In Bed with a Spy (2 page)

July 1817

A
LASTAIR
W
HITMORE,
M
ARQUESS
of Angelstone—code name Angel—coughed into his gloved hand in the hope of discreetly hiding his laugh. A man shouldn’t laugh when a fellow spy was being hunted by a woman.

“Oh, my lord,” the brunette tittered. “Truly, you are a remarkable figure of a man.”

The Earl of Langford—poor hunted bastard—lifted his annoyed gaze over the short matron and met Angel’s eyes. The woman leaned forward, her powdered cleavage pressing against Langford’s arm.

Angel quirked his lips. The brunette’s fawning was highly amusing—since it wasn’t directed at himself.

“If you will excuse me,” Langford said, “I must speak with Lord Angelstone about an urgent matter.”

“Indeed?” Angel didn’t bother to conceal his merriment. “I wasn’t aware we needed to discuss an urgent matter.”

“It has just come to my attention,” Langford ground out. He extricated his sleeve from the woman’s grasping fingers and eased away from her.

“Must you go?” The brunette pouted rouged lips. Feathers trembled on her turbaned head as she sent a coy look toward Langford. “I truly feel we should further our acquaintance, my lord. You have been in the country for
months
.”

“With my
wife
.”

The brunette’s mouth fell open. “But, you are in London. She is not here this evening. I thought—”

“My dear lady,” Angel said smoothly, sliding between the pair. He might as well stage a rescue mission. “As I’m sure you are aware, his lordship has many demands on his time. Not the least being his wife and new daughters.”

“I see.” Without even a single remorseful glance, she turned her back on Langford. Sharp eyes flicked over Angel. Subtle as a stalking elephant. “Well. You are unmarried, Lord Angelstone.”

“Indeed. But alas, I am otherwise engaged for the evening.” Angel raised the woman’s chubby fingers until they were just a breath away from his lips. “A pity, for you would have been a most enchanting diversion.” He wondered if his tongue would turn black after such lies.

“Perhaps another day, Lord Angelstone.” She preened, patting her bosom as though to calm her racing heart. The cloying scent of eau de cologne drifted up, and Angel fought the urge to sneeze.

“Perhaps.” Angel let her fingers slide out of his. He bowed. “Good evening, ma’am.”

As the brunette waddled away, Langford sighed gustily beside him. “A female predator, that one.” He brushed at his coat sleeve. “She was getting powder everywhere.”

Angel smothered a grin. “You’ve been married and ensconced in the country too long, my friend, if you’ve forgotten how our society ladies once adored you.”

“Not as much as they currently adore you.”

“True. A title does that. Now, did you truly have something to discuss?”

“No.” Langford palmed his pocket watch and flipped the lid. He frowned at the small glass face. “But I do intend to make my escape. I’ve had enough weak punch, innuendos and pleasantries for one evening. And Grace is waiting at home.”

“How is your countess?” With a wife such as Langford’s, he could understand the desire to hide in the countryside.

The frown cleared and Langford grinned at Angel. “She is still tired from the birthing, but she shooed me out for an evening when she learned of my assignment.” The watch disappeared into a waistcoat pocket.

“Ah. I wondered if you were here for business or pleasure.”

“A little of each.” Langford’s shoulder jerked up in a half-hearted shrug. His eyes roved the room. “You?”

“The same.” In truth, it was always business. A spy never did anything simply for pleasure.

Angel studied the ballroom. It was an impossible crush. Guests bumped up against one another as they laughed and flirted. Diamonds winked and painted fans fluttered as women entertained suitors and friends. Footmen threaded through the crowd carrying trays of gold champagne and rose-colored punch. Surrounding it all were the subtle notes of a string quartet and the scent of candle wax.

Such was the glittering and dazzling world of the ton. But underneath the gleaming polish of society were passions and intrigue and secrets. It was his mission to seek them out. And beyond his government assignments, beyond the political intrigues, was the enemy who had assassinated a woman four years ago.

His
woman.

Gemma.

Cold anger turned him from the scene. “I believe I may follow your lead and make my escape as well.” He wanted his own hearth, a brandy and his violin. The constant din of voices grated, the endlessly changing pattern of dancers was visually dizzying. He scanned the room once more. A wave of people ebbed and flowed, came together and parted.

