Authors: Charlotte Russell
A Spy's Honor
LOVE & LIES
At seventeen, Lady Claire Talbot thought she’d found her one true love. But, after rescuing her from a dangerous situation, in undue haste he fled to the Continent instead of marrying her. Now, after years of suppressing her romantic side and honing her practicality, Claire is on the verge of an altogether
convenient
match.
A man of few words but much passion, Lord John Reyburn always regretted his decision to turn back from Gretna Green. Now, wounded in more ways than one, he is in the place—but not the position—to correct his mistake. His mission in England is to capture an assassin. And, so, one of His Majesty’s more unconventional spies, John must add yet a further deceit: cold indifference to Claire’s impending marital bliss. For unless sweet loyalty and devotion couple with suspicion and betrayal, nothing can make things right.
A SPY’S HONOR
Charlotte Russell
www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.
A SPY’S HONOR
Copyright © 2014 Karen Dobbins
All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.
Digital edition created by Maureen Cutajar
www.gopublished.com
ISBN 978-1-938876-53-0
To the hero I married
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While I may write alone, I could never have produced this book without others. For their thorough critiques and unending patience with this story I want to thank the ladies of the Demimonde writing group: Alyssa Everett, Susanna Fraser, Vonnie Hughes, and Rose Lerner. For their continuing support and encouragement I want to thank the Rainy Day Writers: Kristine Cayne, Josefin Kannin, Dawn Kravagna, KL Mullens, Shannon O’Brien, Sherri Shaw, and Marianne Stillings. I am also very grateful for the deep historical knowledge of the members of RWA’s The Beau Monde. And finally, much love and appreciation goes to Shelly, who encouraged me to try this writing business in the first place. Thank you all!
CONTENTS
A SPY’S HONOR
Chapter One
London, May 1812
Lady Claire Talbot stared wistfully at the couple leading the dancers down the floor of the Duke of Allerton’s grand ballroom. The handsome duke, his untamable hair falling over blue eyes bright with love, partnered his bride with a breathtaking tenderness and grace. The two were perfectly matched—he, tall and strong; she, petite and pretty. But more than that was the romantic air swirling around them, causing an outbreak of smiles and happy laughs in all who watched.
Tucked out of sight in a corner of the room, Claire sighed. Her sister Emily, the beaming bride, had found her True Love. But would Claire ever find such love for herself? She broadened her gaze, taking in all the lively couples now dancing alongside the bride and groom.
“You’ve wasted my time and money, girl.” The Earl of Bradwell’s brandy-coated breath assaulted her nose. “Not one offer of marriage this Season. Not one suitor coming to call. No one has even asked you to dance at your own sister’s wedding ball.”
Claire flinched, at seventeen still unable to disguise how much her father’s words hurt her. One day she
would
master that skill.
The Earl of Bradwell moved to stand in front of her, blocking her view of the bride and groom. Cheeks burnished a deep red and eyes glazed over with drink, he shook his head. “’Tis no wonder. Look at you. Plumper than a Christmas goose. And the color of that dress—why did you not ask Emily for her opinion? Not much rattles around in that brain of hers, but she does know what’s fashionable.”
I did ask her. I always do! She said the peach color was perfect for my darker skin tone. She said the overdress flattered my figure. She said I looked lovely. And what would you know of fashion anyway? You can barely see straight.
Not a word of this passed her lips. There was no point in protesting; he never listened to a word she said. And, truthfully, he must be right. Not a single man had attempted to court her this spring despite her not-insignificant dowry. She’d been lucky to dance once at each affair she’d attended, and she wouldn’t be surprised to learn Emily had slyly solicited those offers on her behalf.
She picked at a loose thread on the embroidered overdress and hoped the temptation of swilling more of the duke’s brandy would lure her father away.
“I cannot afford to give you another Season.”
Of course he couldn’t afford it, not when he whiled away so much of his meager wealth on drink and traveling aimlessly around the world. Claire’s dreams of finding that perfect man to sweep her off her feet and rescue her from the brunt of her father’s drunken anger skittered away at her father’s pronouncement. No one like Allerton would ever have the chance to save her.
All she could manage in reply was a weak, “Yes, Father.”
