The King's Code (The Lady Spies Series #3): A Regency Historical Romance (5 page)

“Well, back to work then,” she said, walking toward her messy little desk.

Seamus followed, not letting her off that easily. He sat on the edge of her oak desktop with his arms crossed over his chest, reassessing the increasingly interesting woman.

“You’ve read my work?” Seamus asked, staring down at her.

“Yes.” Lady Juliet nodded, failing to look up as she gathered papers and placed them in the appropriate files. “I thought it best that I know something of the gentleman I was to work with. Well.” She shrugged. “More than I already knew.”

“Ah.” Seamus’s dark brows rose at her presumption. “And what is it that you ‘knew’ of me prior to reading my academic articles?”

“I’ve known your brother, the viscount,” she clarified as he had six brothers, “for several years. I have also met you on two previous occasions.”

Seamus wrinkled his forehead, remembering the unsightly scene at the Spencer ball, but for the life of him, he could think of no other.

“Two occasions? What was the second?” he asked, neither of them needing to revisit the infamous meeting with her father.

“It was the first, actually,” the lady corrected, blushing prettily and bringing some color to her cheeks despite the unfortunate gown. “Several months ago, I observed you coming out of the Duchess of Glenbroke’s home as Lady Felicity and I were heading in.”

Seamus stared at her, looking closely at her freckled face, those bright blue eyes.

A memory flashed through his mind and he said, “You ran into the lamppost.”

Seamus smiled, flattered as he remembered that Lady Juliet had run headlong into a lamppost because she had been gawking at him.

Well, gawking at his backside.

Realizing that he had recalled correctly every detail of the encounter, the lass hastened to explain, “You . . . you looked so familiar and I could not understand why as your coloring is so different from that of your brother’s.”

“I’m a bit darker.” Seamus stated the obvious.

“Yes.” She jumped on his observation with relief. “But your features are . . .” The lady motioned to her own face.

“Similar?”

“Yes.” She nodded as if he had hit the nail on the head and Seamus let the silence lengthen, enjoying her discomfort as they stared at one another.

“Similarities tend to occur with siblings, but then you have no siblings, do you, Lady Juliet?” The lass blinked and Seamus continued to surprise her. “But you did manage to occupy yourself, receiving honorary recognition from Cambridge?”

“Oxford,” the lass corrected, visibly surprised. “How did you—”

“I thought it best to ‘learn a bit about the woman I would be working with,’” Seamus lied and she blushed.

“What was it you study? I can’t quite remember,” he lied again.

“Differential calculus.”

Bloody hell!

“Aye, that’s it.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the lass in a great show of recollection. “Differential calculus. Unfortunately, I was unable to obtain
your
articles. What was the supposition of these papers?”

“Well . . .” The lady looked at the desktop, no doubt searching for the right words of simplification. “The articles are somewhat interrelated and deal with the arc differential in proportion to the earth’s curvature.”

Lady Juliet met his eye as she continued to describe her theories, clearly checking to see if his feeble mind was following her train of thought.

“You see, the curvature of the earth will eventually affect the accuracy of the calculation, thus causing inaccuracies in navigation, for example, which will increase exponentially in direct proportion to the distance.”

The only problem was that he was not following . . . not really.

Seamus watched her lips, his heart pounding as he listened but understood only bits and pieces of what the lass was saying. Her pretty little mouth continued to teach and her moist, red lips were calling to him to listen.

Seamus’s nods of agreement were pulling him forward and he was intent on kissing her when the lass suddenly stood.

“Then I shall see you tomorrow,” the lady was saying, “and we can put our heads together to find a solution to the problem of the last marker?”

He just stared at her, caught somewhere in the world between his mind and his flesh, choosing the path of proprietary over the inexplicable road that beckoned to his body.

“Right.” Seamus blinked as he watched the woman walk out his office door, and the moment it closed, he shook his head in confusion as his heart continued to race. “What the hell just happened?”

≈

“How was your first day at the Foreign Office?” Felicity asked, Juliet’s excitement obvious from the moment she entered the drawing room.

“My day was quite enthralling.” Juliet plopped in her chair and tried to capture the feeling in words. “I had not been there half the day before I was able to be of assistance. I can’t tell you the details, of course, but I felt so . . .”

“Useful?”

“Yes, that is it exactly.” Juliet snapped her fingers and then leaned back against the comfortable leather chair, wondering how her cousin knew. “I was useful today.”

