The King's Code (The Lady Spies Series #3): A Regency Historical Romance (6 page)

And as to why he had taken those liberties in the first place, he had not a bloody clue.

“As you wish,” Seamus mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

Sitting in his chair, he discreetly put the back of his hand against his forehead and was disheartened to detect no fever. Seamus glanced at Juliet Pervill from the corner of his eye, baffled as to what had possessed him to kiss her.

Her unsightly gown and ashen face had drawn his attention to the bright blue of her eyes and cherry red of her lips. And as those feminine lips continued to move, he had wanted . . . No, more than that, he had been
compelled
to kiss the woman.

Surely, he was ill?

“If I had my wish, Mister McCurren, we would not be working together at all.” What was she saying? He turned to listen. “I have been here all of two days and you have been nothing but a liability in my efforts to decrypt this French code.”

“A what?” he scoffed, offended.

Lady Juliet stopped writing and swiveled round in her wooden chair so that she might look at him. “A liability, a deficit, a hindrance. Surely, as an expert in the written word, you have come across that one.”

Seamus’s previous humiliation dissolved with the lady’s continued insults. “I know the meaning of the word, Lady Juliet.”

“Hmm,” she mused, expressing doubt.

“Furthermore”—he was attempting to be reasonable— “if we are to continue working together, I suggest that we discuss the manner in which we—”

“Let’s not.”

“Pardon?”

“Let us not ‘work together.’ Go our separate ways, so to speak.” She lifted her shoulders as if she were the most reasonable woman in the world. “I have all of the information compiled by the Foreign Office pertaining to this E code. You, at this point, are . . . superfluous to my investigation, and your constant attempts to make me leave this office indicate that you are unlikely to provide me with any meaningful assistance.”

“My attempts to make you leave?”
Meaningful assistance!

“I see no another explanation for your kissing me.”

He certainly had none to provide.

“And while you might be accustomed to women swooning in your dazzling presence, I simple don’t have the time. You see, I have a code to decrypt.” The lass stood, straightening the papers on her desk and then her ugly skirts. “As a matter of fact, I have just thought of a line of inquiry to which I must attend. So, if you would be so kind as to excuse me.”

The lady left the office and Seamus was still staring at the door when Mister Habernathy walked into the office carrying his morning coffee.

“No coffee today, James.” Seamus waved off the black libation. “I believe I shall work from home.”

“Everything all right, sir?”

“Grand,” Seamus said, feeling anything but. “However, there is nothing more for us to do here until the newspapers are published Monday next.”

Nothing he could think of, anyway.

Seamus took one step toward the door when James asked, “Is Lady Juliet expected in today?”

Feeling a flash of guilt, Seamus glanced at the small desk and stared at the spot where they had been standing when he had kissed Juliet Pervill.

Seamus shook his head, dumbfounded, as he racked his brain for a possible line of investigation that he had overlooked.

“I’ve no idea where the lady has gone,” he finally admitted to his secretary . . . and himself.

≈

Juliet stood on the chilly front steps of the Foreign Office and attempted to breathe.

It had taken a great deal of determination for her to remain in that room after Seamus McCurren had kissed her. Juliet had sat in her chair lest she fall down and only prayed that the man did not notice her hands shaking like leaves in a stiff wind.

But she would be damned if she was going to run out of the room as he wanted her to do.

Mister McCurren had no idea, of course, that she had no other place to go, had no idea that his exquisite kiss was all she had at the moment to occupy her muddled mind.

Still, she wished that he had not kissed her. Now, she would have to sit in that office day after day, knowing how marvelous the man felt. How delightful his warm power had felt beneath her hands.

Damnation!

Restless, she walked down the steps and onto the crowded walkways of Whitehall. “A line of inquiry!” Why on earth had she told him that?
To get under his skin . . . as he had hers.
The only problem with her little act of vengeance was that she had nothing new to investigate.

Idiot!

Felicity’s carriage was not due back until four o’clock that afternoon and she really should return to the safety of the Foreign Office. But she could not bring herself to do it. Juliet would rather die at the hands of a footpad than admit to the breathtakingly arrogant Seamus McCurren that she had no “line of inquiry” to pursue.

“Come on, Juliet! You’re a clever girl,” she muttered beneath her breath.

She could go anywhere in London.
But where?

Juliet stared at the low-hanging winter sky for several contemplative moments and then called for a hackney, saying, “The
London Herald
, please,” as the driver assisted her over a steaming pile of horse manure and into the hired black carriage.

