A Spy Unmasked (Entangled Scandalous) (10 page)

She nervously licked her lips. “Still, I don’t—”

His thumb rubbed across her glistening bottom lip. He had the insane urge to suck the tempting flesh into his mouth, to slip his tongue inside hers…to ravenously kiss her.

She gasped, looking just as startled as he felt, but she didn’t move, didn’t slap his hand away…didn’t step back.

Ludicrous.
She would drive him completely mad.

He felt himself slipping where he had gone only once before, and he immediately recoiled at the thought. Emotional attachment was not an option. Yet he felt a crack in his hardened armor. Closing the door wasn’t sufficient; he had to slam it shut, no matter how brutal the method, or in this case, how cruel the words.

Dropping his hand, he took a step back. “Your concern is touching, but you should be careful. I just may think you’re no different from all my other female admirers and are starting to like me.”

Something flashed in her eyes—disappointment? confusion?—but to his relief, the fleeting emotion was gone, and her face reddened with anger.

“Again, you flatter yourself, my lord.”

“Flattery has nothing to do with it. Do not soften toward me. Despite what Wendover said, I’m not a man you can trust with your virtue.”

Her mouth gaped.

He opened the door. “Go now before Jane wakes to find you missing.”

To his relief, she didn’t argue, but whirled and left his room.

Chapter Twelve

Deep in the recesses of Robert’s subconscious, he knew he was having another nightmare, but he lacked the wherewithal to force himself awake. It started the same, it always did, and no matter how hard he tried to alter the ending of the nightmare, he had never succeeded.

The urgency to arrive on time hummed in his veins, in his blood, in his essence. The clock ticking in his mind—each minute…each second, they all mattered.

It was supposed to be his last mission. He had told Wendover of his resignation. A married man was not one who could take the daily risks required in his work for the Home Office.

His orders were clear. Assassinate the Comte DeForte, a double agent and a man in league with Napoleon, and steal the covert military documents in his safe. He needn’t bother with nondestructive manipulation and could blow the safe wide open. If he could simultaneously accomplish both tasks—obtain the papers and kill the Comte—then all the better.

He had planted the explosives. The gunpowder was in place. He had carefully positioned additional powder on the hinges of the safe to blow the door open without destroying its contents. A length of fuse snaked out the window to the gardens below where he lay in wait. He shifted beneath the bushes, the cold of the December earth seeping into his bones, his spyglass trained on the front door of the lavish country house. It was late afternoon, the rotation of the guards had taken place, and the Comte was expected to return home soon.

Robert heard the carriage wheels before the conveyance came into view up the stone drive.

Perfect.

He waited until the carriage door opened and Comte DeForte stepped out before striking flint to steel and setting a spark to the fuse.

The Comte turned and offered his hand to another occupant. A golden-haired woman appeared in the carriage doorway.

Gwendolyn.

Her porcelain features, slender frame, and the blond coronet of braids struck him like a blow to the solar plexus. Placing her hand on the Comte’s sleeve, the couple went up the steps into the house.

Robert scrambled from under the bushes, but the fuse had already traveled like wildfire up to the second-floor window and out of reach. He sprinted across the lawn, shouting as he ran.

Seconds passed. An eternity.

The explosion reverberated in his head. Shattered glass rained down and flames burst through the windows. A barrage of roof slates and stone flew through the air with the force of cannon shot. Twenty yards from the structure, he fell to his knees, battered by debris, his shirt singed by shooting embers.

He struggled to his feet and ran toward the inferno, his arms and legs pumping, his chest straining with each step. He passed through the gaping hole where the door hung askew and into the vestibule. Heat blasted his face; smoke seared his lungs and burned his eyes. He took a step forward and tripped over a body. There lying at his feet was his wife.

Sweet Jesus!

Her face, her beautiful face.

Why? Why had she come here?

He was to blame. He had planted the explosives and was solely responsible.

Murderer!
What kind of penance could make up for his sins?

He awoke drenched in sweat, his heart racing. Nauseous, he bent over the side of the bed, gasping in deep gulps of air.

Yes, no matter how hard he tried to alter the ending—at least in his nightmares—he had never succeeded.

…

The man was insufferable.

Sophia was still fuming over Robert’s comment the following morning. The women were sitting in the Delmonts’ lovely courtyard overlooking the front gardens. Large pots of flowering blooms splashed brilliant color against the white stone courtyard, and a striped awning offered shade from the sun. The weather was beautiful, the sky a brilliant blue, and the conversation amicable, but all she could think about was her heated discussion with Robert in his bedchamber last night.

