In Bed with a Spy (7 page)

I
F THE
M
ARQUESS
of Angelstone believed his smile was charming, he was quite wrong. The smile did not reduce the underlying wild and dangerous power of him. In fact, it only increased it. A wolf in sheep’s clothing is still a wolf.

“Mrs. Fairchild.” Angelstone’s tawny eyes trained on her. “I’ve approached this harshly, and I apologize. I believed the medallion to be yours, and that is my mistake.”

“‘Approach’ is a tame substitute for ‘abduction.’” She tapped the disc in her left hand, the rounded metal making a light
thwack
as it hit her kid glove. “The medallion is mine. It was gift from my husband, as I’ve already said. He was no assassin.”

“You maintain he never killed anyone.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot? Of course he killed. He was a cavalry officer during the war. It was inevitable. But he did not kill in cold blood.” She swallowed hard as bile rose in her throat at the thought. Jeremy could not have been an assassin. It simply did not make sense.

Not her husband
.

“Mrs. Fairchild.” Sir Charles gestured to an armchair, an easy expression on his face. “Please take a seat. You will be more comfortable if you are seated.”

“I prefer to stand, sir.” She did not believe for a second he was worried about her comfort. She sent her gaze to Angelstone’s face. “I mentioned a moment ago that I am not an idiot. You wish to subtly interrogate me about my husband and my marriage in the hopes of discovering whether he was an assassin or whether he was killed by one.”

The words were out now, those horrible words she could not say before. Perhaps because she was speaking to a man she had not kissed just an hour ago. Had it been only an hour? Her world had shifted on its axis in the space of sixty minutes. Only three thousand, six hundred seconds.

Sir Charles smiled benignly. The smile did not reach his eyes. “You are correct, Mrs. Fairchild.”

“I shall tell you what I know then, sir, so there will be no need for subtle interrogation. My husband was a good man. He loved me. He cared for the men that marched under him, seeing to their welfare before his own. He would go without food if one of his men was starving. You cannot reconcile that man—that officer—with an assassin.”

“Were you with him every moment of every day during your marriage?” Angelstone prowled around the side of the desk toward her, the smile gone from his face.

She flicked her eyes toward Sir Charles, whose expression was still mildly pleasant. Perhaps just a bit curious. A benevolent uncle asking how she was feeling.

It was like facing one good spy and one bad spy. And Angelstone was not the good one.

“No, Angelstone. I was not with him every second. Sometimes we were separated. A few weeks, even a month or two. But I knew him, and I knew what he was capable of.”

Angelstone stepped closer, his gold eyes deepening. “Everyone is capable of taking a life, Mrs. Fairchild.” His voice was low and knowing. “It is only the motive that changes. I believe
you
, of all people, would understand that.”

Something dark reared up inside her. Remorse for those lives she had cut short. For the families, the wives. The children they would not have. It often tried to weigh her down. She refused to let it. She’d been wild with grief that day. Seized by uncontrolled madness. Jeremy had fought for his country, for a cause he believed in. That cause had killed him. She’d wanted nothing more than to finish what he started, to avenge him, even if it meant her own death.

Angelstone was right. Everyone was capable of taking a life. Even her.

“Perhaps I do understand that darkness in the soul,” she said softly. “But I also understood my husband, and I refuse to believe he was capable of what you accuse him.”

“Then, if he was not an assassin, he must have been assassinated.” Sir Charles said it so calmly, Lilias’s legs nearly buckled.

She locked her knees. “Then I suggest you start looking for the man who assassinated him, sir,” she said. “Because I want a few minutes with him.”

—

S
IR
C
HARLES PULLED
the door, leaving only the slightest crack between Mrs. Fairchild in the study and himself and Angel in the hall. The set of the commander’s mouth was grim.

“A high-priced Prussian courtesan has been assassinated.” Sir Charles didn’t waste time or mince words. “A few weeks ago.”

“I’ve heard.” And Angel regretted it. One more death by the Adders he hadn’t been able to stop. “She sold political secrets as well as her body.”

“You knew her?” Sir Charles’s eyebrows rose.

“Not in that way, sir,” he qualified. “I met her a few times on assignment.”

Sir Charles glanced at the study door, then down the hall to where Jones stood patiently in the front entryway. He would be waiting dutifully for his own assignments. “We need to shut them down, Angel. The Adders are spiraling out of control. There have been six deaths in the last six months.”

He knew every one of their names. The method of death. Even the secrets of their lives. But it was never enough. “I have no guess as to whether Major Fairchild was an assassin or simply a target, but either way, Mrs. Fairchild will have key information.” Angel grimaced. “She only has to remember it.”