The interior of the hackney was old and worn, but thankfully clean. Juliet leaned back against the squabs as the conveyance rocked her down the cobblestone streets of London, giving her a considerable amount of time to think.

The E anomaly appeared in specified publications on specified weeks. Therefore, if she were able to identify the last marker, it would stand to reason that Falcon would be able to post agents at the identified publication and wait for the French cryptographer to arrive.

It might take several weeks to identify the courier, but it was, as far as she could see, their only course of action.

Satisfied with her reasoning, Juliet sat back and tried to think of anything but Seamus McCurren. However, trying not to think of the man just brought him to mind, and the vicious circle was broken only when the conveyance blessedly rolled to a stop.

Juliet stepped from the hackney and handed her driver a generous amount of coin, asking, “Please, wait for me here.”

The driver tipped his dusty hat, grinning from ear to ear, and Juliet tried not to stare at the forest of black hair peeking from his upturned nostrils like two burst caterpillars that writhed as he talked.

“I’ll be glued to this very spot, my lady, never you worry.”

“Yes, thank you.” Confident that the hairy driver would not abandon her on these unfamiliar streets, Juliet turned toward the large building standing before her.

The red bricks were made even darker by the years of unattended soot, and the drab, square building boasted utilitarian function rather than architectural aesthetics. The only stylistic element she could see at all was the gold-leaf wording the
London Herald
painted on the glass panel inset of a battered wooden door.

Determined to show the Scot something for her efforts, Juliet pushed open the door to one of London’s many daily news publications. However, the moment she stepped inside, Juliet instinctively put her hands over her ears, the sound of the printing press louder than she had expected.

Startled by the sight of a female in the print room, a young man covered in what appeared to be black ink ran toward her and silently pointed Juliet toward a door at the far end of the enormous room. She nodded her understanding and then walked to the distant door and turned the round knob, ruining her white glove with a mixture of grease and black ink.

Juliet pushed the grimy door open and, upon entering, removed her soiled glove as she looked about the hectic front office of the
London Herald
.

She was not impressed with what she saw.

A lone clerk stood behind the tall wooden counter while several older gentlemen sat behind him at well-used desks with their heads buried between mountains of papers.

Juliet had two men waiting in front of her as she proceeded to queue, thankful for the moments to formulate her questions now that she had seen a daily publication at full function.

The first man concluded his business and left with a nod as the elderly man in front of her shuffled forward to speak with the lanky clerk.

The older man, it seemed, was selling his home after the passing of his wife.

How sad.

Juliet looked at the elderly gentleman again, wondering if their marriage had been a happy one. She knew there were happy marriages. She knew, in theory, that her parents’ disastrous union was the exception rather than the rule. Why then did she always view marriage with such overwhelming cynicism?

She contemplated the unfathomable question as the old man continued to speak with the clerk about the precise wording of his week-long advertisement and the fee that would be involved in printing it.

When they had finished negotiating a price, the elderly man hesitated and Juliet could see that she had been right. As the man made the final decision to sell his home, his distress was clear to anyone who took a moment to look.

“Well?” the clerk asked with not one ounce of compassion. “Do you want to place the advertisement or not?”

Angry, Juliet smiled at the old gentleman and said, “They certainly don’t give you much time to decide at the
Herald
, do they?” loud enough that the men at their desks glared in disapproval of the impatient clerk.

Appreciative of her kindness, the old man smiled back at her and then finally nodded to the clerk and paid the advertisement fee.

Juliet watched the elderly gentleman leave the lobby and then turned to the impolite clerk. She had just opened her mouth to speak when a long, bulky arm reached round her, holding up a thin brown envelope.

“Here you are, Mister Smith, same as last—”

“Pardon me.” Juliet turned around to look at the insolent newcomer.

The enormous man with a ghastly scar across his left cheek looked down at her, his haunting brown eyes focusing through her as if she were not there.

“I’ll just be a moment, madam.” The large man lifted his envelope toward the clerk for a second time. However, the assent of the document was stilled by the exquisite Venetian fan Juliet placed against the man’s muscular forearm.

“As shall I.” Juliet smiled.

The clerk and the bulky man with the envelope exchanged a glance of irritation and Juliet ignored them both.

“Now”—she turned back to the clerk—“if you would be so kind as to answer some questions for me,” she said with her most charming smile. “I would be most appreciative.”

