One Night With a Spy (10 page)

"I don't know why you had to show up." Elliot had a marvelous grasp of the acid glare.

"Now you see, that is the wrong take on matters," Marcus said
conversationally as they rode back to Barrowby together on their exhausted but now-calm mounts. He was still in a very good mood after the pleasure—er, triumph—of this morning's kiss. "A man should keep his competition in plain view."

Elliot smirked. "You don't believe that her ladyship and I have come to an agreement."

"Oh, I believe you. I'm simply not sure that she does." He gave his horse a kick, pulling ahead.

"Now what is that supposed to m— Oy, hold up there, Blythe-Goodman!"

It wasn't sporting to outrun Elliot's nag. It was only that Marcus felt the pull to see her—to complete his mission.

Oh, bloody hell. He wanted to see her and he shouldn't hide it, not if he wanted to win her confidence. He should allow Marcus Blythe-Goodman to have his infatuation, for it would only make his efforts more persuasive. Look at what the fellow had accomplished with a simple stroll in the garden!

Talking about your alias as if he were real? Not sane, old man.

Nor did he care. She was less than a mile away and he wanted to see her.

Now.

When informed that her guests had arrived, Julia felt her heart leap for a single perfect moment. Then she remembered that she didn't want to see Mr. Blythe-Goodman ever again.

Yet there he was, emerald eyes gleaming above his white, intimate smile, looking very nearly as glad to see her as she was to see him.

She became aware that she hadn't breathed in several moments. She put a hand to her cheek to find that her own face held a welcoming smile as well. Immediately, she turned it on Mr. Elliot.

"Have you given your horses to Quentin? He will check them for injuries while we luncheon." She turned and gestured for the gentlemen to come along, all the while with the smile in place. She must not let him know it was just for him.

Still, Julia walked ahead of Mr. Blythe-Goodman and Mr. Elliot as she led them down the hall. She didn't mean to be rude, but one never knew…

Sure enough, from the open library door she heard a suspicious "Hut, hut, hut!" She increased her pace slightly so that she came level with that door before the gentlemen did. With a quick sidestep, she shut the door on the human tower, three footmen high, that was tossing books from hand to hand, passing them to be put away on the top shelf—twenty feet from the floor!

"There was an unpleasant draft," she called over her shoulder to her guests as she moved quickly on. She wanted to get to the dining room first, for Beppo had an uncanny habit of—

"Beppo!" Her hiss was nearly silent, but the butler, who was hanging from the chandelier by his knees—in order to dust it thoroughly, he maintained, but Julia knew he simply loved to swing ten feet above the floor—had time to flip over twice and land on the center of the table with a flourish before the gentlemen entered five strides behind her.

Julia nearly panicked, but when she turned, Beppo was standing sedately at her side, every bit the dignified servant.

He bowed deeply to them all. "Shall I bring wine as well, milady?"

Julia smiled with relief. "Yes, Beppo, that would be lovely. I'm sure the gentlemen wish some refreshment after their difficulty this morning."

Mr. Blythe-Goodman was watching her. His green eyes—how could anyone's eyes be that perfectly green?—missed nothing, she could tell. She smiled to cover her moment of alarm. "And how have you found our little village, sirs?" She waved them to their chairs and seated herself with Mr. Elliot's help. "Is the innkeeper taking good care of you?"

"Exemplary." The big man folded his length into the dainty dining chair like a fellow who intended to stay. Julia tore her gaze away from the muscles rippling in his thighs, encased as they were in snug breeches.

Mr. Elliot was more effusive. "I believe Furman's ale improves by the day," he said.

Julia shot a glance at Mr. Elliot, who was gazing at her with his tongue thrust firmly into his cheek. She'd been found out, it seemed. Ah, well. No bit of maneuvering lasted forever, no matter how ingenious. Besides, the local fellows had begun to complain that their own beer was being tainted by proximity to the "piss" ale.

She smiled back at Elliot. "I'm pleased to hear it." He would get no more satisfaction than that from her. She had no regrets about trying to get rid of the throng of gold diggers.