And he saw her. No cavalry coat. No sabre. Only a gown of silver netting over white muslin and a painted fan fluttering languidly near her face. No howling battle cry now, only the sensual curving of her lips as she bent her head toward a military officer.

Something clutched inside him as the battleground superimposed itself over the ballroom. Twirling women became French soldiers, stringed instruments became the whistle of a blade. The scent of gunpowder stung his nostrils and the pounding of artillery rang in the air. The scene swirled around the woman, though she was no longer on horseback.

Two years since Waterloo. Two years since he’d seen a bright halo of hair and pitiless eyes full of retribution. He shook his head to will away those memories.

But the woman remained. A bevy of men were gathered around her, jostling for position. Striped waistcoats of the dandies clashed with the brilliant red and dark blue of soldiers’ uniforms. Then, like an echo of his memories, the Duke of Wellington himself approached the woman. She smiled warmly as he bowed over her hand.

The bevy of suitors stepped back in deference to Wellington, leaving him as alone with the woman as two people could be in a crowded ballroom.

“Who is that lady?” Angel spoke softly, nodding toward the woman. “The one talking to Wellington?”

“Lilias Fairchild. Major Jeremy Fairchild’s widow. He was killed at Waterloo.” Langford raised a brow. “Did you know the major?”

“No.” Angel watched Mrs. Fairchild’s fan tap lightly against Wellington’s arm. A sign of affection rather than flirtation. “What do you know of her?”

“Both Grace and I found her pleasant enough, though one can sense a spine of steel beneath the attractive exterior. She’s known for being private, which has only increased the gossips’ chatter.” Langford lowered his voice. “She followed her husband on the march. They say when the major’s body was brought off the field, she was wild with grief. She took her husband’s horse and sabre and joined the battle.”

The gossips were correct. There had been a wildness in her that day. Across the room, her hair caught the light of the candles and turned a bright yellow-gold. “I’m surprised she’s allowed into this ballroom.” A woman on the march with soldiers, one so unladylike as to fight and kill, should be ostracized by society.

“There are some doors closed to her. But with Wellington himself championing her, society as a whole has accepted her.”

“She should have died.” He’d assumed she had. Her face was the clearest recollection he had of that day, and he could not think of the battle without thinking of her. He had never considered she would live, and was vaguely sad to think such a vibrant creature had been struck down. Seeing her alive and whole seemed to defy fate.

“If you ask the troop she marched with, death was her intention,” Langford said softly. “The French called her
L’Ange de Vengeance
.”

Vengeance.
It seemed he and the Widow Fairchild were two of a kind.

“I know her just well enough to introduce you.” Langford’s glance turned sly.

She wouldn’t remember him from Waterloo. One soldier meeting another on the field of battle was nothing. Not that it mattered. It had been only a moment. A fleeting breath of time that would barely be remembered. Never mind he’d seen her wild, vengeful eyes in his dreams as often as he’d seen Gemma’s dying eyes.

As Wellington bent to speak to Mrs. Fairchild, the woman angled her head and let her gaze wander the room. She should not have seen him. Guests danced and flirted and laughed between them, blocking her view. But like an arrow piercing fog, she trained blue eyes unerringly on Angel.

There was no vengeance there this time, but still they seemed to blaze. The color of them, the shape of them, ignited a visceral beat low in his belly. As did the lush curves even the most flowing gown couldn’t conceal.

Recognition flared in the widow’s eyes. Her lips lifted on one side before she flicked her gaze back to Wellington. The duke bowed his farewell and retreated into the crush.

“Introduce me.”

“You’re asking for trouble with that one, my friend.” Langford laughed. “Which means it would be my pleasure to introduce you.”

Langford pushed through the crowd. Angel followed, brushing past silks and satins and elaborate cravats. Mrs. Fairchild’s eyes tracked his movements across the floor. Odd to be studied with such interest, even as he studied her. Flanked by soldiers and gentlemen festooned in evening wear and vying for the position closest to her, she seemed to be an island of calm.

