One Night With a Spy (3 page)

"Their lordships wish you to wait on them in the parlor, my lady. At your convenience, of course."

Beppo, who had come late in life to the serving of the "Quality," had added that last bit on himself, she was sure. "Their lordships" hadn't seemed too terribly concerned with her convenience. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes for a long moment.

Grace under fire.

She returned to the parlor to find the four men ranged like a firing squad, facing her. Fire, indeed. From the glare in Lord Liverpool's eyes, she rather thought brimstone might also be in her future.

"Gentlemen, have you come to the obvious conclusion?" Careful. She might have the upper hand, but they'd never work with her if she alienated them completely.

Lord Reardon bowed. "My lady, I fear the only conclusion we have come to is that we cannot currently come to a conclusion. We request a fortnight to deliberate upon it."

A thrill went through Julia. A tie vote, then? Who might be voting on her side—Reardon and Greenleigh? The two were reportedly very happily wed. They would likely have a higher opinion of a lady's abilities.

So… it was the Prime Minister, of course, and the sharply handsome Lord Wyndham.

She curtsied low in return. "Then I shall remain here at Barrowby to await your verdict, my lords."

If someone had been watching—and someone was—they would have seen four very thoughtful men leaving the grand house of Barrowby.

Now what in that house might have brought about such pensive brows?

The afternoon sun glanced off shining golden hair, drawing the watcher's attention to the woman standing at the top of the grand steps, watching her guests leave. His gaze passed over her, then was drawn sharply back.

No.

There was an unfamiliar sensation in the watcher's midsection. He spared a moment to analyze the feeling, only to determine that it was deep and bone-chilling shock.

He slipped silently through the trees, moving closer than was truly wise, but he must know…

She turned slightly, lifting her face to the day and letting her shoulders droop wearily for a moment. He could see her clearly now—the same eyes, the same chin, the same shimmering hair. It was impossible. How could this be?

More to the point, what had she to do with the men who were now riding away? After he'd followed them thus far the truth seemed no clearer. She was obviously the lady of the house and she wore black, so she must be in mourning. Had they been merely consoling the widow of a peer?

No, it could not be. It was merely a chance resemblance, some trick of the light, a similarity in bearing—

Then he saw the locket gleaming in the hollow of her throat. He knew that locket well, for he'd ordered the jeweler to make it just so, with the design of the golden serpent's coils cradling an emerald.

Ah, so it was true. When there was no other explanation for the impossible, one must accept it as possible.

His eyes narrowed as the woman turned to reenter the grand house.

Then one must consider how to turn it to one's advantage.

A new plan, a perfect new plan, blossomed in his mind. He would take her back with him—but he must take care that she went more or less willingly.

He could merely steal her away, but how to control her? He was a bit short of treasonous minions at the moment, nor did he have the gold to bribe the mercenary sorts.

On the other hand, she obviously possessed a plenty from her generous, elderly husband. He almost smiled, for he did appreciate such ruthless ambition. She could afford two passages on a fine, if highly illegal, ship.

If he could convince her to come away voluntarily, at least until he could imprison her aboard a ship and keep her drugged for the journey to Paris, then his long arduous penance might come to a close at last.

He could see the difficulties already. She would want to stay, for although he could promise much, who would leave such luxury unless they were forced to?

Then again, if the burden of playing lady of the manor became too much—

He would begin immediately, then, to make sure she would have no reason to stay.

Julia stayed where she was for a long moment as the four men on horseback rounded the turn in the long drive.

In moments, they were gone. She'd not been surprised when they'd refused the
hospitality of Barrowby. They must have realized that every word they'd uttered would have been reported by her faithful staff.

Three large men, one slight. All handsome in different ways. All waxing territorial, their hackles raised. She'd not been around that much heady virility in a very long time. It would be enough to make a sillier woman giddy.

Luckily, she simply wasn't that sort.

