of light and the sound of faraway voices. The shadow of another carriage rolled away down the street.

Crack!
A gunshot rent the air. Horses whinnied and the carriage lurched. Lilias fell back against the seat in a jumble of skirts and lace. An involuntary shriek ripped from her throat.

Shouts rang out. Running feet pounded the walkway outside. The carriage dipped and someone grunted as they jumped onto the coachman’s box. The sound of flesh pounding flesh thudded above her.

They were being robbed. Footpads. Vagabonds. The driver would be injured. He was young and inexperienced. He was not trained to fight.

Hooves clattered on the cobblestones as the horses bucked in their traces. The carriage rolled back, forward. Pitched. Another shout sounded above, then a dull thump as something heavy fell.

She wasn’t having it. Not her driver. He was her responsibility.

Setting her jaw, Lilias pulled up the seat opposite her. Jeremy’s pistol and a short knife lay hidden beneath the expensive, plush cushion. She had never used the blade. But the knife was sharp, the pistol loaded.

Ignoring the delicacy of her new silk slippers, she kicked open the carriage door and jumped out on the cobblestones. Darting onto the sidewalk, she set her back to the buildings. Her gaze swept across the street, searching for help. No one. Her breath wheezed out. No one but her.

Instinct had her crouching, lining the sight of the pistol as she swung her gaze toward the carriage again. The sound of rending silk followed her. She ignored whatever torn gown or petticoat she’d find in the morning and focused on the moving shadows.

Two men grappled on the box. She couldn’t tell which one was the driver. She couldn’t even guess well enough to take aim.

Leaping forward, she scrambled toward the coach. Muddy water saturated her slippers as she splashed through a puddle. She didn’t notice. Her only goal was the two men.

“Halt!” she cried out.

They didn’t even acknowledge her.

“Damnation.” She leapt forward, intent on climbing up the side of the coach.

Crack!

It wasn’t her pistol.
It was her first thought. When she watched one man atop the box slump and collapse, fear enveloped her. “No!”

It had to be the coachman. He had no training. No experience. He was just a young man, with a new wife—

The sob gathered in her throat, but she jumped back and aimed her pistol at the man still standing. He bent over, riffled through the coachman’s jacket, then stood again. Light flickered over his face, but she could make out nothing aside from a strong jaw.

“Get down from the carriage.” Her voice was cold. Steady, even. Pleased, she bettered her aim. Prepared to shoot. “Now.”

“Ah, Lilias. You are as magnificent tonight as you were at Waterloo.”

“
Damn
—”
She broke off. Her knees sagged in disbelief. She’d expected the criminal to be a stranger. “Angel?”

“Of course.” He bowed, sweeping his arm out as though he were a charming courtier rather than a murderer standing on a carriage seat.

“Did you kill him?” She straightened her arm, aiming the pistol carefully at his heart.

“Yes.”

She swallowed the sob.
The coachman’s poor young wife.
“I’ll kill you for that.”

“Blood-thirsty wench.” He sounded approving. “But I think you’ll find there’s nothing to kill me for.”

He flipped something through the air. Light sparkled over metal before the small object hit the cobblestones at her feet. Keeping the pistol trained on Angelstone, she reached down for the object. Her hand closed around a small metal disc.

She didn’t even have to look. She could feel the engraving against the palm of her hand.

“He is not your driver, Lilias.” Angel jumped down from the carriage, boots landing solidly on the street. “He was an Adder.”

—

“H
E’S GETTING BLOOD
on your carpet.”

Lilias eyed the assassin. He was bound, arms and feet, and lying on the floor of Angel’s study. The Adder wasn’t dead, as Angel had thought. Yet. The bullet was lodged in his side. The wound wasn’t mortal, but without care he would die. She knew it, Angel knew it and so did the assassin.

Black eyes snapped above the gag in the assassin’s mouth. His gaze was as bright with fury as with pain. She turned away.

“Thank you for sending someone to take the coachman home.” Lilias pushed back her cape to work at the fastening at her throat.