“Yes, madam,” the clerk relented, although clearly annoyed.

“If I were to place an advertisement in your newspaper today, when might I expect that advertisement to appear in your publication?”

“Three days’ time.”

Juliet calculated, asking, “And if I were to place an advertisement today, what is the maximum length of time in which you would refrain from printing that advert?”

“Why indefinitely, madam.” His smile was, at best, tolerant. “All one need do is place the date on which you wish the advertisement to appear.”

“Like that one.” Juliet pointed to the large man’s brown envelope, having noted a date scrawled on the outside.

“Yes, madam. Now, if that is all?” the restless clerk asked.

“One more question?” The boorish man behind her grunted in protest, prompting Juliet to spin round. “Sir, I believe you are making the clerk anxious. Perhaps it would be best if you were to stand over there.”

They stared at one another but Juliet held her ground until the man reluctantly took a step back. She then turned her attention to the beleaguered clerk.

“How far in advance do you receive the articles from your contributing writers?” she inquired.

“The day before publication.”

Juliet burst into an exaggerated smile for the ill-mannered men, saying, “Thank you,” as she gathered her reticule to leave.

The tall man with the scar barreled past her and handed the clerk his envelope while keeping his empty eyes fixed on Juliet.

“Same as last time,” he said, then turned and walked out the door, making his rather discourteous point.

~

Viscount
Dunloch sat in the chair opposite Seamus, after having closed his tall study doors to the outside world.

“Right, I’ve told my servants not to disturb us so that you might tell me what is so bloody important that you could not wait until tomorrow evening? You are still going?”

“I said I would.” Seamus waved off the subject of the Duke of Glenbroke’s ball, moving on to more important and perplexing matters. “And I’ve your word of honor that you’ll not breathe a word of this conversation to anyone? Not our brothers—”

“Nor our parents . . . Aye.” Daniel rolled his eyes. “Damn it all, Seamus, what’s the difficulty?”

Staring at his older brother and closest friend, Seamus confided, “I think . . . I’m going mad.”

“What?” Daniel chuckled. “What the hell makes you think that you—”

“I kissed a colleague today.”

His brother sat back, stunned, then cleared his throat and reluctantly met Seamus’s eye.

“Well, Seamus,” Daniel began, uncomfortable. “I’m your brother and I hold a great affection for you and that will not change. We shall simply have to sit Mother and Father down and explain that you’re a sodomite and—”

“What?” Seamus shot out of his chair and then, realizing his mistake, sat back down. “No, no, no. She’s a woman. My colleague is a woman.”

“A woman? Oh, thank God.” His brother took a deep breath. “I was not sure how the earl would have taken to the news that his second son was a sodomite. Although, I suppose it is better than his heir being a sodom—”

“I’m not a sodomite!”

“I know, I know. But if you are not, then I don’t understand the problem.” Daniel’s turquoise eyes were fixed on his, trying to comprehend the difficulty. “You’re attracted to a woman?”

“I’m not attracted to the woman.” Seamus lifted both hands to emphasize his confusion. “That’s the bloody problem.”

“What do you mean, you’re not attracted to the woman? Did you kiss the lass?” Daniel’s eyebrows were pulled together as he stared intently at his face.

Seamus gave a slight nod. “Aye.”

“Then you’re attracted to her,” Daniel pronounced, as sure of himself as ever.

“I swear to you. I’m not attracted to the woman.” Seamus was adamant. “The lady isn’t my sort at all. She’s very plain, with ordinary brown hair. She’s got quite beautiful eyes, I’ll give her that, but she’s a wee thing.” He held his hand parallel to the mahogany floor.

“No, the lass does not sound your sort at all. If I recall, you prefer blondes.” Daniel grinned.

“Why the hell do I bother speaking with you?” Seamus stood and Daniel followed, holding up his hands in a calming gesture.

“Very well, I’m sorry.” His brother attempted to appear serious, but the blackguard was failing miserable. “I can see you’re distressed and in need of my counsel.”

He was at that.

So, despite his better judgment, Seamus sat down to hear his brother’s judicious advice. “Go on then.”

“Right.” Daniel leaned forward, his bulky forearms on his knees. “What was the lass doing when you thought to have a go at her?”

“For God’s sake.” Seamus rolled his eyes. “I didn’t ‘think to have a go at her’!”

“When you thought to kiss her then?”

“Aye.” Seamus nodded in agreement of the verbal hairsplitting. “She was talking.”