He narrowed his eyes. No, not calm. Confidence. There were no affectations, no feminine vapors. A woman who killed a French soldier in the thick of battle had no time for vapors.

“Lord Langford,” she said as they approached. Her eyes flashed briefly in Angel’s direction, then back to Langford. “It is good to see you again. How are your wife and daughters?”

“Quite well, thank you. The twins are a handful already.” Langford grinned. It wasn’t clear whether the grin was for his daughters or Angel, as he slid an amused glance in Angel’s direction. “Mrs. Fairchild, may I present the Marquess of Angelstone?”

“Lord Angelstone.” Her voice moved over him like velvet, smooth and rich. “But we’ve met before.”

“We have indeed, Mrs. Fairchild.” He bowed over her hand. “Though the circumstances were quite different.”

Langford’s brow rose. The message was clear enough.

“We met in battle.” Mrs. Fairchild tilted her head. Candlelight shadowed dramatic cheekbones and full, ripe lips. “I’m afraid names were not exchanged.”

“My condolences on the loss of your husband,” Angel said.

“Thank you.” Her face softened. “He was a good man.”

“And a good soldier, I’ve heard,” Langford added. “Will you be in London long, Mrs. Fairchild?”

“Through the Season, I think.” She smiled, a subtle, feline turning up of her lips. “Will you dance with me one night, Lord Langford? So I can pretend I’m not too old for all this nonsense?”

“For you, Mrs. Fairchild, I’ll brave the dance floor—but not tonight. I must return to my wife.”

“A flattering escape.”

“Indeed. Now, I see your punch glass is empty. I’d offer to get you another”—Langford looked toward the table holding the punch bowl—“but I have no desire to fight this insufferable crowd.”

Mrs. Fairchild laughed, low and throaty. The sound sent desire spiraling through Angel.

“Go then,” she said, shooing Langford with her closed fan. “I can obtain my own punch.”

“Allow me.” Angel stepped in, offering his arm. Langford, the cur, grinned. Angel ignored him. “I would be honored, Mrs. Fairchild.”

Behind them, the bevy of gentlemen suitors bristled, almost as one. A pack of wolves defending their queen. Or a gaggle of geese flapping uselessly at a predator.

“Thank you, my lord.” She cocked her head to look up at him. A smile flirted with the corners of her lips. “I would be most grateful.”

The gaggle hissed in disappointment.

She set her white-gloved hand on his arm. The touch of her fingers was delicate on his sleeve. As they crossed the room, she splayed open her painted fan and waved it languorously. A lazy ripple of painted wildflowers in the wind. The scent of her skin rose into the air. Clean. Bright. And when she smiled at him once more, his body tripped straight into attraction.

S
HE HOPED HE
wasn’t an idiot.

So many men were. It was one of the facts she’d learned since returning from the Continent and entering society. Though perhaps it was simply the bored, titled gentlemen. The seasoned soldiers she knew were infinitely smarter.

Lilias angled her head and looked up at Lord Angelstone. He didn’t appear to be an idiot. He looked like a golden angel—a fallen one judging by the roguish gleam in his eyes. Luckily, his face was saved the burden of perfection. He had a crooked nose. She wondered how he’d broken it.

His hair was also longer than was fashionable and tied in a queue at the base of his neck. How unusual. And how interesting. Something about that queue gave the impression Lord Angelstone was barely tamed—and just on the edge of dangerous.

She hadn’t particularly remembered him from Waterloo until she’d seen him. She’d met hundreds of men on the field. Most she would never remember. But this one—oh yes. He could not be forgotten. He’d fought with brutal elegance, his body dancing over the battlefield, his sword efficient and decisive.

“This evening’s venue is rather different than the fields of Waterloo,” she said as they wove through the crowd.

“Not as different as you might think.” He nodded toward a corner of the ballroom. “Do you see the debutantes?”

“The two girls giggling behind the potted palm?”

He lowered his voice. “The enemy still lies in wait.” The baritone timbre shivered through her. “They’re ready to ambush the unsuspecting soldier.”

“And their spies—” she countered in a whisper, “are everywhere.”

“Is that so?”

“A pair of match-making mamas are watching you even now,” she said, waving her hand at two beady-eyed matrons. “It’s quite frightening.”