“Make her remember.”

A shadow fell across the open sliver of light between the study door and doorjamb. She was listening. Or at least close enough to hear. Angel tipped his head down the hall. They shifted away from the study and walked toward the front door.

“Give her a few days. Set an agent to watch her.” Sir Charles lowered his voice. “Let her come to you, Angel. She’s hurt and angered by the betrayal now, but she’ll want answers. By asking questions, she’ll give us the answers we want.”

He wasn’t so sure. “I don’t intend to give her more than a few days. We need to move forward. Quickly.”

“Indeed.” Sir Charles’s eyes turned sharp. “My foreign counterparts are beginning to believe the Adders are under my control.”

“You can’t be serious.” Shock rippled through him.

“Unfortunately, I am. We know there is a man in London directing the Adders’ assignments. At least three of my foreign counterparts have hinted they suspect the leader is myself. I have been advised that if we do not locate the leader of the Death Adders in London, they will send as many agents as necessary to do it for us.”

Sir Charles turned sharply and strode down the hall. Jones handed him a cane and hat before opening the front door. Sir Charles turned to face Angel, his sturdy frame blocking out the light from the foyer candles.

“You must find the leader, Angel, before England is overrun with foreign agents.”

I
T WAS A
miracle Angelstone’s unmarked carriage brought her home before Catherine and Grant returned from their social engagements. She just had time to sneak in through the rear door, slip out of her gown and plait her hair before she heard the wheels of the Fairchild carriage rumble on the cobblestones.

Her room faced the street, and she quickly blew out the single candle she’d disrobed by. Flicking back a pretty yellow curtain, Lilias peered at the street below. A footman lowered the carriage steps, and a moment later the open carriage door framed Grant’s shoulders. He stepped down, greatcoat swirling around him, before turning to assist Catherine. The carriage lamps outlined his square jaw as he smiled at her.

After a sharp call from the coachman, the carriage rolled off toward the mews. Grant and Catherine disappeared below her as they moved into the townhouse.

Not once did either of them glance at her window.

She was not certain if she was pleased they trusted her enough to believe Angelstone’s lie, or if she wanted them to worry about her.

Lilias let the curtain fall closed, blocking out the street below. Moving easily through the dark room, she stepped toward the dresser. The case holding Jeremy’s miniature sat on top. Taking the painting from its velvet bed she ran a finger around the gilt frame. She didn’t light a candle to look at it, afraid of what she might see in his face. It would not have changed, would it? The paint would not somehow shift over the ivory to reveal a man she did not recognize.

When the light knock came at her door, she jumped nearly a foot.

“Lilias, dear?” It was Catherine’s thin, reedy voice. Barely more than a whisper through the door. “Are you well?”

“Yes. I’m better. It was a headache,” Lilias called softly, in compliance with the lie Angelstone had already told. The frame of the miniature bit into her fingers as she clutched it. She must not let Catherine into the room. She could not face Jeremy’s mother with this question haunting her. “I’m just tired now.”

A pause, then, “Good night. I shall see you in the morning.” Quiet footfalls faded away in the hall beyond her door.

Lilias sighed, pathetically grateful for the reprieve. Rubbing a thumb softly over the painting, she felt the brushstrokes. Doubt and fear and betrayal swarmed through her, though she tried to bury them and think logically. Jeremy was not an assassin. She would have known. A man couldn’t hide that kind of darkness from his wife. He must have obtained the medallion some other way—perhaps even during the battle—but it could not have belonged to him.

And if it did?

She refused to believe him capable of it. The man she’d known laughed and loved easily. He’d earned respect from his men and cared about each one of them. He slept in mud, bled from multiple wounds, starved when necessity demanded. He’d believed in his country enough to fight and die for it. And he had loved her.

Such a man could not be an assassin.

She would prove it.

With careful fingers, she set the miniature back into the case and closed the lid. Then she dropped onto the edge of the bed and waited while the house settled into sleep around her. A few doors opened and closed as the last remaining servants made their way to bed. Floors creaked, walls sighed.

When she was certain no one remained awake, she lit a single candle and shrugged into her wrapper. She opened the door to the hall and, shielding the candle from drafts, made the first step forward. Shadows flickered in the corners as she crept down the hall and up the stairs to the attics. They were quiet beyond the snuffling and snoring of sleeping servants. Soundlessly, bare feet chilled from the wooden floor, Lilias passed closed doors until she reached the storage area.

