Seduced by a Spy (7 page)

Chapter Seven

Tugging the brim of his hat down low, Orlov slipped in among the throng of sweating stevedores and sailors. His nondescript clothing, scrounged from the ship’s supplies, blended in well with the crowd. In a moment, he would be lost from sight.

Squinting in the sunlight, he stopped at the end of the wharf and filled his lungs with the briny smell of pine tar, oakum, and salt spray. After days in the dark, what he needed was a breath of fresh air to clear the noxious memories of his recent confinement.

Freedom.
He should feel a rush of elation. Yet oddly enough, his mood felt strangely flat as he forced himself forward. His steps scuffed against the cobbles and he had to resist the urge to turn and scan the crowd for a mud-brown cloak.

He had never been alone that long with a woman before, thought Orlov wryly. A night—two at most—then he always moved on. Deep discussion was not exactly part of the experience. Yet he had enjoyed the conversations with Shannon. Indeed, she was even more intriguing now that he had seen a glimpse of what lay beneath the lithe muscle and fierce grace of her splendid body.

An attraction that was not merely sexual but cerebral?

He grunted. His mind must still be fuzzed from the lingering effects of the opium. What he needed was a drink to wash the dregs away.

Edging past the docks, Orlov crossed the street, watching that no one was mirroring his movements. After he had walked a way up the hill, he chose one of the coaching inns at random. Over a pint of lager, he would decide how to proceed. Heading to London seemed the logical choice. It would be easy enough to arrange a quick conference with the Russian chargé d’affaires. Only the Almighty knew where Yussapov might be right now.

He was about to enter the Golden Dolphin when a man jostled his shoulder. Biting back a wince, he was about to make a rude comment when the fellow paused and looked up to the skies. “By the bones of St. Sergius, there looks to be a wind blowing in from the North.”

Orlov went still. “You don’t say? By my reckoning, I would guess it to be coming from the east.”

“I daresay you are correct.” The man stuffed his hands in his pockets and, without further comment, continued on his way.

Orlov gave a longing look at the taproom but followed his new acquaintance into a nearby side street.

“A coach is waiting for you at the Pink Mermaid, off Groton Lane. You had best hurry. My orders said the matter is urgent.”

“How the devil—” Orlov knew better than to go on.

The other man confirmed his ignorance with an exaggerated shrug. “I’m just the messenger, guv.”

He ought to be grateful that Yussapov had tracked him down, rather than its being the other way around. And yet, Orlov could not help finishing his question… How the devil had the prince gotten wind of the fiasco in Ireland? He must have his own flock of sharp-eyed hawks circling the globe. That, or a damnable crystal ball.

His own powers of divination were at a low ebb. Nothing was making any sense—not his foul mood, his sudden summons, or his inexplicable sense of regret. Tired, hungry, he was tempted to make his superior cool his heels while he enjoyed a leisurely meal and a much-needed bath. As for sleeping in a real bed…

Damn.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed the comforts of clean sheets and plumped pillows.

Though his steps slowed for a stride, he shrugged off the idea of mutiny. His lovely Merlin had not shirked her duty to report to Lord Lynsley right away, no matter that she might very well end up in hot water on account of her actions.

He, too, could marshal a sense of discipline when it served his purpose.

And come to think of it, he was looking forward to the rendezvous with Yussapov. The prince’s sartorial splendor would suffer no material harm, but his ears would be royally blistered by the time the meeting was over. Once again the lack of communication between English and Russian Intelligence could have proven disastrous.

Shannon flung herself against the squabs of the waiting carriage, trying to keep her gaze from stealing to the windowpanes. She did
not
ever wish to see that dratted man again. Alexandr Orlov was nothing but trouble. A harbinger of perils.

Her jaw set. He was perilous to her peace of mind, that was for sure.

She looked away from the swearing stevedores, the barrels of beef and rum jumbled in among the cordage and spars. Every man for himself, she repeated to herself. Orlov was on his own. But even in the midst of a foreign naval port, she was sure that the Russian would have no trouble keeping his head above water.

