The Lady Who Came in from the Cold (3 page)

As Lady Pandora Blackwood, she’d worked diligently to build her reputation. Invitations to her soirees and balls were the most sought-after in all the
ton
. Society wags had decreed her one of the most sophisticated and glamorous hostesses in the Top Ten Thousand. Everyone knew she and Marcus had a love match, but what would they say if they knew how intemperate her feelings for him were beneath her urbane surface? How madly she loved him? How one touch from him made her want to climb astride him at the breakfast table, never mind the servants who could come in at any moment, and beg him to take her then and there?

He made love to you just an hour ago, you greedy wanton.

Her cheeks warmed. Other parts, too.

She went back to the invitations even as naughty images danced through her head. She and Marcus shared a passionate marriage bed—this morning being a case in point—but certain lines should not be crossed. She’d dedicated the last dozen years to making herself into the kind of wife that Marcus wanted. To becoming his ideal, his every fantasy. While ardor was all well and good, a man like Marcus also needed a wife who was a lady.

It was Miss Pandora Hudson, only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Hudson, of the Devonshire Hudsons, that he’d fallen in love with, after all. That was who he’d proposed to and married. Not Pandora Smith, former secret agent and bastard daughter of a whore.

As Lady Pandora, she’d made her husband happy. She would continue to make him happy. To do that, she would act like the lady she’d become… or at least save her carnal impulses for bedtime.

“What the devil?”

Marcus’ oath startled her as did the clattering of his letter opener against his breakfast plate. Her gaze flew to him; never before had she seen such an expression on his face. Typically, he was a man of composure, yet now his eyes blazed with rage. A letter was clenched in his fist; throwing it down, he shoved away from the table and rose abruptly to his feet. He stood, glowering at the offending piece of paper.

“What is it?” she said in surprise.

“I’ll have the hide of the bounder who wrote this,” Marcus vowed grimly. “I’ll hunt him down, and, by Jove, he’ll answer for this slander. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll wish he’d never been born—”

“What
are
you talking about, my love?” She reached over and plucked up the crumpled missive. She smoothed it out—and her throat closed.

Handwriting she’d never forget. Words that ripped the veil from her world.

The Spectre
, she thought numbly.
Getting his revenge from the grave.

“Penny?”

She turned her dazed eyes up to her husband.

“Do you know who is responsible for this defamation?” he demanded.

“I… I…” Ugly heat scalded her insides. For some reason, she couldn’t get her brain to work. ’Twas as if her mental cogs were rusted into place.

“It matters not, my love. I’ll find out.” The muscles of his jaw were tight, his eyes slits of steel. “Whoever the bastard is, he’ll pay for this insult.”

She knew that look on her husband’s face: that of a crusader out for justice. Panic tumbled through her. Once Marcus set upon a course, there was no stopping him. A determination to do right was woven into the fabric of his nature. He would not relent until he found his answers. The Spectre might be dead, but if Marcus went searching into the dark alleys of her past, who knew what deadly skeletons he might dig up? What dangers might befall him?

“No,” she blurted. “You can’t.”

“Of course I can. And I will,” he said curtly. “No one slanders my wife and gets away with it.”

Think of something.
Amongst espionage circles, she’d once been infamous for her skill at disguise and deception, yet as her husband’s gaze held hers, her mind churned in desperate confusion. It refused to come up with more lies, ways to bluff her way out of disaster. For the first time, her survival instincts abandoned her.

Icy perspiration trickled beneath her bodice. As she wetted her lips, telltale heat spread over her cheeks.

“What is the matter, love? Do you know who wrote this slander…” As Marcus watched her, something shifted in his expression. Disbelief strained his voice as he said, “It
is
slander, isn’t it?”

Still, she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t force her lips to shape the word, just one more lie, to save herself from certain destruction. Here, she was facing the deadliest opponent of them all—the truth—and she was suddenly, inexplicably out of bullets. She couldn’t hold his gaze, so intense and piercing.

Familiar callused fingers tipped her chin up. “Look at me.”

