A Code of Love (The Code Breakers 1) (6 page)

Every muscle in Cord’s body tightened in aggravation. He would be repentant. Hell, he would beg if it would work. He was trapped in a twisted coil. He couldn’t disclose his relationship with Isabelle without disclosing his position concerning her uncle and brother.

“Have you heard a word I’ve been saying?” Ash waved his cigar in the air. “Speaking of the Harcourts, have you heard anything from France? Sending a scholar instead of one of us was a mistake. I know the situation called for a linguist, but what experience does Kendal have in judging dangerous situations?”

“Sir Ramston did the best he could with the choices he had. Brinsley was sent to protect Kendal and I expect to hear from Brinsley any day,” Cord said.

“Brinsley is watching Kendal?’ Ash waved his cigar in the air, his voice laced with disbelief. “It’s hard to imagine that Sir Ramston trusted Brinsley after the scandal with his brother’s fiancée.”

“Sir Ramston seems to have chosen quite a few of us to make amends in our lives by serving His Majesty on the Continent.” Sir Ramston had saved Cord from a self-destructive path after the accidental death of his older brother. The former head had created a network of talented young men in France who, for various reasons, needed to take a break from their lives in England.

“Last night you didn’t look like you were making amends. You looked like you’d picked up right where you’d left off.”

In his isolation as a spy, he believed his fantasies of the indomitable Henrietta Harcourt had been magnified. Last night reconfirmed every yearning. There was one brief moment when his eyes had locked with Henrietta. He felt the same forceful connection, until Henrietta saw Isabelle pressing her breast against his arm and whispering into his ear. Henrietta turned away and never made eye contact for the rest of the evening.

He risked his life every day in France yet last night he felt trepidation at attempting to please one virtuous woman.

Chapter Five

“They call themselves gentleman, pshaw.” Henrietta plunked her boot into a muddy hole on the sidewalk outside the Abchurch offices. Cold water seeped through to her toes. “Arrogant, self-righteous….” The unpleasant feel of wet stockings only served to fuel her anger at the clerk and all the men in the Abchurch office, the bastion of male superiority.

Her body shook from the insult and her soaked clothes. The clerk, who had refused her admittance to speak with Sir Ramston, had implied she was a spinster worried for naught about her brother. She bowed her head into the driving rain, glaring down at her sodden black boots. Her dark mood festered like the foul weather plaguing London this last week of April.

The impact was sudden. She stumbled backward, her arms swung in an outward arc. The slippery mud grabbed at her boots.

The man thrust his hands into the mud, trying to stop the impact of his large body driving her farther down on the wet ground.

The shock of the fall left her immobile and speechless. She was flat on her back in the middle of a main London thoroughfare with Lord Rathbourne’s hard body pressing against her. The huge man loomed over her, grinning with all the nerve of a blatant libertine. Looking up into his chiseled face, she noticed the small lines surrounding his bright eyes, laughing back at her.

He had no discomfiture in his posture and took longer than necessary to right himself. He stood above her, so large, so confident and so male. “Lady Henrietta, are you injured? Allow me to help you up.”

She heard amusement in his tone. Her whole body quivered with outrage, as did her voice. “I’m perfectly capable of getting up myself.”

She refused the large hand beckoning to her. She tried to stand, but she was unable to gain any traction in the mud. She pushed against her wet heavy skirt, teetered a few inches from the ground and flopped. Attempting to regain some poise while lying flat on her back, she straightened her crumpled, dirty skirt, pushing it back down to cover her ankles.

Lord Rathbourne bent, grabbed her by the waist and heaved her upward.

Her body was thrust against his solid thighs and his expansive chest. Like a flash of lightning, his body heat burned into her, penetrating her soaked clothes. She felt hot, breathless, and furious. She pushed against his chest with her muddied gloves, leaving brown streaks down his impeccably cut, black waistcoat.

“Of all the rude, thoughtless behaviors. What were you thinking, plowing down the street like a bull on a rampage?”

The man had the nerve to laugh. His voice was low, gravelly. He started with a small chuckle but moved into a deep belly laugh. His giant body shook, sending waves of sensation against her.

She pursed her lips, trying hard not to smile. The absurdity of the situation overcame her. She laughed aloud. She brought her muddied glove to her lips to cover her mouth. The smell of horse manure wafted to her nose.

“Let me help you.” He smiled at her in a way that felt new and heady. He had mud smeared on his cheek. He slipped his dirty glove off and brushed the dirt away from her mouth, his thumb lingered on her lower lip.

Her heart galloped against her chest.

He bent to remove her reticule from the mud. “It appears that your reticule is ruined.”

Her new dress, trimmed with damask roses, worn for her meeting with Sir Ramston, was covered with mud and other unmentionable brown substances.

“It’s not just my reticule that is ruined.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly as if to ask a question, implying that she was ruined.

The idea that a woman’s reputation could be soiled as easily as a dress was an antiquated, ridiculous concept for all free-thinking women. A man who had brought his mistress to a ball had the nerve to raise his eyebrow.

“I bid you good day.”

“Allow me to escort you home.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want any further misfortunes to befall you. Besides I was on my way to Kendal House.”

He had been considerate after her dunking in the Serpentine, visiting her with flowers. But what reason would he have to visit Kendal House today?

Taking a firm hold of her elbow, he guided her down the street toward his carriage. “I’m sure we can forsake proprieties under the circumstances. You’re completely soaked through.” The timbre in his voice darkened with his close inspection of her wet dress and pelisse that clung uncomfortably to her body.

Recognition of his deepening voice and the male appreciation in his eyes raised her body temperature, despite the iciness of her wet clothes.