Of course, Elliot was just as bad, but at least he was an amusing gold digger. Mr. Blythe-Goodman, however…

He was dressed simply enough, and the cheap fabrics and inexpensive buttons lent him an air of financial instability, but the way he wore them—as if he were dressed by the Prince Regent's own tailor.

He said all the right things, and he said them well, but there was something in his eyes… Julia felt challenged, stimulated, frustrated, and gratified, all at once.

Which was ridiculous. What did she care for his good opinion? He was looking for a wealthy wife so that he might live out his days without a moment of honest work!

Which is nothing at all like you, correct?

Julia's indignation lost all inflation at that thought. Who was she to point shame at someone who was trying to improve their situation through marriage?

Not that anyone knew that but her vast and loyal family here at Barrowby.

No, Mr. Blythe-Goodman had no reason to gaze at her so critically, as if his judgment might actually sting her somehow! She raised her chin and matched his gaze, judgment for judgment. "What is it that you see, sir? Am I turning blue, perchance?"

Elliot sputtered protest, and Julia could tell that her friend was truly worried that she'd been offended, but she never took her gaze from Mr. Blythe-Goodman's. He watched her for a long moment, then finally let his eyes drop.

Julia might have taken a bit more comfort in her victory if she wasn't very nearly sure—no, she was quite sure!—that his gaze was now pausing at her bosom. Insulting and impertinent?

And you weren't watching the way his long strides flexed the muscles in his thighs? Or were you too busy looking a bit higher?

This time it was her gaze that slid away.

If only it weren't for that blasted kiss. She'd been doing so well, cementing her plans with Elliot and having confronted the Royal Three—which she'd done nicely indeed—and settling Barrowby after the loss of its lord.

How could all that stability have been so befuddled and confused by the mere touch of a man's lips on hers?

Warm hungry lips that had swept over hers and possessed them—hot invading tongue that had battled hers, hard hands on her flesh, strong arms about her back—

She swallowed forcefully and glanced up at the suddenly silent room. Mr. Blythe-Goodman was gazing at her with naked hunger in his eyes. Mr. Elliot was regarding them both with half-lidded eyes.

Beppo arrived with the wine. Mr. Elliot leaned into the path of Julia's absentminded gaze. "My lady, are you unwell?"

Outside the house, something exploded.
Boom. Boom, boom
.

«
^
»

To be sheltered and protected, not from life or danger or travail, but from the way such can wound the solitary heart—is that more than I have the right to ask?

The glass in the windows shivered and the crystals tinkled in the chandelier above their heads. Mr. Elliot and Mr. Blythe-Goodman froze in the act of lifting their glasses.

Beppo's gaze shot to hers.
Privies
, he mouthed.

She nodded quickly.
Go
.

He was right, she knew. If there was one thing travelers knew, it was the sound of fireworks in the privy. It was a common revenge upon the landowner who did not allow his lands to be crossed by the fair folk, who considered their right to passage granted from time immemorial.

"Stay here!"

At Mr. Blythe-Goodman's terse order, Julia turned back to him in surprise, but he was already following Beppo, Mr. Elliot close on his heels. Left behind, Julia was safe to roll her eyes in exasperation. All that manly heroism, wasted. When a privy blew—oh, heavens, the perpetrator had blown up all three!—there was nothing to be done but the cleaning up.

She followed more slowly. She wasn't truly interested in slipping in the inevitable muck that would coat simply everything, but she was highly interested to know who would do such a thing.

There wasn't a showman or Gypsy in Europe who didn't know that Barrowby was a good host to the travelers. It was only good estate management, after all, to provide good meat and plentiful firewood to prevent the folk from poaching—er, procuring it themselves.

None of them would do this to her, of that she was certain.

An angry suitor, resentful of her choosing Mr. Elliot?

She sighed. It was possible. Those boys were desperate enough to attempt some sort of sabotage—

Sabotage.

As she stood in the gravel drive, her skirts inches away from the limit of the foul stuff sprayed from the main house privy, she gazed sourly at the mess surrounding her. Now, who might try to discomfit her in the midst of her mourning? Someone with a knowledge of sabotage techniques? Someone who knew she was vying to be confirmed in her position as the Fox?