“Rescue me from their clutches, Mrs. Fairchild. Walk with me on the terrace.” He leaned down, leaned in, and she saw that his eyes were tawny gold. They gleamed as his lips curved. The movement brought something alive in her—something she’d forgotten how to feel.

The keen edge of desire.

“A wise retreat from the battle of the marriage mart,” she murmured.

“I learned strategy at Wellington’s knee.”

“Then I shall take advantage of your strategic experience and retreat as well.” The group of her hopeful suitors had grown tedious, poor souls.

Within moments they’d escaped to the flagstone terrace. Another couple stood at one end, talking in low voices. Angelstone led her to the opposite side.

She leaned against the balustrade and contemplated the night sky. It was nearing midnight. Stars twinkled merrily against the blanket of darkness. It had grown cold outside. She tugged her shawl around her shoulders.

“Have you ever noticed that the stars are the same, no matter what part of the world you are in?” she asked, studying the play of light from the windows over Angelstone’s handsome face. “Whether you’re standing outside a London ballroom, on the march in the bitter days of winter or watching death take your husband on the field, Orion is still Orion.”

His attentive silence made her feel foolish.

“Listen to me!” Laughing lightly, she looked again into the night. “I’m becoming maudlin on this lovely summer evening.”

“The loss of your husband is still painful.” Angelstone’s words were quiet. Over them she heard the click of his boots on flagstone as he stepped closer.

“Yes. And no.” She sighed, letting the clean night air fill her lungs. It was difficult to explain the horrible grip of grief, the slow acceptance and the ultimate need to survive. “It’s been two years. Two interminable, never-ending years. Yet it seems to have gone in the blink of an eye.”

“Grieving takes time.” Knowledge resonated in the low tones of his voice.

“Have you lost someone close to you?” Curious, she turned to lean on the balustrade so that she faced him.

He paused. “My brothers.”

There was more. She’d heard it in the empty silence before he answered, but didn’t pursue it. “I’m sorry.”

“I had two older brothers, both with wives and one with a daughter. In fact, I wasn’t supposed to inherit the title. It was assumed that between my brothers and their future progeny, the title would be secure.”

“So you were free to go off to war.”

“Precisely.” Self-deprecating amusement sent his lips twitching. “I thought to make a name for myself in India, fighting in the jungle and bringing back trunks of gold.”

“Ah.” She understood the hard shock of reality. “Youth.”

“Youth, indeed.” He laughed, and the sound rumbled through her.

“War is not the adventure it seems, is it?”

“No.” The word was quiet and full of meaning. His eyes met hers. “But you know that, don’t you, Mrs. Fairchild? You followed the drum. You marched with Wellington.”

“Yes.” No more needed to be said.

She searched Lord Angelstone’s shadowed face. Something there held her breathless. Her skin prickled, a small current of energy running from her head to her toes.

“Life must still be lived,” she said softly. “Despite the memories.”

“Are you ready to live again?” His voice threaded through darkness and surrounded her, warmed her.

“Yes.” It was a truthful answer, and one she doubted she could have given in the light of day. But the dark felt oddly safe. “Are you?”

For a moment, no words were spoken. Candlelight from the windows played over the dangerously sharp edge of his jaw, over expressive lips. The murmur of voices and beat of music seemed to quicken, rising and swelling as pleasure grew.

Or perhaps the quickening was her pulse beating a touch faster.

“A valid question, Mrs. Fairchild.” He leaned over the balustrade, resting his forearms on the stone. They stood side by side now, and when he turned his head his gaze fell to her lips.

She couldn’t quite seem to draw a breath.

She straightened, trying to breathe in the night air. Her reticule slid from weak fingers, hitting the flagstone terrace with a dull thunk to break the spell. For a moment, she could only stare at the shadows at her feet. The frivolous little accoutrement had fallen open, its contents partially exposed. She looked up. If that twitch of his lips wasn’t amusement, she was Boney’s spy.

“Allow me,” he said, bending to retrieve the reticule.

