The Nobleman and the Spy

The Nobleman and the Spy

Bonnie Dee & Summer Devon

www.loose-id.com

The Nobleman and the Spy

Copyright © October 2010 by Bonnie Dee & Summer Devon
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eISBN 978-1-60737-884-6

Editor: Sandra Rychel

Cover Artist: Anne Cain

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1866, England

“We"re not asking you to kill the man,” the contact said in a low voice. The young man had introduced himself as Toole, but Reese suspected that was his role rather than his true name. Toole was merely the implement of the secret government group that gave Reese his orders. The man cleared his throat, picked up his second glass of cider, then looked around. Again.

He was so nervous that Reese supposed he was new to the work, though not entirely without good instincts. Toole obviously didn"t like having his back to the door, but in this almost empty room, moving the heavy bench would make enough clatter to attract attention from the innkeeper and the three other patrons who sat across the room.

After the quick glance over his shoulder, Toole said, “You"re to watch the subject as closely as possible.”

Reese waited. He kept his breath slow and easy, his hands loosely clasped on the table in front of him.
I am unarmed; I am not dangerous; I am listening
. He canted his upper body forward ever so slightly.
Hurry, so I can go about my
business.

The inn was sparsely furnished with old, scarred wooden tables and benches, but it was clean. Only the glowing coals in the fireplace lit the room. Toole wouldn"t recognize Reese again if they met on the street in daylight. Reese had picked the table so that the firelight illuminated his companion and threw his own face into shadow. Toole was a fresh-faced, brown-haired man, no more than twenty-five, 2

Bonnie Dee & Summer Devon

likely a soldier, a junior officer in mufti. Both the character of the contacts and Reese"s assignments had grown less fierce lately, which suited Reese. He knew any time the hint of danger or war arose, the small group he worked for would be the first to use violent methods no gentleman would approve of. He"d once been enthusiastic in his performance of those duties, had been in the track to command several men, but that had all changed. Now he worked alone, and he took no pride in doing this service for his country. In fact, he sometimes wondered how much of a service it really was.

Since his former contact, the captain, had died, the agency had sent a new person for each meeting. Reese didn"t blame them. Keep the lone agent in the field unattached, and he"ll do a better job of following directions given from above instead of the orders issued by the renegade contact, a man who used affection and loyalty for his own gains.

When he drank more than a single glass of brandy, Reese still wondered if any of the captain"s affection had been real. But he rarely drank, preferring to avoid those dangerous thoughts.

O Captain! my Captain!… My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and
still
. With half an eye on Toole, who drank and shifted nervously on his bench, Reese absently tried to recall the rest of that poem by the American.

Toole put down his glass. “If it comes to assassination, we understand you"re no longer available for that sort of work.” He stopped again, perhaps hoping Reese would contradict him.

Reese waited.

The young man rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “The fact of the matter is, we haven"t evaluated the danger of this gentleman. He could well be in danger himself.

We hope you"ll alert us to anyone else who might be interested in his activities.”

Reese waited.

This was going to take forever if the puppy threw in every detail of his job.

“
Watch him. Report daily
,” had been all the orders he"d needed or would have got The Nobleman and the Spy

3

under the captain"s rule, but there was an advantage to all this babbling. He might learn why his employers wanted the subject put under surveillance, and that could be interesting. Purely an exercise to entertain himself. Reese had no intention of doing any more or less than his job.

Toole drank some more of his cider, then said, “We wouldn"t be at all surprised if there were attempts made on his life. He"s a nobleman from a volatile region and of high rank. There"s a monetary aspect as well. He"s wealthy and stands to inherit more.”

Reese spoke. “Do you require me to protect this man if I detect threats to his life?”

The young man started. Perhaps he"d forgotten Reese could talk. “Well. Um.

I"m not certain. I"ll get word to you.”

If Reese was not to interfere in how things played out, it must mean that the British government hadn"t ruled out killing this poor sod, whoever he was, if it suited their political agenda. And they wouldn"t want their own spy mucking up their operation.

It didn"t matter to Reese. He no longer considered himself on the side of the angels. In fact, he couldn"t recall what it felt like to believe in angels. But the late captain had made him a promise—no more dealing death—and so far his superiors had kept that promise, despite the captain"s treachery.

Reese waited. He still hadn"t got the most vital bit of information from Toole.

“We know you usually observe from a distance, but there could be some advantage to cultivating an acquaintance in this case.” Toole reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a thick purse, which he plopped on the table.

“He travels in wealthy circles, so funds are provided. You are to keep a strict accounting and to detail your method in final reports, however.” Toole drew in a deep breath, and his back stiffened. “You are to formulate your own plans for infiltration. No need to report on your method until the assignment is complete.”

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Bonnie Dee & Summer Devon

Clearly that particular order annoyed Toole. Perhaps he wanted to see himself as a director of Reese"s activities rather than a messenger boy.

The purse disappeared inside Reese"s coat.

Toole reached for his cider and tossed the rest down. If he kept up this pace, he"d have a thick head in the morning. “I think our business is complete now, and—”

“You do realize,” Reese interrupted gently, “that you have not given me a name?”

The other shifted sideways to look around the room before answering. “A gentleman called von Binder,” he said at last.

Reese blinked. He reached for his own glass of untouched ale.

Toole said, “He"s in London now.” He adopted a lecturer"s tone and continued.

“The man is also known as Karl von Binder, or sometimes as Charles Binder. He"s a nobleman from the duchies Neuschlosswold and Binder, and is therefore Karl,
Erb-Pfalzgraf von und zu
Neuschlosswold-Binder—”

“And Karlo too, in certain circles,” Reese interrupted. He put down his now empty glass. “Yes, I know of the count"s son.”

Toole abandoned his formal manner. “Does he know you?”