“And did any of the gentlemen at the Foreign Office make advances toward you as we had feared?”

“Not a blessed soul.” Juliet grinned. “Of course, this means we shall have to commission the modiste to fashion more hideous gowns.”

Felicity laughed, observing, “You do look like death warmed over, Juliet. I myself can hardly bear to look at you.”

“Thank you, darling. Would you prefer that I dress for dinner so that you might stomach your food?”

“Please,” Felicity begged and then in all seriousness asked, “So, this is something that you will continue to do? Assist the Foreign Office?”

“Yes. I don’t know how to explain precisely.” Juliet’s forehead knitted as she tried to find the proper words to spare Felicity injury. “I have a colleague who understood what I was saying today, followed every blessed word, and so often people are not really—”

“Capable of keeping up with your intellectual pace?” Felicity grinned.

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, dearest,” Felicity eased her guilt. “It is not as though I’m lacking in intellectual capabilities, it is merely that compared to your intellectual prowess I, along with most mere mortals, pale in comparison.”

“As do I when I stand next to you.”

“Oh, I do wish you would not say such things, Juliet,” Felicity pleaded with a touch of ladylike irritation. “You know how much I dislike being pretty.”

“Yes, and I shall never in my life understand why.”

Felicity looked at Juliet with a sadness that was increasing in its frequency. “It is very tiresome.”

Juliet nodded in confused sympathy. “Then you shall have to accompany me to the modiste so that Madame Maria might have you resemble a corpse as well.” Felicity laughed and Juliet mused, “I should think an orange gown—”

“Oh, dear.” Felicity’s perfect nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Would make you sufficiently sallow, and perhaps if you were to slump over”—Juliet rolled her shoulders forward as her cousin continued to laugh—“men would not be quite so aware of your exquisite figure.”

“I could grow exceedingly fat.”

“Even better.” Juliet smiled, wondering why her cousin would choose the life of a fat spinster over the many gentlemen who had offered for her hand.

~

Falcon’s
weekly chess match with the Duke of Glenbroke was, for him, a time of reflection, of reassessing the decisions made and the steps yet to be taken by his secretive office.

The fact that the duke reported the activities within the Foreign Office directly to the Prince Regent meant nothing to Falcon. It was Glenbroke’s unerring quest to do what was best for Britain and not the individuals perilously laboring under Falcon’s command that made them the perfect complement to one another.

The duke requested information and Falcon provided it with little or no explanation as to how the information had been obtained.

The Duke of Glenbroke preferred it this way, as did he, allowing Falcon to concern himself with the safety of his agents and the task at hand, while the duke concentrated on the information with little knowledge of the individual sent to retrieve it.

With the exception of today.

“I’ve just commissioned a new agent.”

“Oh?” Glenbroke stared at the chessboard, his silver eyes fixed. “Your funds are already stretched rather thin. Are you sure you can afford him?” the duke asked, sliding his rook into position.

Falcon permitted the implications of the duke’s move to sink in before allowing himself to answer. “This particular agent won’t cost my office one farthing.”

“I’m intrigued,” the duke said, watching the chess pieces lest one disappear. “How did you manage that? Recruit another volunteer?”

“Quite.” Falcon moved his queen and then leaned back from the intellectual effort.

“Good man, Seamus McCurren,” the duke mumbled, distracted by their game. “I still can’t believe you gathered him into your fold. Am I acquainted with your latest acquisition?”

Falcon stared at the duke, knowing what the man’s reaction would be, yet wanting to witness it nonetheless. “Yes.”

The duke’s steely eyes sharpened into seriousness. “Please, tell me you have not commissioned Christian St. John?”

“Good Lord, no!” Falcon chuckled. “Not even if the boy volunteered. Entirely unpredictable, that one. No, no, no.”

“Who then?”

“Lady Juliet Pervill.”

“Lady J—” The duke choked on a gush of air. “Lady Juliet?”

“The lady volunteered after having been ruined.” Falcon grinned to himself. “Interesting girl, Lady Juliet.”

“Juliet Pervill is more than just interesting.” The duke was irritated as Falcon knew he would be. “She is my wife’s dearest friend.”

“That’s as it may be, but the lady also harbors a skill I find myself in desperate need of at the moment. Once she has assisted me in this matter, the duchess is welcome to continue with her elaborate plans to reconcile the girl with polite society.”