“It was sheer luck I saw the assassin push him off the carriage seat.” Angel’s fingers closed around a short crystal glass. He set it in front of him and reached for the brandy decanter. “I’m sorry I was so far away when it happened. I would have caught up with your carriage earlier.” He splashed a significant amount of brandy into the glass.

Lilias raised a brow. “Thirsty?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” But he didn’t drink from the glass. He turned toward the assassin.

“Here.” Angel knelt beside the man and pulled the gag from his mouth. “Brandy.” He held a cup to the man’s mouth.

The assassin turned his head away and cursed. Savagely.

“There’s a lady present, you cur.” Angel cuffed him with the flat of his hand. The assassin sucked in a pained breath.

Pity stirred and Lilias drew a deep breath before burying it. She knew espionage wasn’t pleasant. She’d seen death and pain and suffering herself. It was senseless. And sometimes it was necessary.

“Drink the brandy.” Angel held the glass up. “It will dull your pain a little.”

“And my wits,” the assassin bit out.

“Likely so, with the amount of blood you’ve lost.” Angel tipped the cup against the man’s lips and plugged his nose so he had no choice but to swallow. “We’ll both benefit from the brandy, then.”

While the man sputtered and cursed again, Angel examined the wound with detached scrutiny. The wound was low in his side and bleeding sluggishly now.

“Damn. I aimed for your heart.”

“You need more practice.” The assassin bared his teeth. “You missed.”

“Obviously. From the looks of it, I managed to miss every possible organ.” After a disgusted shake of his head, Angel stood.

It was almost like they were discussing the poor execution of a punch thrown at Gentleman Jackson’s.

“Well, infection might carry you off.” Angel’s conversational tone ceased and his face went hard. “If you’re very lucky.”

Angel moved to the doorway and gestured to her. She threw the assassin one quick look as she crossed to Angel. The Adder’s dark eyes followed her every movement. He licked his bottom lip, one quick dart of the tongue. The hair rose on her neck.

“What do you intend to do to him?” she whispered.

“Ask him a few questions.” Angel paused. “Alone.”

He said it nonchalantly, but he didn’t fool her. She slid her gaze toward the assassin. Now pity did stir in her breast. Whatever he was, he was still a man.

“Don’t kill him.”

“Is that your only qualification?”

“For heaven’s sake—”

“I have questions. He has answers. And he’s an assassin.” His eyes turned to golden chips of amber. Hard. Sharp. “I need to know the name of their leader.”

“I’m aware of that.” Lilias set her hand on his sleeve. “I’m also not idiotic enough to believe he will come through this unscathed.”

“Such calm acceptance of torture.”

“Stop.” It seemed he wanted to antagonize her. She slid her eyes toward the assassin, then back to Angel. “I said, I’m not an idiot. But I don’t have to like it, and I don’t have to condone murder.”

“Then you’ll obtain your wishes, my dear. He’s worth more to me alive than dead.” He shook her hand from his arm and stepped away from her. He was a stranger to her in that moment, as much as the assassin was—and just as dangerous. “Sir Charles will want to question him, in any case.”

He turned, leaving her with nothing but a view of broad shoulders still clad in black evening wear.

She narrowed her eyes as temper spiked. “I’ll wait in the hall.”

Spinning on her heel, Lilias strode from the room to pace in the hall. She didn’t know why he was being an ass. She’d made a simple request. She didn’t whine or nag. She hadn’t cried or thrown herself over the wounded assassin. She’d asked for mercy. No more, no less.

Because if Angel killed him, it would be too much like Jeremy.

A moan escaped through the crack beneath the closed study door. She flinched, then steeled herself against the sound. Truly, she didn’t want to know what was going on behind that door.

But she wondered about the toll it would take on Angel. One couldn’t hurt another person without carving away a piece of one’s humanity. Some part of her had been lost on a field in the Netherlands.