“Thank you, but—” With a huff she took it from him and crouched on the terrace. Her gown pooled around her, a froth of cream and silver that matched the beaded reticule. She pushed the skirts aside and her fingers brushed against an embroidered handkerchief, a small comb. Both returned to the pretty bag. Pulling the drawstring tight, Lilias stood again.

She felt ridiculously silly. She was no better than one of the debutantes.

The notes of a waltz filled the air. Another set was beginning. She couldn’t see inside the ballroom, yet she could imagine the couples swirling around the dance floor—gowns brilliant in the candlelight, jewels sparkling, surrounded by the long notes of the violins.

At the other end of the terrace, the other couple laughed aloud and moved inside, leaving Lilias and Angelstone alone with moonlight and violins.

Notes floated through the night, smooth and long. The rich tones mingled with the sweet, clear sound of a flute. The music wrapped around and between them, a warm and velvety embrace.

“A lovely sound, isn’t it?” The tone of it, the bright joy of it, seeped into her. Lilias closed her eyes and drew in a breath, wishing she could bring the music into her. “I’ve always thought the violin to be a beautifully full and powerful instrument.”

“Do you play?” His deep voice melded and mixed with the song.

She fluttered open her lashes to find him watching her intently. “No. To my everlasting regret, I have no talent.”

“But you clearly love music,” Angelstone murmured, leaning once more on the balustrade. He was so close she could feel his breath, the heat of his body. His scent rose, sending her already heightened senses jittering. “Would you care to dance?”

“I haven’t danced since my husband died.”

“Two years?” His smile was a challenge. “That’s a long time to go without dancing.”

“Is that so very long?”

“You are well out of the traditional full mourning period, Mrs. Fairchild. Society wouldn’t bat an eye if you danced again.” He turned slightly, leaning on one arm. “I promise, you won’t have forgotten the steps.” His voice lowered so that it slid through the night as smoothly as the violins. “Or the rhythm.”

She arched a brow. “And if I
have
forgotten?”

“You would have your choice of partners to remind you of the movements.”

“No doubt.” Oh, he was wicked. She knew well he wasn’t speaking of dancing. “Would you be one of that number, my lord?”

He grinned, teeth flashing white in the darkness. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

She turned her face away and looked out into the July night. Once, it would have seemed impossible to make love with a man who was not Jeremy. There had only ever been her husband. His arms around her. His body against hers. But Jeremy was gone. She missed him, and would always feel the loss of that bright, shining love they’d shared.

“Two years
is
a long time,” she whispered into the dark.

“I wonder, then, when will you dance again?”

Angelstone was close beside her. Only a step away. How amazing it was to feel him next to her in the dark. She knew where his arm was, where his shoulder was. She didn’t
hear
his breath. She felt it. Her body reacted with a ripple of awareness.

“I don’t know when I will dance again.” It was the truth, though she wasn’t sure whether she meant on the dance floor, or with a man. Straightening, she backed away from the balustrade. Angelstone did the same. Light from the windows slashed across his face.

He didn’t quite look as he had on the battlefield—nothing could compare with the look of a man fighting for his life. But the tawny eyes held the same purpose, the same focus. The same heat.

Something in her answered that heat. It had been a very long time since she’d felt such a stirring. She missed that slow burning and the awareness that accompanied it. For the first time since Jeremy’s death, someone interested her.

For the first time, she was tempted.

Angelstone reached for her hand. Glove met glove, silk slid against leather. Her reticule bumped softly against his wrist. Stepping forward, he brought her gloved hand to his lips.

“Save your first dance for me,” he whispered against her fingers.

Lilias angled her head. She knew what he was intimating and should be offended. But she wasn’t scandalized.

She was tantalized.

Heat rushed through her, filling her belly with a thousand butterflies. She stepped forward so that their faces were only inches apart, their lips a breath away from a kiss.

“I’ll consider your request, my lord.”

Challenge leapt into his eyes. She felt the tension coil in him, saw his lips part. The need to feel alive, to be loved—however superficially—nearly drove her straight into his arms.

But logic stayed her. Not here, not now. Not without careful thought.

She turned toward the ballroom and the light and music spilling from the terrace door. Sending him a come-hither look over her shoulder, she smiled.

“I’ll consider your request,” she repeated. “But I make no promises.”