The duke grinned. “I see you’ve received your invitation to our ball?”

“Yes, thank you, Your Grace, but I believe I shall be sitting this one out.”

Glenbroke chuckled and then his brows furrowed when he remembered, “What skill does Lady Juliet possess that you need so badly?”

“Did you know the lady was affiliated with Oxford?” The duke shook his head and Falcon clarified, “She was given an honorary degree in mathematics.”

“Ah, your precious codes,” Glenbroke nodded with understanding and more than a little amusement. “I thought Seamus McCurren was seeing to the decrypting.”

“Oh, he has been. Done a wonderful job thus far, but this latest code is dangerous.” Falcon stared at the walls, the heavy weight of certainty pulling at his chest.

“Dangerous? Aren’t all French codes dangerous?”

“Yes, but this one . . .” Falcon shook his head, thinking aloud. “I sense that this one . . . is a great threat to the security of our country.”

“Why this one more than any of the others?”

“I don’t know.” And he did not, but Falcon had learned never to ignore his instincts and he was not about to now. “You see, the difficulty in decoding the majority of these French codes is in the detection.

“Once the code has been detected, men such as Seamus McCurren make short work of deciphering them. Not so with this code.” Falcon sighed with frustration. “We have known of this code for two months and are no closer to decoding it than we were the day it was first detected.”

“And you believe Juliet Pervill can help you break this code?” the duke asked.

“She already has! Lady Juliet identified the code as a mere marker for a much more complex system of cryptography. A system, I fear, that is at the core of the French espionage effort here in London.”

“I suppose it will keep that brilliant mind of Juliet’s occupied while my wife labors on her behalf.” The duke glanced up, now deadly serious. “Juliet Pervill is under your protection?”

“Yes.” Falcon nodded and continued to reassure the man. “The lady has been placed in Seamus McCurren’s own office and I am just down the hall.”

“Excellent.” The duke moved a pawn. “I should never hear the end of it if my wife believed I had knowingly placed Juliet in harm’s way.”

“You may assure the duchess, Your Grace,” Falcon said with confidence, “that Lady Juliet’s position within the Foreign Office is nothing more than a glorified librarian and equally as dangerous.”

On Friday morning, Juliet walked into her office at eight forty-five with seven books of various sizes and colors weighing her down. She dropped them on the table with a resounding thud and then removed her coat before seating herself at her functional, but at the same time charming, desk.

She stared as rain crashed against the window, leaving streams of water that joined to form rivers. Juliet traced the lines with her forefinger, wondering what force was being exerted to pull the water in diagonal lines rather than directly down the windowpane.

Was the irregularity of the glass a factor in the path the water took? There appeared to be too many streams to rely upon this variance to explain the water’s movements. Therefore, the water must hold some attraction to itself, enough of an attraction to pull it sideways. But how much of an attraction, and was the pull a constant—

Juliet’s musings were interrupted when she heard the outer door open. She quickly reached for a book and opened it, bending her head as if she were engrossed by hours upon hours of riveting reading.

The inner-office door opened and the silence made her grin. She had noted Mister McCurren’s irritation yesterday when he had arrived to find her already there. So, Juliet had risen at eight this morning to ensure that she arrived in the office before him.

Childish, she knew, but satisfying nonetheless.

“Morning.” The crisp baritone greeting sounded as though it had been pushed past clenched teeth.

Juliet made a great show of reluctantly pulling her eyes from the fascinating book she had yet to read so that she might welcome her tardy colleague.

“Good morning,” she beamed, glancing toward the door with the intention of returning to her book.

However, when she saw Seamus McCurren framed in the doorway, his green jacket complementing his chestnut hair, his unusual golden eyes circled by dark lashes, his full masculine lips . . . Juliet simply stared, appreciating the view.

Uncomfortable, the gentleman broke eye contact with a respectful inclination of his head and then walked toward his larger desk. She enjoyed that, too, his muscular thighs flexing beneath his buff buckskins as he sank into the leather chair. Juliet cocked her head, having one last look, before reluctantly returning to her far less appealing book.

She sighed.

Men were so lovely to look at, and Juliet wondered if she would be able to control her lecherous side, if she would be able to content herself with just looking at the multitude of handsome young men working at the Foreign Office.

Her eyes wandered from the pages of her book, drawn by the ugly brown gown that she had forced herself to wear. Her nose wrinkled with distaste, but she knew it was for her own good.