Looking down at her feet, she saw the deep purple slippers were stained with blood. They would never be clean again.

The door opened and Angel stepped out. He looked the same. Expressionless. Merciless. Through the open door behind him, Lilias could see the assassin on the ground, panting, eyes closed. Fresh blood bloomed around his wound. But he was alive. When his eyes flicked open, she saw awareness there. And fear.

“H
E IS STILL
alive and has all his limbs intact,” Angel said. He swept his arm into the room, as though ushering her into something as innocuous as joining him in the drawing room. “Unfortunately, he knows nothing.”

“I beg your pardon?” She moved into the room, her eyes on the assassin.

“He doesn’t know who the leader is.” Rage was a quiet note beneath the words. “He does know how to contact him.”

“That’s something at least.” But very little comfort.

“Jones should have returned. I need to speak with him. I must contact my commander and a surgeon.” His gaze flicked toward the assassin. “In that order,” he added.

“What do you need me to do?” She didn’t want to stand by, useless. She was a target, and she could think of no way forward but to be on the offensive.

Angel gestured to the frivolous purple reticule on the sideboard. Its delicate fringe spilled over her pistol. “I assume it’s loaded?” He picked it up, inspected it.

“Yes.” Her mind was reeling as he handed her the weapon. Her hand was steady as she accepted it. She’d do what needed to be done, and hoped it didn’t involve cold-blooded murder.

“I’ll be back in less than ten minutes. If he moves”—he jerked his head toward the assassin—“shoot him.”

“Of course.” She took aim at the enemy bleeding on the rug. Pity still beat in her, but she supposed that only made her human. The rest of her pulsed with hate and anger. It was not Jeremy on the floor, and yet somehow it was.

The door closed quietly behind Angel. The assassin’s dark eyes darted around the room. A scared rabbit. She narrowed her gaze. But no. He was working at the bindings around his wrist. Subtly. A slight twist. A pull. Ah, not such a scared rabbit.

He did not know the information Angel wanted, however. The leader’s name was still unknown, and from the fresh bloom of blood on his shirt, he would have told Angel if he did. But he must know something. The Death Adders did not work in seclusion. They did not work completely alone. If Angel knew other spies, then this Adder knew other assassins.

And if Jeremy was, indeed, an assassin, then this man might have known him.

Like a sword balancing on its edge, this moment was the tipping point. She could turn away. Leave. She knew enough about Jeremy and his duplicity. Had accepted it. Knowing more was not necessary.

But then she would guess for the rest of her life.

She smiled grimly. “Now that the spy has had his little talk with you, it’s my turn to ask you a few questions.”

“I do not know the man in London. We—we do not—” He broke off. Shook his head as though to clear it, coughed. Not a healthy sound, nor was his gasp of breath. She imagined the wound burned like the devil. But he bore it stoically. She could respect that.

“But I do not care about the man in London. Whether you know his name is irrelevant to me.” Her palm was slick on the butt of the pistol. She couldn’t betray her nerves by even the slightest degree, so she did not even attempt to change hands. “But I do intend to extract information from you.”

The assassin licked his lips. “What can you do to me that he hasn’t done?”

“Besides kill you?” she asked casually, setting one hip on Angel’s wooden desk. She swung her leg gently and contemplated the man bleeding on the rug. “A very good question. I have no training you know, except on the battlefield.”

“The battlefield?” His voice cracked.

“Waterloo. Are you thirsty? Did the brandy’s effects wear off?”

He only watched her.

“Ah. You are thirsty. I can fix that.” She gestured toward the brandy. “For a few answers. I’m not a hard woman.”

His eyes flicked toward the decanter. “What do you want to know?”

“I’d like to know about one of your members. A soldier.” She drew a breath. “Jeremy Fairchild.”

“Yes. I knew him.”

Hope could be a slap in the face. Sharp, sudden, it could steal one’s breath away. She hadn’t realized she still hoped it had all been a mistake. Had she truly believed Jeremy was innocent? She must have. Her fingers spasmed on the pistol, then relaxed again. Hope was a foolish misstep. She should have known better.