Her concern ought to be with surviving the coming meeting with Lord Lynsley. Though the primary failure was not her fault, she was a good deal less certain of how he would judge her ancillary actions. She could, of course, omit the information pertaining to her erstwhile companion. However, even if by some prayer the ship captain did not see fit to make mention of the extra passenger, she could not in good conscience keep any of the facts from the marquess.

Conscience
. Bloody hell. Such sentiment was a cursed inconvenience for a hardbitten warrior. Perhaps Lynsley had been right to question her mental toughness.

Such disquieting musings kept her occupied through the interminable hours of bouncing across the countryside. The driver, a whipcord figure with a face as leathery as the reins, broke the journey only long enough to change the horses and order a hurried mug of hot tea. Still, it was long past dusk before the coach turned up a gated drive and finally ground to a halt.

“We are here,” he called, climbing down from his perch.

Between the surging seas and rutted roads, Shannon’s legs were a bit wobbly. “Thank you,” she murmured, hoping that no one had witnessed his having to steady a maidenly stumble.

“You are to go inside. First room on the right.”

A glance around as she passed under the entrance portico showed that the manor house was a stately stone structure surrounded by expansive gardens. No lights shone from the windows and aside from the crickets and the lone hoot of an owl, there wasn’t a sound to disturb the country silence.

An odd venue for a battlefield report, mused Shannon. But Lord Lynsley was often unpredictable, a trait that no doubt contributed to his formidable success in the art of war.

Too fatigued to puzzle overlong on the marquess’s motives, she shifted her gear bag and knocked softly on the paneled door.

“Come in.” The female voice was warm and welcoming.

Her brow furrowed. She took hold of the latch, yet instinctively her other hand slid to the pistol inside her cloak.

“You must be exhausted from your travels!” A small, plump woman with a frizzle of gray hair sticking out from under her mobcap hurried across the entrance hall. “Come, warm yourself by the fire while I order some refreshments. Then I am sure you will welcome a hot bath and a soft mattress.” She clucked like a motherly hen as she rang a small silver bell. “Shipboard travel can be so dreadfully uncomfortable. I do hope you are not prone to seasickness—such tossing and turning always left me feeling that I didn’t know up from down.”

Shannon felt a bit dizzy herself. “I…”

“You are no doubt wondering where His Lordship is.”

She nodded mutely as she set her bag down on the Turkish carpet and flexed her stiff fingers.

“He asked me to see to your comforts.” The woman paused to give a flurry of orders to the maid who appeared in doorway. “By the by,” she continued, turning back to Shannon. “I am Mrs. Hallaway, housekeeper of Greenfield Hill. Tea is on the way, but perhaps you would prefer something stronger after your journey?”

“Tea is fine.” Rubbing at the crick in her neck, Shannon took a moment to let the housekeeper’s words sink in.
A steaming bath? Starched sheets
? A small moan nearly slipped from her lips. But duty dismissed such decadent thoughts, at least for the present. “Surely Lord Lynsley wishes a full report before I retire?”

“Your meeting has been put off until morning.”

“Why?” she wondered aloud. Unlike a greengrocer or milliner, the marquess was not wont to keep regular hours.

“Oh, as to that, I wouldn’t know.” The housekeeper’s cheery voice dropped a notch. “He and the other gentleman have been locked in the library for hours. Cook has already set the supper back twice.” Another cluck. “I fear the roast will be burnt to a crisp.”

The other gentleman?
As Shannon began to wolf down the cold collation that was brought in a few moments later, she tried to imagine who
he
might be. Had word already reached Whitehall of her abject failure?

Swallowing the morsel of custard tart that had lodged in her throat, she dusted her hands and decided there was no point in torturing herself over the possible scenarios. Whether morning would bring redemption or disgrace, she would hold her head high. She had done her best, given the circumstances. That was all she could demand of herself.

If Lynsley wanted more, then so be it.

As she finished off the repast, Shannon was suddenly so weary that she could barely stand. Mrs. Hallaway returned to take her under her wing. “Come, my dear. I shall have you tucked away in a tick.”

Shannon allowed herself to be led down the corridor. Passing one of the closed doors, she caught the murmur of male voices. Hushed tones, redolent of brandy and smoke. She would have liked to linger for a moment, but her escort hurried their steps for the marble foyer.