She was a weak woman when it came to men, always had been.

She had adored kissing Robert Barksdale and he was not even her masculine ideal. If she had been born as beautiful as Felicity, she would have ruined herself years ago.

Juliet gave a snort of laughter, certain that God had made her plain for that very reason.

“Did you say something?”

She could feel her cheeks burning when Juliet realized that she had laughed aloud.

“Uh, no.” She shook her head. “My apologies, this book is rather amusing and I’m unaccustomed to reading in the company of others.”

“Mmm.” The deep tone contained doubt and a note of superiority that irritated Juliet to no end, but Seamus McCurren did not stop there. “Does this novel you’re reading lend insight into the breaking of French codes?”

Her jaw dropped at the insinuation that she was frittering away her time on some frivolous novel.

“None at all,” Juliet sang, turning to face the arrogant Scot. “However, as the last marker will not appear until sometime next week, assuming of course that the French have a message to convey at all, I thought to amuse myself with a bit of research.”

Seamus McCurren stood to his impressive height, and with each elegant step he took toward Juliet, her heart leapt out of her chest.

“And you find researching differential calculus . . . amusing?” he drawled, looking down at her with a raised brow of intellectual condescension.

“Somewhat.” He was standing over her now and Juliet licked her lips to ease the words from her mouth. “The conclusions that ancient mathematicians have drawn are somewhat amusing in their simplicity.”

“Such as?” The Scot held her eyes, the glistening of brown and gold in his rendering her speechless.

She shrugged and Mister McCurren reached out to gently pry the thin book from her unsteady hands. His long, rough fingers brushed hers and her stomach flipped as Juliet watched him draw the book toward his spectacularly sculpted features.

His head tilted downward as he read and Juliet suppressed the urge to stroke his perfect sideburns, which he no doubt knew emphasized the line of his even more perfect jaw.

“This is written in ancient Greek?” Seamus McCurren’s beautiful eyes were once again on her, demanding an explanation.

“Well, yes. I find that many of the subtleties of mathematical theory are lost in the translation from one language to—”

“This is a Persian text.” Seamus McCurren had lifted another of her books.

“Yes, the Persians were by far the most accomplished mathema—”

“Is this Mandarin?” he inquired, his brows draw together in astonishment.

Feeling the need to defend her diverse collection of texts . . . and herself, Juliet jumped up and reached for the tiny red tome.

“Please, be careful with that book, Mister McCurren. It is very old and I have not yet learned enough Mandarin to interpret the theories fully. I have recently acquired the services of a tutor to assist me in translating the—”

Juliet sucked in a breath, shocked when her words were smothered by Seamus McCurren’s sumptuous lips.

The fingers of his right hand speared her severe chignon as he drew her head closer with persuasive pressure at the nape of her neck. However, it was the large hand cradling her jaw that very nearly burned her as much as his demanding lips.

Juliet closed her eyes, astounded by how different this kiss felt compared to Robert Barksdale’s.

This man was assured, confident, and skilled in his movements. Very skilled at enticing a woman to want that little bit more, that one last touch. Juliet was becoming lightheaded the more that they kissed . . . and she was most definitely confused.

Why would a man of Seamus McCurren’s obvious experience kiss her?

And then the answer was clear.

“Stop!”

The slight Lady Juliet shoved him in the chest so hard that Seamus had to take a step backward to steady himself. He stared down at the lass in utter shock of what he had just done, his chest and lips on fire where they had touched her.

The lass lifted her chin, her jaw setting as she stared up at him, saying, “I realize that you do not wish to work with me, Mister McCurren, but I would have thought this tactic quite beneath you.”

“No,” Seamus protested, appalled that the lady would think such a thing but unable to explain his actions . . . even to himself. “You miscompre—”

“Well, I can assure you that the Foreign Office will not be so easily rid of me,” the lady railed on, not listening. “You see, Mister McCurren, my mother’s marriage to my bastard of a father taught me one very valuable lesson. Perseverance. And whether you wish it or not, sir, I shall continue to work in this office come hell or high water.”

With that declaration, the lass swept her dingy brown skirts to one side and resumed her seat behind her cluttered little desk. Seamus glanced about the office, so stunned by his own actions that he could scarcely move.

Not only did Seamus not know what to say, but he now had no choice but to sit in the room with the very woman he had just taken liberties with while trying to pretend that he had not.