“Now, don’t have a fit of the dismals on me, daughter.” A white-gloved finger wagged in front of her face. “I know how much you want to marry. So, I’ve done your work for you. I’ve found just the man. Never say I didn’t do anything for you.”
The prospect of her father choosing her husband didn’t exactly elevate her spirits. However, this man could have potential….
“He’s willing to overlook all this”—her father waved a hand up and down in front of her body—“for your nice, fat dowry. That’s the only thing that should be fat, eh?”
Or perhaps not. Claire closed her eyes, only wishing she could cover her ears too, to block out her father’s derisive laugh. When in his cups his mood always turned foul. He derided her for her appearance and her sister for what he perceived as a slow intellect.
“Wait here,” her father ordered. “I’ll bring Lord Landry over for a dance.” As he turned away, she heard him mutter something about “that demmed dress.”
Claire, eyes still shut, drew in a deep breath and let the rustling of beautiful gowns and the tap-tap of slippered feet wash over her. Where was a dashing hero when you needed one? Should she hide from her father? Would it do any good?
“Lady Claire, may I have the next dance?”
Her eyelids sprang open, and she dashed a hand across her wet eyes. Before her stood Lord John Reyburn, Allerton’s younger brother. Though not the hero she’d been wishing for, she forced a smile for him. Lord John had never been anything but polite to her, if distantly so, since they had met two weeks ago.
“Good evening. I suppose Allerton sent you over?” Claire inwardly winced, all too aware how
impolite
that question was. She didn’t want to be asked to dance out of pity, though. And she wished Allerton knew better than to try such a ploy.
Lord John shoved his spectacles further along his nose, his blue eyes blinking furiously behind the lenses. “N-no, he hasn’t. Do you think Allerton’s even had time to speak to me this evening?” He nodded toward his brother and Claire’s sister, the beautiful couple surrounded by well-wishing friends.
Claire scrutinized his face, looking for signs of falsehood. Lord John was taller than she, though he didn’t tower over her like Allerton did. In fact, except for their dark hair and blue eyes, there were no similarities between the brothers. Allerton had an athletic form, a classically handsome face, and an open character that won him many friends and admirers. Lord John, on the other hand, was much too thin and so unbearably diffident that Claire had yet to draw him into an extended meaningful conversation.
He might be lying, but with his features so shuttered, she had no way of guessing what he was thinking.
Suddenly he leaned closer. A sweet, nutty wave teased her nose. Was that almond soap? She leaned closer too, inhaling more deeply.
He dropped his head and whispered, “If you dance with me, you won’t have to dance with Lord Landry.”
Claire nearly whimpered in mortification. How much had he heard?
He held out his hand. “Shall we?”
She forced herself to look at him. Nothing but earnestness shone in his eyes. To tell the truth, she’d dance with a frog at the moment if doing so allowed her to escape her father and his “plan.”
Not that Lord John was a frog. He was what he appeared to be: a bashful, wonderful-smelling young man.
Claire slipped her hand into his and could have sworn he almost smiled as she did. But, before she could contemplate that, they were swept up into the line of dancers.
Soon Claire was clapping, twirling and smiling along with everyone else. A rousing dance always served her spirits well, even at the most trying times. Lord John was a competent partner, though a constrained and mostly silent one.
After the last note played he escorted her to the far side of the room. Here, a pearlescent white silk draped the walls and every few feet purple clematis vines cascaded from the top of the two-story ceiling. The whole effect was gorgeous and opulent, as befit a duke and his new duchess.
Lord John grabbed a glass of lemonade from a passing footman and handed it to her. Claire thanked him and took a sip. She cast her gaze around the room, on the alert for any sign of her father and the mysterious Lord Landry.
“I like the color of your gown.”
Her temper mushroomed. She was in no need of Spanish coin, especially when Lord John had already made it clear that he eavesdropped on her conversation with her father. Never would she have thought Allerton’s brother to be so ungentlemanly. She turned to face him, ready to deliver a sharp word—
Behind the spectacles his eyes gleamed with a hint of…amusement? She’d never seen such an emotion anywhere remotely near his face. Though he was only three years older than she, he seemed older even than Allerton.