No. That was a ridiculous notion. This was not the work of the Three. It was only the childish vengeance of a disappointed swain, she was sure of it.

Mr. Elliot was mincing through the muck to where Mr. Blythe-Goodman was examining the remains of the privy shed where it had landed on its side several feet from its previous resting place.

From the look of the splintered mess, they'd be needing new sheds as well. Julia sighed and signaled to Igby, one of her juggling footmen. He came, holding his filthy hands wide so as not to mar his livery. The showmen took their roles as household staff very seriously and cared for their "costumes" well.

"Clean up and go to the village to fetch a carpenter or two and a wagonload of sawn lumber," she told him. "I want new sheds up by tomorrow eve."

Igby nodded gratefully. "Yes, my lady. Right away, my lady."

Julia turned back to watch Mr. Blythe-Goodman kneel carelessly in the filth to get a closer look at the scorched interior wall of the privy shed. Her curiosity twitched, both at the cause of the blasts and the fact that this alleged dandy was entirely absorbed in the mystery himself, much to the detriment of his wardrobe.

"For pity's sake, Marcus, don't touch it!" Elliot, who persisted in lingering over Marcus's shoulder, had gone green with nausea at the smell.

Marcus ignored him. Curiously, the interior surface of the privy shed was clean, burned to the grain by the fireball that had tossed it aside.

"That was no mere firecracker in the privy," said a soft melodic voice behind him.

Marcus controlled the tremor that went up his spine at that delicious intonation and shot Lady Barrowby a considering glance. She'd hiked her skirts and waded through the slime to his side and bent over the shed.

"What do you mean, no mere firecracker?" It had been his own conclusion, as well, but she was not behaving in any way as he'd expected a lady to behave in this situation.

Then again, Elliot was being lady enough for both of them.

She was gazing at the blackened wood. "We dig new privies on a regular schedule. There was no gas buildup to cause such a flame. Someone used—" She leaned closer to the wreckage and inhaled deeply. Elliot went into silent paroxysms of revulsion behind her.

"Someone used gunpowder," she stated with certainty. "And lots of it." She straightened, her expression grim. "If we were like most and let the privies overfill, this could have been much more serious. Stupid boy!" She glared at him as if it were his fault. "One of my people could have been gravely injured!"

Marcus stood and looked about them. "Are you sure one of them wasn't?"

She shook her head, not bothering to glance about. "I would know if they had been."

Marcus gazed at her for a long moment. She paid no attention to him as she stood gazing at the splintered wood with narrowed eyes. She chewed her lower lip when she was thinking hard, he noticed. When she released it, it was plump and pink and wet—

He forced his gaze down to his own muck-covered boots.
Mind on the job, you idiot
.

She was the target of his investigation. Targets did not have lips, plump or otherwise. Targets were objects, not people. She was an unknown species that required analysis, not a woman.

She was a target whose property had been vandalized. She might be unqualified and unsuited for the Fox's seat, but she was still a lady and he was still a gentleman. Someone had pulled a nasty prank that could have had deadly results. If, somehow in some future he didn't want to contemplate, she was confirmed as the Fox, he would not be found lacking in his duty to protect her.

For a moment he wondered if she had done it to herself for some nefarious reason, but he discounted the thought immediately. She was far too angry about the danger to her people. She did seem to care about her dependents, he had to give her that.

His mother had often told him that you could tell much about a person by how they spoke to the lowest maid in their household. Was this caring attitude some sort of pleasing façade Lady Barrowby wore or did she take her responsibilities seriously?

"You and Mr. Elliot must return to the village," she told him abruptly. "Please tell the innkeeper to charge your cleaning to me." She turned and began to stride off—to the center of the mess, he noticed, not away from it.

"I believe I shall remain a while longer," he said easily. "You need all the hands you can get at the moment, I should think."

She halted and turned to him in surprise. She would have denied his assessment, he could tell, but there was no denying the sheer magnitude of the damage.

She nodded sharply. "If that is your wish, then I would appreciate the assistance."

She glanced at Elliot, who sighed deeply. "I shall remain as well."