The trunk had not moved since her return from Waterloo. It had not been opened since she’d closed and latched it in the Netherlands. She could not have borne going through it then. She had simply taken it up and brought it home, side by side with her own trunk.

Setting down the candle, she kneeled in front of it and smoothed a hand over the scarred leather surface. It had traveled across the Peninsula and the Continent with Jeremy, following him on the baggage trains from one bivouac to another.

She supposed it was time to open it. Two years was a long time.

Heart drumming in her ears, she set her fingers to the latches and flicked her thumbs up. Rusty with disuse, the metal latches moved slowly, but they snicked up and open. She breathed deep and lifted the lid with damp palms.

Musty air assaulted her nostrils, bringing with it dust that had her sniffling to keep from sneezing. Clothing was piled within. On the top were Jeremy’s dress uniform, his medals. Evidence of his exceptional career. Evidence of his honest beliefs and ways. Swallowing hard, she set them aside. The pain near her heart was a dull ache, but one she’d grown accustomed to.

Beneath those items lay the sabre. She wrapped her palm around the hilt and drew it from the valise. Her mind flew back to the battle, to the cries of the wounded, the pounding of the artillery guns and thick black smoke. She did not regret fighting for her country.

But by God, she had better not regret fighting for her husband.

She set the sabre beside the uniform. Clothing followed, then a comb, a shaving kit. A pair of boots. Each item was familiar and foreign. A reminder of other days a lifetime ago.

Tears wet her cheeks, but they were soft. There was no evidence here against him. Angelstone was wrong. Jeremy had been exactly what she’d thought: the good man she’d married. Relief flooded through her, sweet and comforting and reassuring.

Until she saw the hole in the bottom of the valise.

Stomach churning, twisting, she bent closer. There was space where there should be none. She stuck a finger into it—and touched metal.

“Oh, God.” The word sobbed out as her breath clogged her lungs. Frantic fingers tore at the hole, clutching linen and ripping it away from the bottom.

She nearly wretched when she saw the matched pistols nestled side by side with a set of knives. Her fingers shook as she lifted one of the pistols. It was not military issue. That inexpensive pistol had been reclaimed by the government for another officer to use. This one was exquisite, with its engraved silver flintlock and pearl inlayed handle.

She had never seen it before. Not in six years of war and marriage.

Gulping in air, she examined the knives still nestled in the valise. Coiled beside them was a thin, tightly woven black rope. What did a man need a short rope for? Why would he hide pistols and knives when he was a soldier?

She could think of only one reason.

But how could she not have seen it? She would have known. There would have been signs. A woman didn’t live with and love an assassin without suspecting something wasn’t right.

Had there been signs, and she had been too in love to see them?

Pieces of her life began to break apart, then shift and re-form, like small sections of broken glass soldered together to form a stained glass window. Only it wasn’t nearly so pretty. An alleged message delivery to Prague, which Jeremy’s commander could not recall ordering. A stranger loitering outside their rooms in Brussels and a jittery Jeremy watching from inside. A week he should have been home from leave, but he never came.

Something tore inside her heart. The sharp, jagged edges of it sliced into her. She let the pain fuel her anger.
Lies. All lies.
And there were more. More half-truths, more confusion.

She had overlooked and excused all of it.

She drew her knees up to her chin and set her forehead against them. But she did not weep. She seethed and thought of betrayal. She thought of battles and worry and grief and loneliness. And she remembered a dozen other things. Small questions, a bit of confusion.

She had been blind. Each time, she had simply believed his explanation. Sometimes she had not even asked the questions.

Worse, she remembered nights spent in the arms of a man who deceived. Making lazy love on a summer afternoon and letting a veritable stranger plunge into her body. Had there been any honesty in her marriage? In the arms that had held her close, in the secrets she shared with him?

She had been in love with an assassin—one who barely bothered to hide his weapons from her. What did that make her? Too stupid to notice what was in front of her face, or an accomplice?

Rage was a living thing inside her chest, beating a rhythm against her ribs as it fought its way free. She stood so quickly the candle almost flickered out. Jeremy’s dress uniform was in her hands before she realized what she was doing. She heaved it across the room, her breath catching in her throat. Then the medals, one by one, were hurled against the wall. The boots followed, each thudding against the plaster.

It wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough. Breath shuddering, she looked down at the pistols, now lying at her feet.

These she would take, along with the knives and the sabre. They were hers now. Payment for betrayal.

And a reminder of lies.