He had accused her of starting to fall for his charm—similar to the countless other London ladies who had no doubt thrown themselves at his feet. She’d wanted to throttle him; she refused to think of her own physical reaction to his nearness.

Despite his assurances that he could have handled matters in the study, she knew she’d helped him by diverting Delmont. But rather than expressing gratitude, he had been reproachful.

Stay away from Delmont,
he had warned.

Hadn’t she proved she could handle herself and be an indispensible ally?

The rattling of a tea cart over the slate terrace drew her from her musings. A maid stopped the cart and began setting teacups and saucers before the women.

“Jane tells me you met Lord Kirkland while learning how to waltz,” Abagail Maxwell said beside Sophia.

“Tsk. Such a scandalous dance,” Beatrice Falk said.

“Oh, I think it’s wonderful,” Emma Brass said. “The waltz is so much more exciting than any country reel.” She hesitated and tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

Lady Maxwell ignored the others and directed her attention to Sophia. “Your fiancé, Lord Kirkland, is quite charming.”

Sophia reminded herself she was acting and sipped her tea before responding. “Yes, he is wonderful and I consider myself most fortunate for gaining his attention.”

There was a flash of an indiscernible emotion in Emma Brass’s eyes. Jealousy perhaps? Her husband had to be at least forty years older.

Sophia turned to her. “You were recently married?”

“Close to six months now,” Emma said.

“I understand Mr. Brass is a silversmith and jeweler,” Sophia said.

Emma’s face lit up. “Oh, George is much more than just a shopkeeper. He is quite skilled at engraving. He can duplicate any print. You should see his replica of William Hogarth’s
The Marriage Contract.
His own original artwork is exceptional as well. I keep telling him to meet with a reputable dealer who works with exhibitions at the Royal Academy of Arts.”

Was she proud of her elder husband or merely ambitious?

Lady Falk spoke up. “The Royal Academy! That’s truly beyond your husband’s abilities. It exhibits only the best London artists. What would you know of art, Mrs. Brass?”

Emma colored fiercely. “I know what’s pretty when I see it,” she said defensively.

Lady Falk halted in the middle of adding sugar to her tea. “Humph.”

“Never mind her, Mrs. Brass,” Lady Maxwell said before whirling on Lady Falk. “Do keep your opinions to yourself, Beatrice. You’re not always right.”

“And I suppose you are?” Lady Falk retorted.

“What are you implying?” Lady Maxwell said.

Well, well,
Sophia thought. The wives feud just like their spouses. She recalled the short, fat Sir Falk and the tall, thin Sir Maxwell battling it out with their ships in the pond. Not for the first time, she wondered how they could be successful business partners.

“There, there. Let’s not ruin a lovely morning,” Jane said, smoothing the women’s ruffled feathers.

There was a moment of silence as they sipped their tea and nibbled on scones.

As Sophia raised her teacup, she saw the men at the edge of the woods returning from their hunt, mounted on prime horseflesh from the viscount’s stables. Robert’s attire was somber—gray jacket, white shirt, and matching trousers. She knew he made an effort not to draw attention to himself, but no amount of plain clothing could disguise his regal bearing and lean build. Sunlight set off the sparks of gold in his tawny hair and separated him from the pack.

As they rode past, he looked up at the terrace and spotted her. His lips curled in a smile and he raised a hand in greeting. His appeal was devastating, and her heart hammered foolishly. Aware of the audience, she waved back, then wrenched herself away from her ridiculous preoccupation with his face.

Emma Brass nodded in acknowledgement at Mr. Brass, but her countenance brightened as her eyes slid over Robert’s person.

The French doors opened and Vivian Black, Lady Delmont, stepped onto the terrace. Dressed in a flowing gown of topaz, she wore a matching turban with a peacock feather that swayed in the slight breeze. “While the men drink their port and smoke their cigars after the evening meal, I have planned a séance for the ladies.”

A hushed silence descended as the women took in the viscountess’s statement.

Beatrice Falk was the first to speak. “A séance? Whatever do you mean?”

“A group sitting where we attempt to contact the spirits,” Vivian said.

“I’ve attended parties where a mesmerist was present, even a hypnotist, but I daresay I’ve never even
heard
of a séance,” Abagail Maxwell protested.

