I Spy a Duke (14 page)

He blanched. “All too well.” The Countess had requested he visit her bedside—while her husband was right next to her. Needless to say, he hadn’t taken her up on that, ahem, generous offer.

Richard laughed. “I found her delightfully bawdy.”

James grimaced. “I prize loyalty far more highly than nice bosoms.”

“Your loss.” Richard shrugged. “You think Miss Loren can be trusted with our secret? After lying to you for six months?”

He remembered the tears raining down her face, the agony of her cries. It would take the theater district’s finest to fake that much emotion. Besides, she’d fought for a year and a half for answers to her brother’s murder. Long after most of people would have given into despondency and accepted the Runners’ party line. He admired her diligence. A woman that dedicated to her brother’s memory was a woman he wanted on his team, for hopefully he’d earn that same loyalty from her too.

“She lied to get answers on her brother. I do not classify that on the same level as a selfish lie told to gain fame or fortune.” Pulling out the red-cushioned chair next to Richard, James sat down in it, finally content to stop moving about the room. “Besides, the nature of what we do is deception. We all play parts to obtain information. I have lost count of the number of aliases I’ve had over the years.”

Richard grinned impishly. “That’s because yours aren’t as memorable as Malcolm Mustachio.” Before James could retort, Richard continued, “Yes, I know. Spies aren’t supposed to be memorable. We’re supposed to fade into the background, so no one ever remembers we’ve been there in the first place. I swear, if it weren’t for the Beau Monde, I’d begin to think no one remembered me at all. I’m counting the days until the Season starts.”

Therein lay the difference between the two men. While Richard thrived on attention, James was content to remain in the shadows.

James let out a groan. “The bloody Season. For a moment, I almost forgot Elinor’s dreadful plan.”

Richard waggled a brow at him. “Which of my suggestions was the most promising? You’re thinking of Lady Penelope Smythe, aren’t you? It’s her arse. Worthy of smacking, I tell you.”

James scowled. Lady Penelope could go rot. “Considering that last year at the Travers’ ball I caught Lady Penelope giving the cut direct to Arden, I’d sooner marry the Countess of Marcondeux.” Nobody insulted Arden and maintained his favor. Several cavalier members of the
ton
who’d decided to treat Arden as lesser because she was the old duke’s ward and hence not a true blue-blood aristocrat had found this out the hard way, for they no longer received invitations to any Spencer family routs.
 

“Ouch.” Richard winced. “Fantastic arse or not, that strikes Lady Penelope off my list too.”

That made James smile. “I appreciate your support.”

“Arden’s like a sister, you know that. I’d do anything for her.” Richard cuffed James’s arm. “What about Lady Melisandre Andrews then? A wallflower like her surely won’t go about insulting your family, no matter how wonderfully unconventional they are.”

“Lady Melisandre would last two minutes in this house. The first time Korianna starts experimenting with black powder again, she’ll be running for the hills.” And that wasn’t even mentioning Korianna’s habit of “pruning” the potted plants as target practice for her pistol, despite Elinor’s protests.
 

“Fair enough,” Richard agreed. He leaned back in the chair, clasping his hands behind his head, elbows out. “I believe we’d arrive at an easier conclusion if you told me who
you
think is worth considering.”
 

James let out a frustrated sigh. “How am I supposed to protect Miss Loren, catch Sauveterre,
and
find a suitable bride by the beginning of the Season? There’s simply no time.”

Unless...

This was either the best idea he’d ever had, or the maddest.

“What if I marry Miss Loren?”

Richard startled, losing his balance. The chair slammed against the desk, almost toppling him off of it. He barely managed to right himself. “This is the same Miss Loren we’ve been discussing, yes? You did not just magically produce one of her relatives out of thin air, did you? Because otherwise there’s no way under the sun that Ellie’s going to go for this.”

“She’ll be
my
wife. Elinor’s opinion is inconsequential.” He pursed his lips together, pausing for a moment to think. Before he’d known of the threat to Miss Loren’s life, he’d dismissed her as unsuitable—even though being around her had been the best few days he’d experienced since Louisa’s death. It had seemed selfish before to ask his family to undergo social scrutiny simply because he wanted to continue spending time with her.

But now she was in danger, and she depended on him to protect her. It didn’t matter what the
ton
thought when compared with saving a woman’s life.

“I need a way to keep watch on her, even when I’m forced to attend these God-awful parties,” James said. “My marrying her ensures she’ll be protected. Wickham won’t touch her when she’s my wife, and the Runners will afford her the same privileges of a peer. Even this Sauveterre, whoever he is, must know that the consequences of killing a duchess will be so much worse than a mere governess.”

“Ah yes, the whole ‘marriage to get a better day in court’ defense,” Richard quipped. “You’ll make your ancestors so proud with that one. Most people marry for money or a better position in society, but not you, Jim. You’ll marry only to protect a chit’s life.”

Richard was having far too much fun at his expense.

“Is this a ludicrous idea?”

Richard shrugged. “Unexpected, yes. Ludicrous, not entirely. You’re the bloody Duke of Abermont. I’d imagine you could marry a guttersnipe and eventually even the gossip-mongers would accept it.”

“It’s the eventually that concerns me.” He didn’t want to take Miss Loren from one fire and drop her into a conflagration. In Society, the time passed like sand in a broken hourglass; every minute an eternity. “But God, how I dread more months of balls. I’d avoid the whole bloody Season if I could.”