She did, staring into her beloved’s eyes, and, to her horror, her vision began to swim. She could count on two hands the times that she’d cried in front of her husband. Being rather hotheaded by nature, she was more apt to instigate an out-and-out row than succumb to tears. He liked to tease her that, with her temperament, she would have been one of the rowdy troublemakers in his battalion. He never knew how close he’d come to the truth. Perhaps she ought to have hidden her natural tendencies, but it had been too much trouble to cultivate the art of being a watering pot, even for him.

Now, however, she couldn’t stop the moisture leaking from her eyes.

“What the devil?” Marcus’ tone permeated her shock.

“You mustn’t pursue this. The writer of the note—he’s dead,” she said in a rush. “He was a spy, working for the French, and he’s no longer a threat. All of this is in the past. Please I can explain—”

“The letter says you were a spy, Pandora.” Her husband stared at her. “Is this true?”

Blooming hell.
She fumbled for a response. “There’s a good explanation—”

“It’s a yes or no question,” he said incredulously.

Say no. Say no. Say no.

She seemed to have lost any ability to control herself. ’Twas as if she’d let go of tightly held reins all at once, and she was flying, flying into an abyss. Terrified, she couldn’t stop more tears from spilling over. Nor her chin from dipping in an infinitesimally small nod.

The silence was punctuated by sounds of domesticity beyond the room. Maids cleaning, silverware rattling on a tray. Everyday noises that seemed to come from a world away.

“And the rest of the letter?” The pain in her husband’s voice serrated her insides. “It claims that you… you seduced these three men. Pierre Chenet. Jean-Philippe Martin. Vincent Barone.”

The names tore into her like shrapnel. The last, in particular, left a gaping hole out of which her nightmares oozed. The alleyway of crushed violets. Smell of garbage. The taste of fear, tinny and acid, filled her mouth.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hold Marcus’ blazing gaze. “I… I…”

“Goddamnit, you will look at me and give me the truth.”

She forced her eyes up. His face was now tightly controlled, wiped of expression. He wasn’t her Marcus any longer; he was Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington, a man who held those in his command to the strictest levels of moral behavior. Who was now looking at his wife as he would a soldier placed on court-martial.

She’d fought too many battles not to know defeat when she saw it. No weapons left, no place to hide.
Damn the Spectre for doing this. Damn him for destroying everything.

“I had no choice,” she said through the constriction of her throat. “It was part of the mission. Please, I can explain—”

“
Explain
? How do you explain that you were a spy? A damned
whore
?”

His words sliced through her; shame bled out.

“I did… I did what I had to do,” she whispered.

“You
had
to lie to me? In twelve years, not once have you mentioned that you were involved in this filthy business.
Damnation.
” He dragged his hands through his hair, his expression going from angry to ravaged. “On our wedding night, you acted like you were a virgin. Was that… was that just an act?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”

“There was
blood on the sheets
. How did it get there?” he roared.

A tremor travelled through her. In all their years together, Marcus had never raised his voice at her. But she was stripped bare now; there was nothing left to yield but the truth.

“It was chicken blood,” she whispered.

Blue flames leapt in his eyes, and then he was looking at her as if she were something he’d scraped off his shoe. As if he were seeing her for the first time—and what he saw disgusted him. She didn’t blame him. Even as self-revulsion made her stomach roil, she stumbled to her feet, held out a pleading hand.

“I was wrong to deceive you, Marcus. What I did was unforgivable. But I did all of it because I loved you so much—”

“
Love?
” Never had the word sounded ugly coming from his lips, but now it cracked like a whip. “Pandora—if that is even your name—you don’t know what love is. If you did, you would not have betrayed me from the moment we met.”

She’d faced death more than once, and yet her fear now made all past experiences fade to nothingness. Terror filled her lungs, closed over her head, waves and waves of it. Frantically, she fought to stay afloat.

“We’ve been happy. All I’ve ever wanted was to make you happy.” Tears streaming down her face, she touched his sleeve. “Please, Marcus, I can make things right—”

He shook her off as if her very touch disgusted him.