She continued walking, the water sloshing in her boots. Her wet hair hung down her neck. She didn’t want to think about what was sticking to her hair or her clothes. “You were on your way to Kendal House?”

“I was planning to call on you. I hoped I might take you to Hyde Park, if this rain ever lets up.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Her response was rude after his timely rescue of her and Edward. But her uncontrolled attraction to a man who was arm-in arm with his mistress at the Wentworth Ball made her surly.

“I had hoped….” He appeared to be at a loss for words. “I hoped to explain my behavior at the Wentworth ball.”

“Why should your behavior concern me?” Lifting her chin with the best hauteur she could muster, she turned to walk the opposite way.

He grabbed hold of her elbow and turned her toward his carriage. “Regardless of your lack of interest in my explanations, I’ll escort you home today. I’ll not be responsible for you catching a deathly ague.”

She tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold. The wind picked up, sending a cold chill through her body. She began to shiver.

“Don’t fight me on this, Henrietta.”

“I didn’t give you permission to call me Henrietta. And I never get ill. I need to get out of these wet clothes.’

“How is it that each time we’re together you need to remove your clothes?”

Her gasp made him laugh.

She turned her head to find his face close to hers. A frisson of awareness passed down her body that wasn’t due to the cold. She wanted to press herself against the warmth radiating from his body.

“We’ll talk tomorrow when you’re not soaking wet. You’re shivering.” His grip lightened as he pulled her closer to his body, guiding her into the awaiting carriage.

Heat blasted from his body like an open fire, warming one side of her. She wanted to turn and melt into the blaze. She must have hit her head on the pavement, wanting to be held by a man who hadn’t changed at all since her first encounter with him.

“I also hoped to speak with your Uncle Charles. I share his interest in hieroglyphics.”

Her sensual haze evaporated, suspicions flaring in an instant. She couldn’t imagine him as an Egyptologist. How could she shield Uncle Charles from someone so intimidating?

She never believed the rumor that he worked for the Abchurch office as a spy, not unless he had done it as a gambling wager or on a lark. There were many stories about his high life on the Continent—gambling, duels, and women—many stories about him and women.

She lifted her eyes to catch a side glimpse of the man sitting next to her. The gloom of the day shadowed his face, giving his angles sharper edges, making him appear formidable.

She wasn’t a young girl out of the schoolroom like when first she’d met him. With the death of her mother and the responsibilities she shouldered for her family, she possessed all the confidence to handle this powerful male.

“I don’t recall you having any intellectual interests. Unless, of course, gambling qualifies as an intellectual challenge, since you must ponder numbers.”

He twisted to look at her face. His blue eyes had darkened to the color of the storm clouds above them. “I’m impressed that you’re willing to voice an opinion concerning my interests. If I recollect correctly, you were never willing to take the time to countenance an acquaintance with me to further understand where my interests might lie.”

“I didn’t need further acquaintance to comprehend your pursuits. They were quite apparent when we met three years ago. And by your behavior at Lady Wentworth’s ball, it doesn’t seem that your horizons have expanded.”

“You’re clearly mistaken.” His tone was dispassionate. He had an air of domineering masculinity, which might be attractive to a woman who wanted to be bullied.

She drew herself up, ready for battle. “Mistaken! I don’t think anyone at Lady Wentworth’s ball could be mistaken as to the nature of your relationship with the lady who accompanied you.”

She revealed more than she had intended. Why did this man elicit the most overstrung reactions from her?

“I was only commenting on your mistake regarding the length of time since our first meeting. It hasn’t been three years but four years since I had the pleasure of dancing with you. If I remember correctly, I danced with you twice at Lady Chillington’s Ball.” His gaze locked with hers and carried a distinct challenge.

Of course, it had been four years; it had been the year her mother became ill.

How did he do it? How could he so quickly turn the tables on her?

She refused to be further baited and retreated into icy silence for the remainder of the carriage ride. The ten-minute journey to Kendal House seemed like ten hours.

She had recovered her composure by the time they approached home. She had to prevent Lord Rathbourne from visiting her uncle. “I appreciate your accompanying me home. I suggest you visit my uncle on another day. He’s been suffering from a mild illness and is quite indisposed.”

“I’ll come to Kendal House tomorrow.”

She found herself backing into the corner of the carriage, unwilling to enter into another verbal contest. Like her appearance, her emotions were ruffled and messy.

The carriage stopped. She jumped forward, clearly communicating her need to remove herself from his presence.

“Good day,” she said.

“Let me accompany you to your door.”

“It isn’t necessary. Brompton already has the door open.

* * *

Henrietta was gone without a backward glance. Cord wanted the laughing woman he had just glimpsed, the passionate woman with her green eyes flaming as she set him down for his rakish behavior.

He couldn’t believe he had argued about the number of years since he had danced with her. Why did he feel that he needed to win when he was with her? His need wasn’t just to win. It was to possess Henrietta Harcourt.

Four years ago, he had asked her to dance at Lady Chillington’s ball because she was the only woman he didn’t recognize as one of his Aunt Euphemia’s potential matches. The sparks had immediately flown between them.

She wasn’t pleased, like all the other debutantes he asked to dance. She couldn’t mask her disdain. In frustration and in an attempt to assert his control, he pulled her too close, breaking all rules of propriety. She wasn’t in any way intimidated by him, actually just the opposite. She was amused.

“Is this your only method—to bully those who won’t dance to your tune?” She had laughed then, the most incredibly joyful sound. That sound had moved into every cell of his body, invigorating and calming him all at the same time.