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Broad shoulders, blocking the firelight. The silhouette of cheekbone and jaw as he moves over me, his rhythm unrelenting, his power undeniable. I stroke my hands up his corded arms simply to feel the muscles moving beneath his damp, silken skin. I don't want to close my eyes, no matter how intense the pleasure. I wish I dared see his face, I want to see him watch me as I shatter. I want to be bared and naked in my lust. I want him to want me that way.

In the Chamber of the Four, a rather nondescript room among many in Westminster, Marcus Ramsay refused to allow his dismay to show before his mentor and the others—although he feared his hands were fisting at his sides. His confident hopes of advancing to his seat before he was white-haired began to slip away. "She actually believes she is the new Fox?"

Dane Calwell shrugged. "According to her, she has been making the decisions
and suggestions in Barrowby's place for years."

Lord Liverpool snarled. "Bringing every action of the Four into question for the duration of that time. Who knows what sort of fritterly female thinking she's injected into our—ah,
your
dealings?"

Marcus stared at the Prime Minister. "Pray, tell me you don't give a second's credence to such a claim? It's ridiculous. She must be lying. She found out about the Four somehow and is taking advantage of her husband's death!"

Reardon shook his head. "I know it seems unbelievable, but according to the staff, Barrowby has been entirely incapacitated for three years. The Barrowby physician concurred. The Fox has been without speech, without the ability to hold a quill, without even much recognition of his surroundings. Yet we believed the Fox was in fine form all that time."

Marcus scoffed. "She holds Barrowby now, which means she holds the lifelines of all those people in her hands. They will say what she commands them to say!"

Liverpool turned to the others. "Precisely what I have been saying!"

Dane nodded. "I suppose that is a possibility." Marcus couldn't believe the reluctance he saw in his mentor's expression.

"You cannot be seriously considering this creature's petition?"

Dane shrugged. "Were she a man, we would consider her to be more highly qualified than you."

Reardon nodded. "True enough. Three years' apprenticeship and three years' active duty. An excellent record for someone her age."

Marcus looked from one to the other. They were barking mad, both of them. "Active duty? Ordering tea and toting her sick husband's chamber pot?"

"Precisely!" Liverpool nodded. "Somehow she wormed her way into Barrowby's trust, likely when he began to fall into senility. He told her too much. We ought to have been more suspicious of a young, beautiful woman who would wed a man his age!"

"We never sought much information on her. It did not occur to us that a mere girl could get the better of a wily old hunter like Barrowby." The Falcon, whom Marcus had trouble thinking of having an actual name, slid his gaze from man to man. "We need more information on the woman."

Marcus rather thought they needed to be sent to Bedlam, but he would support anything that prevented his position being usurped by an old man's arm ornament! "I'll do it."

Dane flicked his gaze sideways at Marcus. "And you'll be an objective observer? I think not."

Liverpool held up a hand. "Perhaps Dryden is a good choice. He is not objective. He is less likely to be swayed by her astonishing beauty than another man, for she threatens his advancement."

Lord Reardon grinned. " 'Astonishing beauty'? I didn't think you noticed that sort of thing, Robert."

Liverpool shot his own former protégé a dark glare. "I may be indifferent, but I am not blind. The influence of such a creature should not be underestimated."

Reardon reached into his pocket and tossed something small toward Marcus, who caught it neatly. He turned it in his hand. It was a miniature, painted carefully on a circle of ivory, framed in gilt.

Dane lifted a brow. "You robbed the widow, Nate?"

Reardon shrugged. "She won't miss it. There was quite a collection of them."

Marcus peered closely at the image in his hand. The lady there was fair, with eyes of gray and a sweet, vulnerable gaze. Her rounded face looked so young and her eyes so very hopeful…

Those eyes caused an unaccustomed ache somewhere within his chest. He closed his hand over the image quickly. "Pretty." He pocketed the piece. "I assure you all," he added dryly, "I am not about to be swayed by a pretty face—or even an 'astonishing' one."

Dane regarded him carefully. "And you'll return a true verdict, though it might mean you'll wait many years to take a seat in the Four?"