For decades, the Clocktower had used the shroud of high society events. Vauxhall had plenty of secluded avenues perfect for hand-offs, while a night at Covent Garden provided sufficient distraction for him to slip away to the cloakroom and meet with an informant.
 

Richard snorted. “Your invitations will decrease if you marry your governess, so you might actually escape that torture.”

“A definite point in Miss Loren’s favor,” James mused. The large number of parties he’d be expected to attend would diminish if he were no longer considered eligible marriage material. “You know, while I don’t agree with Elinor’s original principles for choosing my future wife, I do have to admit her logic is sound. I could maintain my cover
and
devote more time to the Clocktower.”

Richard smirked. “I suspect your future wife will want you to spend time with her.”

“Yes, of course,” James muttered, trying to play it off as though he’d thought this notion through, instead of concocting it in the wee hours of the morning.
 

Eying him suspiciously, Richard pulled his chair closer to him. “Please tell me you didn’t conceive this idea as a tactical strategy, without any thought to the woman you’d actually be pledging your troth too.”
 

“I’ve thought about her.” He’d thought about Miss Loren a little too much. He ached to run his fingers down her tantalizingly soft skin, kiss her luscious lips.
 

 
“If you’re willing to take the societal risk, and you trust her, then I say to do it.” Richard stood up, going to the tiny peephole in the wall and looking out. He turned back around to face James again. “Look, Jim, I believe in your judgment, even when you don’t. I’ve never met a more skilled interrogator than you because you understand people. Their thoughts, their motivations, their actions. If you think Miss Loren is worth your time, then I will defend her to the death.”

James clenched his teeth. This family had already seen too much bloodshed. “Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”
 

“One thing, though.” Richard held up his hand. “Can I be there when you tell Ellie?”

“Absolutely, bloody, not,” James groaned. “I’m going to have my hands full already. The last thing I need is you needling her.”

“I don’t needle,” Richard objected. “I
banter.
There’s a difference.”

James narrowed his eyes. “The answer’s still no.”

Richard let out a loud sigh. “You’re a killjoy, my friend. But congratulations, nonetheless.” He skirted out of the room before James could tell him nothing was certain yet.

As James reentered the library, he prayed that Miss Loren was as loyal as he believed. Otherwise, the Clocktower’s very foundations might crumble before his feet.

CHAPTER EIGHT

As the clock struck nine that evening, Vivian paused outside the door to the library. She ran a hand across her skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles from sitting on Thomas’s bed as she read him his bedtime story. Should she have changed her dress? She’d never bothered to change after dinner before. After all, her meals were always taken with Thomas, not the rest of the family.

She did not know the etiquette for sudden partnerships with dukes to prevent one’s death. Most likely, a practical appearance would be preferred, in case one had to flee suddenly.
 

She patted her chignon and prayed that she looked acceptable. She wouldn’t wish for beautiful, for at twenty-four she was close to spinsterhood. Her mind had always been her best feature. Age hadn’t dimmed her intellect; rather, she’d grown wiser.

Or at least she’d considered herself wiser until she’d scurried off to work here at the bidding of a murderer.

Vivian gulped down the lump of dread building in her throat. No point in worrying now. Her course of action had already been laid in. “Full speed ahead!” Papa had always claimed when he began a new business venture; that saying was one of her few memories of him.
 

She’d pretend she was ferocious. She was a Loren, and Lorens never gave up.
 

She pushed open the door to the library, somewhat taken aback by the sameness of the room. Somehow, she’d expected it to appear different when she entered at the duke’s request, and not a snooping burglar. But no, there were the supple red leather armchairs, the mahogany low table with
Lyrical Ballads
, and the dark cherry paneled cabinet with the silver crescent moon handles pushed up against the rich coffee-colored back wall. A gray stone fireplace broke up floor-to-ceiling dark mahogany bookshelves on the far left wall, a stodgy portrait of one of Abermont’s ancestors centered over the top of the mantel.
 

Vivian toyed with the simple locket charm she wore around her neck with a white ribbon. Evan had given it to her for her eighteenth birthday, and the ends of the ribbon frayed. She ought to change it out, but she couldn’t bear losing one more thing that connected her to him.
 

Abermont was probably used to women who wore huge rubies and pearls. Emeralds probably, for they were expensive too. Well, she couldn’t be anything more than what she was now—a governess. There was no point in trying to be anything different. Or in thinking that anything more could come from this partnership with Abermont. That was her old fanciful mind talking, from when she’d been younger, before her cousin had kicked them out of Trayborne estate.

Abermont was late. She ought to take advantage of his absence to choose her seat strategically. She could sit in one of the armchairs, thus avoiding close contact with Abermont. But would he think her closed off then? She didn’t want him to think she didn’t appreciate his offer of assistance, because oh, she did. For the first night in six months, she’d slept soundly, knowing that he’d manage everything in that powerful, commanding way he had.

It was just so blastedly wonderful to no longer be the only one looking for Evan’s killer.

 
She instead chose the pair of red and beige brocade sofas drawn in front of the fireplace with the low table placed in between. If she was going to work with the man, she needed to learn how to sit next to him without her mind muddling. Vivian fidgeted, tapping her foot against the carpet. Impatience picked at her. She poured herself a cup of tea from the sterling silver pot on the low table, and sat back down on the sofa.