“Don’t,” he clipped out. “It’s too late.”

“T-too late?” Her voice quivered.

“Our marriage is a lie. All of it. Nothing was real.”

His cold, flat words punched harder than any fist. Shaking her head in denial, she said, “No, that’s not true. I love you. And the children—”

“I will decide what to tell them—once I decide what to do with you.”

Dread squeezed her lungs. She couldn’t breathe.

He turned and headed toward the door.

“Wait,” she croaked. “Where are you going?”

“That is none of your business.” He spoke with his back to her. “From now on, nothing I do concerns you.”

The door slammed behind him.

Alone, her strength left her. She sank to her knees, and everything she’d held back came rushing to the fore. The torrents swept over her, and for once in her life, she was lost.

Chapter Four

1817

Marcus Harrington leaned on the balcony railing and, for the first time that evening, breathed freely. The night air was cool and carried the budding scents of spring. Although lofty Mayfair rooftops crowded all around him, at least here he could see the sky, which calmed his inner restlessness. He slid a finger under his collar, loosening the life-threatening grip of his fashionable cravat. The roar of a ball in full swing seeped through the glass panes of the double doors, even though he’d closed them for privacy. He’d wanted a moment away from the mayhem. From the relentless, monotonous blur of gaiety.

Funny how he’d spent more than a decade of his life in army camps and barracks and during those last years all he’d wanted was to be back in civilization. To be away from the horrors of the battlefield. And now, two years after Waterloo, he
was
back. For good. He’d sold his commission when his older brother James died, leaving him the title.

Grief panged. Marcus had seen more than his fair share of death, and, even so, witnessing James struggle with that wasting disease, an invisible opponent that had worn his strong, vital brother down to skin and bones and then even less, had been devastating. If life was fair, James ought to still be alive, still the Marquess of Blackwood, standing where Marcus was.

But life wasn’t fair.

Thus, James had been buried in the cold earth for over a year now while Marcus wore the title like an ill-fitting castoff. He’d never had his brother’s charismatic personality, hadn’t been groomed to be a lord, and the years fighting abroad had made him even less suited to be a marquess. What he’d thought would be a homecoming turned out to be yet another foray into foreign territory.

He was a military man: he had no idea how to carry on as a nobleman. He had no penchant for the activities that made up a fashionable life. As far as he was concerned, clothing was to keep one warm and covered without getting in one’s way, and gambling and drinking to excess were a waste of time and money. Doing social rounds and making idle chitchat held even less appeal, and he hadn’t the faintest clue what to do with the townhouse and coterie of servants he’d inherited.

That’s why you need a wife, my boy—to help you settle into a routine
, his mama had said. Despite her grief over her eldest, she roused herself from mourning to give Marcus a lecture at every opportunity.
Miss Pilkington is perfect for you. Good ton, pretty as she can stare, and an heiress to boot. You can’t do better. What are you waiting for?

He supposed his mother was right. Cora Pilkington, daughter of the evening’s hosts,
was
an ideal candidate. Blonde and demure, she had perfect manners and a spotless reputation, earning her the status of a Diamond of the First Water. During their chaperoned visits, she’d proved to be charming company… if a bit overzealous in her admiration of his wartime actions. He’d proceeded with a slow, cautious courtship over the past three months, and her father, Charles Pilkington III, had made clear that an offer from Marcus would be heartily accepted.

All Marcus had to do was take that final step. Society thought the marriage a
fait accompli
already, and he didn’t know why he balked. He was no rake, attached to fantasies of bachelorhood. No, he wanted to be married and to start a nursery. Cora was the rational choice. And if the idea of marrying her failed to stir elation in him… well, that had to be his own failing, not hers.

His brother wouldn’t have been ruled by sentiment. A lord down to his very bones, James had always known his duty and done the right thing. If he’d concluded that Cora would make a perfect Marchioness of Blackwood, he would have married her forthwith.

As their mama would put it,
No use shilly-shallying about.

Marcus resolved to talk to Miss Pilkington’s father soon.