“Just up these stairs and to the right. The sheets have been warmed, and the fire banked. Sleep well.”

Though she was dressed and ready to report for duty at dawn, the summons to appear downstairs did not come until midmorning.

“Ah, there you are.” Lynsley stood and motioned to a chair facing the massive pearwood desk. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

Shannon laid a sheaf of water-stained papers on the blotter before doing as she was bid. Seated half in shadow was a bearded gentleman, but as Lynsley made no move to introduce him, she acted as though he was not there. “I have written up a full report, sir. I’m sorry it is a bit worse for wear.”

“Hmmm.” Donning a pair of spectacles, the marquess scanned over the first few pages, then set them aside.

“I take it from your notes that there were… complications.” Even for the marquess, a man of unflappable demeanor, it was rather an understatement.

“Yes,” she replied, matching his laconic style.

The stranger stirred slightly and crossed his legs, revealing boots of buttery soft leather. It was not only their texture, but also their color—a burgundy red—that drew her eye.
A peacock
? An odd bird to be keeping company with a Merlin.

She skimmed her eyes over his bottle-green pantaloons and richly embroidered waistcoat. Patterned with an intricate design of swirling jewel tone colors, it was an even more glaring contrast to Lynsley’s austere shades of black and cream. However, as her gaze locked for an instant with that of the stranger, she saw the same penetrating alertness, the same cool calmness that gave the marquess an aura of command.

She quickly revised her assessment. Whoever he was, the stranger was not a man of preening pretensions.

“Hmmm,” repeated Lynsley. Confirming her guess, he handed the documents to his companion. “Perhaps you would care to have a look at these, Yuri.”

“Da.”

Shannon snapped to attention in her chair. The gruff syllable had sounded suspiciously like Russian.

Nyet
, she assured herself. It was merely her mind playing tricks on her. Orlov was still plaguing her thoughts. To get her attention off her own inner demons, she cleared her throat and ventured to speak.

“I am sorry that I failed in my objective, sir. I studied the surroundings, did a reconnaissance of the castle, but did not learn until it was too late that the target had left the area.”

“D’Etienne escaped your bullet, but it appears that Seamus O’Malley did not,” mused the marquess.

She drew a deep breath. “Actually sir, it was not me who shot him. It was…”

She saw the stranger pause and look up from his reading.

“It was the Russian, Orlov.”

“Ah, so our friend was up to his old tricks,” said Lynsley.

“Yes, sir,” she said through clenched teeth, none too happy about the reminder that the rogue had once again upset her plans. “If—”

A loud clapping, punctuated by a hearty laugh, interrupted her explanation. “Bravo, I commend you on the unflinching honesty of your agents, Thomas. There are many who would have sought to take all the credit for eliminating an enemy like O’Malley.”

“I am not in the habit of exaggerating my exploits,” she muttered.

Lynsley covered a cough with his hand.

“I have also heard that Mr. Orlov saved the young lady’s life,” continued the stranger. “By nobly sacrificing his own person.”

Her cheeks flamed. “That is true, sir,” she said hotly. “But if the damn rascal hadn’t pocketed a very valuable gold snuffbox, all hell would not have broken loose. He had been spotted skulking through the castle hallways, and O’Malley came to search the library.”

The marquess arched a brow at his companion. “She does have a point. That was careless of Mr. Orlov.”

“And besides,” she added, “I repaid the favor.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured the stranger. “I have heard something along those lines. As for the other accusations…” A sly glint came to his gaze. “Perhaps we should let the man defend himself.”

Lynsley nodded. “Most certainly. Call him in.”

Bloody hell.
Shannon had risen but now sat again rather quickly.

To his credit, when Orlov entered and saw her, he looked just as shell-shocked.

“Perhaps we ought to make formal introductions, to clear up any lingering confusion,” murmured the marquess. “Shannon, the gentleman on my left is Prince Yuri Yussapov, my counterpart in Russian Intelligence. And this…” he gestured at Orlov. “This man, with whom you are already acquainted, is one of his most experienced agents. A fact, I might add, that would have been helpful to know before now.”