“Well, that explains it then.” Daniel chuckled, shrugging his shoulders. “Any man would rather kiss a woman than listen to her prattle.”

“She was not prattling.” Seamus shook his head.

“What was the lass doing then?”

“She was . . .” Seamus averted his eyes, his right knee bouncing up and down nervously. “She was explaining her theses on differential calculus.”

Daniel threw back his auburn head and laughed so hard that tears flooded his eyes. Seamus clenched his jaw and stood to leave.

“My apologies, Seamus. Please, I’m sorry. Please, sit down,” his brother begged as he wiped his wet cheeks of his amusement. Daniel sniffed to clear his head and then remembered, “You don’t even like mathematics,” on a peel of robust laughter.

Humiliated, Seamus turned then walked out of his brother’s study doors, knowing there was nothing for it.

Unfortunately, for Seamus, there was no one else with whom he would be willing to confide. He would just have to figure out on his own what the hell was wrong with him.

≈

Mister Collin poked his scarred face through the door as he knocked, reporting, “Seamus McCurren is requesting a seat at your table.”

“Back already?” Enigma smiled with satisfaction at the return of the intriguing Seamus McCurren.

Dante’s Inferno had not become London’s most popular hell merely for the quality of its whores. No, Dante’s had rather ingeniously thrown down the gauntlet to gentlemen such as Mister McCurren. Challenging these men to beat the house if they could and allowing them to bring their own cards to prove that the owner of Dante’s Inferno was simply superior in intellect to the gentlemen of polite society. And the gentlemen of the
ton
had accepted the challenge in droves.

The foolish pride of its eager victims and an understanding, by the hell’s humble owner, of the mathematical odds against them had made Dante’s the most profitable gaming establishment in all of London.

Therefore, it was with infrequent pleasure that Enigma played a gentleman worthy of combat, a gentleman as stimulating as Seamus McCurren.

Mister Seamus McCurren had wandered into Dante’s two months ago with Christian St. John, who had begged a chair at the famous owner’s table. After being beaten soundly, St. John had encouraged McCurren to have a go, and much to Christian St. John’s surprise, the gentleman did.

It had taken all night for Enigma to win the hell’s blunt back from Seamus McCurren, but it was worth the effort merely to experience the thrill of mental swordplay. Mister McCurren had enjoyed their skirmish, too, as evidenced by his repeated presence at the hell’s main table.

“Give Mister McCurren his usual seat.”

“Lord Harrington is sitting—”

“Move Harrington.” Enigma stared at the obsequious bodyguard. “I shall be down shortly.”

Irritated, Seamus glanced at his pocket watch then took another swig of scotch. He had been waiting three-quarters of an hour and had half a mind to leave Dante’s without having played one blessed hand.

He had come to the hell to occupy his mind, to forget his incomprehensible lapse in judgment with Juliet Pervill. Yet here he sat with nothing to occupy himself but the inane chitchat of the five eager gentlemen who sat at the table as excited as five fillies at Ascot.

Bored, Seamus leaned back in his chair, stretching as he glanced over the hell’s costly courtesans. Perhaps all he needed was a good rut to clear his head.

He had not been with a woman since sending his paramour packing and this was no doubt the cause of his transgression with the uninviting Lady Juliet Pervill. His body was aching for release and Dante’s whores were renowned for their salacious talents.

But Seamus had never paid for it, preferring a woman’s enthusiasm to feigned flattery. Still, he sipped the fiery liquid, perhaps just this once he could pay to have a whore—

“Mister McCurren,” the owner of Dante’s Inferno said, gracing the table with his undeniable presence. “It is so nice to see you again and so soon. Come to win back your losses?”

Seamus met the man’s gray-green eyes and they smiled at one another in an antagonistic show of respect. “As I recall, Mister Youngblood, the scales ended very nearly even.”

“Very nearly.” The annoyingly handsome man grinned then took his seat as did the other gentlemen allowed at his coveted table. “As you gentlemen well know, there is a minimum bid of ten pounds with no maximum bid.

“Transfer of property must be handled by my solicitor prior to being given a line of credit equal to its appraised worth. Accusations of impropriety will not be tolerated when you lose.” Two of the players chuckled with confidence. “And as always, you are welcome to furnish your own cards, provided that all parties at the table agree to their usage.”

Seamus yawned, scarcely listening to the familiar rules when Mister Youngblood glanced to his right.