—

H
E FELT STUPID,
chasing after Mrs. Fairchild. Perhaps he should have waited for her to find him, as Sir Charles indicated. But the delay of even twenty-four hours was grating on his temper. The need to act grew steadily, straining against the need to be patient.

And, if he were honest with himself, he wanted to see how she’d fared after the blow he’d dealt her.

Now he was slinking along the edge of the ballroom, looking for that bright crown of curls surrounded by the cropped hair of gentlemen that would signify Mrs. Fairchild and her ever-present suitors. When he saw her, he stopped short, unable to take another step forward.

She glowed like fire among the pale, watered-down pastels. Her dress was a deep ruby red trimmed in creamy lace. Slashed sleeves revealed crescents of shimmering ivory. Pearls glowed against her skin and dripped from her ears.

She had been beautiful before. In deep red, with a sparkle of energy swirling around her, she was stunning. Sultry and sensual and full of life. Lust reared up and gripped him by the throat. So visceral, so consuming, he sucked in a breath.

A crowd had gathered around her, both men and women. Drawn to her like moths to flame, each vying for her attention.

He cocked his head. Looked again. Her smile was too bright, too sharp. The energy surrounding her was frenetic, even brittle. He strode forward, pushing through the moths to reach the flame.

She saw him coming. Her eyes narrowed slightly, though her smile widened in false welcome.

“Lord Angelstone,” she said smoothly. “How delightful to see you again.”

He ignored the moths around her. “Mrs. Fairchild, would you care for a stroll around the room?” Angel took her hand and set it on his arm, giving her no choice.

“No, thank you.” She pulled her arm away, temper sharp in her eyes.

“It would be an honor if you would walk with me.” Angel reached for her again.

A tall man stepped between them, angling his body in a protective stance. “Your rank doesn’t entitle you to order people about, Angelstone.” Cool brown eyes snapped over a square jaw and lips pressed into a thin line. “The lady said no.”

Angel looked down his nose at the other man. If he were impressed by an ostentatious cavalry uniform, he might be intimidated. “I don’t recall being introduced to you.”

“Major Jason Hawthorne. A very old, very good friend of Mrs. Fairchild’s.” That could mean any number of relationships. Major Hawthorne wasn’t a peacock, or one of the gaggle that followed Mrs. Fairchild like blind geese. Which meant he was important to her. “It is my duty to protect her from unwanted advances.”

“Hawthorne—” Mrs. Fairchild interjected softly. She set an ivory-gloved hand lightly on the man’s arm, though her eyes were riveted on Angel’s. “I’ll be fine.”

Hawthorne sent Mrs. Fairchild a long look. Something passed between them that clearly required no words. Another man might have felt a twinge of unexpected jealousy. Angel, however, reminded himself he had no reason for jealousy. She was not his woman.

“I don’t want to stroll, Angelstone.” She tossed her head, the curls around her face flirting with him. Her eyes met his straight on. Bright. Steady. Full of challenge. “I want to
dance
.”

The force of her eyes, her words, hit him full in the chest. She wasn’t talking about dancing. At least, not in a ballroom.

His mind filled with nothing but the vision of her naked beneath him, her limbs entwined with his. He went hard instantly. Lust was a living thing inside him, roaring its approval.

Her knowing smile only fueled the hunger.

“Excuse us, Hawthorne.” Angel flicked his gaze at the tensed soldier. Tried not to exude victory.

Then he met Lilias’s gaze again and dismissed all thought of the other man. He heard the rich tones of violins on the air now. A waltz. He offered his hand, palm up. She set fingers in his, her movements slow and elegant. The scent of her skin rose and stirred the beast inside him.

He drew her to the floor, hands still joined, eyes still locked. He lifted their linked hands to the proper position. His opposite hand slid onto her waist.

Her lips tipped up. “It seems I’ve saved my first dance for you, Angelstone.” Fingertips trailed across his shoulder as she set her hand there. “Let’s see if I remember the steps.”

“If you don’t, I’ll remind you.”

He swung her onto the floor in a breathless spin. It was still a scandalous dance in some circles, and one not performed everywhere. There were standards to ensure it was proper. He couldn’t remember any of them.

He pulled her close. Not so close they touched, but still the space between them heated. Her cheeks flushed rosy.

“You look particularly fetching.” He didn’t even try for charm. Just fact.

“I’ve heard that frequently this evening.”

“I can’t imagine why.” He swept his gaze over the body revealed so daringly by the gown. If she shrugged her shoulders in just the right way, her breasts would be bared to the entire ballroom. “You seem to remember the steps.”