The assassin licked his lips again. “The brandy.” His voice was sand over desperate stone.

“Tell me more.” She moved to the sideboard and pulled the stopper from the decanter with one hand while keeping the pistol pointed at him with the other hand. She picked up the decanter by the neck and poured, splashing the liquor over the rim and onto the wooden sideboard.

“There is nothing to tell. Fairchild is dead.” He squirmed, wiggling his hands and feet. Still trying to release those bonds—though she doubted he could. She heard his harsh breath, the pained moan.

She steeled her heart. “Yes. He
is
dead, isn’t he?” She picked up the snifter, set it beneath her nose as if enjoying the scent of wood and caramel and spirits.

“He was my assignment. Mine. The brandy—” He swallowed audibly, strained against his bindings.

“Oh, what luck. Jeremy Fairchild was your assignment.” Pity could be pitiless.
The surgeon will be here. Soon.
He would not die. And the brandy—it was only brandy.

“No one renounces the Death Adders once they are in.”

She jerked, spilling brandy onto the already bloodstained rug. Angel would have to buy another carpet. “Renounce?”

His eyes had followed the drip so that he stared at the floor where it had fallen. She could see the thirst on his face, in the ravaged eyes. He must have lost a lot of blood. He needed water, not liquor. But a man in a desert would drink the sand if that was all he could see. Which meant she had something he desperately wanted.

She swirled the brandy in the glass and lifted it to her lips. Blocking out the craving in his eyes and what it did to her heart, she sipped. “Mmmm. French. And very, very good.”

“What do you want to know?” The man’s voice was steady, but his eyes darted between her lips and the glass.

“I want to know about Fairchild’s leaving the Adders,” she shot out. “Why?”

“He was done. He wanted to retire.” His gaze focused on the glass.

She stepped forward. “Why?” she said again.

“His wife.”

“His wife?” Woodenly, she stared at the assassin. “He wanted to leave because of his wife?”

“He wanted a normal life. The London Adder gave the order for his death after Fairchild gave his notice. He could not be allowed—” He coughed. The jerking movements sent pain shooting across his face. He panted, gasped.

She couldn’t bear it. She knelt and held the glass up to his lips, still keeping the pistol trained on him. He gulped it, and she thought now of a drowning man, instead of one in the desert.

“I’ll see you get water,” she said softly. “You need water.”

“Thank—thank you.” He leaned his head against the floor and closed his eyes. He breathed in and out, slowly. “I remember you from that day at Waterloo. I did not know you were his wife when I saw you on the field.
L’Ange de Vengeance.
”

Lilias pressed her lips together and stood. She set the snifter aside and gripped the pistol tightly. He had not asked a question. So she would not answer.

“But when I saw you a few days ago, when I received the order for your death, I recognized you.” His voice was rough with pain.

Orders for her death. Orders for Jeremy’s death. Sorrow swelled and grew and swamped her. Once, she had believed a person could not survive grief. It had consumed every waking moment. She’d nearly died avenging her husband. Then she’d learned he was an assassin and grief had turned to hate and fury.

She did not know what the horrible pressure in her chest now was caused by. The mix of it was beyond name. Beyond knowing. It simply consumed her. Perhaps she hated Jeremy for deceiving her. Perhaps she hated herself for being blind to his true nature. Perhaps she hated him for dying.

Perhaps she hated him for seeking redemption.

He’d been trying to leave the Adders for her.
For her.
And his killer lay before her. Bound and helpless.

She felt the tears. Hot. Bitter. They swam in her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked them back and ignored the ache in her throat. Ignored the way her chest heaved beneath the smothering storm inside her.

She turned back to the assassin and raised the pistol, aiming it at his head.

“Yes, I was at the Battle of Waterloo.” Behind her, the door opened. She pretended she hadn’t heard the sound. “I was avenging the death of my husband. Jeremy Fairchild.”