With a crystal glass in hand, the stunning bawd of Dante’s Inferno ambled toward their table then sank into the chair closest her handsome lover. Youngblood gave a proprietary grin for the beautiful procuress who managed his bordello, but only offered herself to Youngblood himself.

Mister Youngblood lowered his head, his caramel-colored hair covering his sharp green eyes as he twirled his right forefinger in the scotch, lifting it. The forbidden fruit leaned forward, her décolletage in full view of the table as she suggestively sucked the spirits from Youngblood’s forefinger.

“Of course, your winnings can always be exchanged for services which Madame Richard would be happy to arrange.”

Seamus smiled, staring at the bawd’s indigo eyes as he pictured the services the enticing woman would provide. She was tall and blond, just the way he liked them, and the carnal possibilities were as endless as her lovely long legs.

“Shall we get on with it then,” a gentleman of middle years asked, clearly distracted by the erotic display.

Mister Youngblood chuckled, scooting his chair closer to the table as he asked, “Are you so eager to begin, Lord Harrington? You have already lost your town home to Lord Pervill and now you play with your estate.”

Harrington?

Incensed, Seamus turned away from Madame Richard to look at the man who had maliciously ruined his young colleague.

The gentleman had once been handsome and thought that he still was. However, his features were weathered by drink, and years of inactivity had softened his sharp angles with a layer of fat.

“Have you come to counsel me, Mister Youngblood, or are we here to play cards?” Lord Harrington leaned forward, his gray temples flashing in the candlelight as he placed an unopened deck of cards atop the immaculate baize table. “I’ve brought my own this time.”

Youngblood’s icy gaze met Lord Harrington’s as a warm smile spread across his elegant features. “Surely you’re not suggesting that my establishment has cheated you, Lord Harrington?”

Harrington swallowed as he glanced at the large men discreetly positioned about the busy gaming room. A guard with an immense scar that transverse his left cheek stepped forward and Mister Youngblood lifted his hand, stilling the muscle’s progress until Lord Harrington had the opportunity of answering the question.

The right side of Seamus’s mouth lifted at the thought of Lord Harrington being thrashed by Mister Youngblood’s treacherous troops.

However, he was disappointed when the cowardly bastard sputtered, “No, no, no. Of course I’m not accusing Dante’s of any impropriety, Mister Youngblood.”

“Good.” Youngblood lifted his scotch and, before taking a sip, added, “Because if I intended to fleece you, Lord Harrington, I can assure you that your town home would now be in
my
possession, not Lord Pervill’s.”

Madame Richard laughed as if the entire affair were some great amusement and then reached forward and grasped Lord Harrington’s sealed deck of cards.

The woman’s breasts pressed against the table and Seamus’s attention dipped to enjoy the burgeoning sight. He felt a chill and lifted his eyes only to meet the icy green gaze of Mister Youngblood.

“Enjoying yourself this evening, Mister McCurren?”

“Immensely.” Seamus smiled, unrepentant, amazed that a man who displayed his lover so freely would then become jealous of another man’s gawking. “Although I’d be enjoying my evening far more if we bloody well got on with it.”

“Want Lord Harrington’s estate, do you?” Mister Youngblood asked, shuffling the cards.

“I can’t imagine that I would want anything once owned by Lord Harrington.”

Harrington’s brows furrowed at the insult and he glared at Seamus as if seeing him for the first time. “What the hell did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.” Seamus reached for his cards, eager to add to Lord Harrington’s misery.

The proprietor of Dante’s Inferno chuckled at Seamus’s rudeness then sorted his cards as his paramour elegantly draped herself against him.

“Whenever you’re ready, old man,” Mister Youngblood said to the blond dandy on his left, who then tossed the first card, launching their costly diversion.

Glancing down at his hand only after the first card had been thrown, Seamus determined that he had already lost. The remainder of the hand was tedious and he played with little enthusiasm.

Lord Harrington gloated as he picked up his winnings and Seamus would have moved away from the bastard if being seated next to the arrogant drunk did not give him such a considerable advantage.

“Well done, Lord Harrington,” the confident Mister Youngblood congratulated the man. “At this pace, you might well win enough blunt to buy back your town home from Lord Pervill.”

Seamus glanced at the greed simmering in Harrington’s glassy eyes then gave a snort of disgust. He was sure that Lord Harrington had not given a second thought to the woman he had ruined, if he remembered ruining Juliet Pervill at all.