Marcus returned the gaze evenly. "If you don't trust me, then I shouldn't be here in the first place."

Dane watched him for a long moment more, then shrugged. "True. Very well, I am for it."

Reardon nodded. "It will be an interesting study, will it not? A woman in the Four. Our pool of potential members would widen instantly."

"God forbid," Liverpool said fervently. He nodded. "I am in agreement."

"You are all forgetting something," the Falcon said slowly. "If she is indeed well versed in the Four, she may very well know of Dryden already."

Dane narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Perhaps, although she did seem to think she was the only possible candidate. Of course, I have never used names in our correspondence."

"She has other means of gathering information, if you recall." The Falcon tilted his head and regarded the ceiling. "Channels I would very much like to know more about." He dropped his chin to gaze at Marcus. "Go, but use an alias."

Marcus pinned on a jaunty smile and bowed briskly. "Marcus Blythe-Goodman, footloose and charming younger son, at your service, my lords."

Reardon grinned. "She'll think you a gold digger, man."

Marcus's grin soured. "It takes one to know one. And, once she labels me thus, she'll look no further."

The Falcon stood. "Excellent. We'll await your report in London in ten days' time."

Marcus bowed and turned to leave. He might be entrusted with all the Four's information and intelligence, yet when dismissed, he was most decidedly dismissed.

No matter. He would take a few days to ferret out Lady Barrowby's
secrets—then he would be dismissed no more.

The knock on the door of her morning room surprised Julia. Nothing short of fire or famine would normally induce one of Barrowby's staff to disturb her when she was working.

Not that there was much to do at the moment. Barrowby was entailed to the next male heir and until one could be found through the patrilineal search that was even now being conducted by her—ah, Aldus's solicitor, there was little to do but count and store the harvest and see that the cottagers had sufficient wood and tight roofing for the coming winter.

The investments that Aldus had begun for her five years ago were doing well enough, and although she would hate to leave the estate that had been her home, she would never want if she managed her concerns carefully.

Beppo entered, his mobile face a study in dismay.

Julia frowned. "What is it, Beppo?"

"My lady, you have callers."

She blinked. "Callers? Not the gentlemen who were here yesterday?"

"No, my lady. But they are gentlemen… most of them."

"Most? How many are there?"

Beppo hesitated and stared at the ceiling for a moment as if counting a great number from memory.

Indeed, as it turned out, there was a distinct possibility of famine.

The ravening hordes had arrived.

The inn at Middlebarrow was full to bursting. It had taken a considerable bribe to have Marcus's horse properly stabled. He elbowed his way to the barkeep of the public room through a sea of fellows.

"Ale," he called to the man who was filling tankards five at a time in his massive fist.

"Four pence," the man shouted back over the din.

Marcus blinked but dropped the coins on the bar without comment. It was a king's ransom as ale prices went, but the stuff must be excellent if the number of patrons was any indication. When his own tankard appeared before him, he drank deeply to erase the dirt of a hard day's ride.

Acrid. Weak. Bitter and raw. Marcus swallowed out of fear of spitting on his neighbor and gasped. "This is horse piss!"

The man next to him glanced his way. "I've tasted horse piss and it's an improvement over this." He indicated the small circle of men about him, all nursing tankards of the heinous ale. "We've a bet down that we can find something that tastes worse. So far, no luck. Want to lay down a quid?"

Marcus wheezed and shoved his own tankard away. "I can't back a wager I don't believe in." He wiped his mouth. "So what is the attraction here if not the ale?" He grinned. "Does the innkeeper have a flock of pretty daughters?"

The other man shook his head. "No flock, just one. And not the innkeeper's daughter."

One of the other fellows nodded emphatically. "And she isn't pretty, either! She's the most beautiful woman in England!"

The first man snorted. "You'll have to forgive Eames, there," he said to Marcus. "He's a bit smitten."

Eames bridled. "And you aren't, Elliot?"

The man next to Marcus, Elliot, raised his tankard in salute. "I am indeed smitten, old man. I'm just too cynical to spout superlatives in public."