Vivian surveyed the women. “We are wives of inventors. We must embrace new ideas. Our husbands frequently work with novel projects in their workshops. Why should we be any different?”

Beatrice’s expression was tight with strain, her plump fingers tense in her lap. “Still—”

“Séances have been successfully conducted,” Vivian said. “I have studied the writings of Swedish scientist Emanuel Swedenborg, German physician Franz Mesmer, and read Sir George Lyttelton’s
Communication With the Other Side.
All have attempted to contact the spirit world. I have experience, and I will be your guide.” At the continued silence, Vivian prodded, “Aren’t any of you curious? Haven’t any of you wanted to speak with a loved one who’s passed away?”

Although apprehension and even fear crossed the women’s faces, the viscountess’s speech was persuasive. Lady Cameron sat forward in her seat; Mrs. Brass’s eyes shone with eagerness.

The idea intrigued Sophia. A séance offered a unique setting to observe the others. Fear of the unknown offered the opportunity to bring out unexpected personality traits that could be much more revealing. Even Jane looked interested.

“Any suggestions as to whom I should attempt to contact this evening?” Vivian asked.

Outbursts immediately followed.

“My great-aunt Tilly!”

“My mother!”

“Aidan Webster!” Mrs. Brass shouted out. At several inquisitive looks, she blushed and said, “He was a family friend who perished at Waterloo.”

Vivian held up a bejeweled hand. “I suggest each of you write down a name and place it in this hat.” A footman came forward and held out a beaver hat. “I’ll draw a name right before the séance begins. That way no one can be accused of having influenced my decision.”

…

It was hours later before Sophia was finally able to speak with Jane alone. They had returned to their room to change for dinner and Sophia was contemplating the appropriate attire for a spiritual communication.

“What do you think of Mrs. Brass?” she asked, opening the wardrobe doors.

Jane picked up a silver-handled brush and began working it through her flaxen hair. “Emma Brass is hot-blooded and ambitious.”

Sophia rolled her eyes. “I doubt the man she had mentioned for the séance was solely a family friend and soldier.”

Jane giggled. “More like her former lover.”

“I can’t decide whether to like her or keep my guard around her,” Sophia said.

“I wonder how Mr. Brass keeps up with her,” Jane said.

Sophia chuckled. “I admit I thought the same thing. She isn’t the only entertaining lady present. Lady Maxwell and Lady Falk just may stab each other with Delmont’s fine silver over the dinner table.”

“Their husbands are no better.” Jane eyed Sophia. “Are you certain you wish to enter the state of matrimony yourself?”

Sophia answered without hesitation. “Quite. What about you?”

“Me?” Jane halted, the brush in her hands. “You can’t be serious?”

“Why not? You’re beautiful and young and have so much to offer.”

“Even though you have forgotten the past, Sophia, I haven’t. And society looks at me like I am a pestilence of despair.”

Sophia waved her hand. “Society can go to the devil! There are men out there who don’t give a fig about gossip.”

A flicker of emotion flashed in Jane’s brown eyes, but it was gone so quickly Sophia thought she must have imagined it.

What was Jane thinking? Or more like it, who was Jane thinking of?

“Regardless,” Sophia said, “I’m happy to see you laugh again. Are you as excited for the séance as I am?”

“I admit I feel some of the initial apprehension voiced by Lady Maxwell. You don’t honestly believe Lady Delmont can contact the dead, do you?” Jane asked.

“No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean
she
doesn’t believe it.”

“Our hostess is quite unusual.”

“More like cracked,” Sophia said.

Jane laughed again, then fell quiet. “Some of the other women believe her. I wonder if—”

“No. If it were true, there would be a line of people at her door willing to pay any amount of money for her services,” Sophia pointed out.

Jane sighed. “You’re right, of course.”

A low knock on the door announced the arrival of one of the Delmonts’ maids. They finished dressing, and Sophia followed Jane downstairs. But when they entered the dining room, she realized she had forgotten to ask whose name Jane had put in the hat.

…

Robert cornered Sophia after dinner and led her behind a potted palm in the parlor. “I heard about the séance,” he said.

“I’ve never been part of one. The viscountess’s pastime is quite novel.”

“People have always been trying to contact the dead. I suspect the practice has yet to reach its peak.” His expression turned sober. “Whom did you request to resurrect? Your father?”

She shook her head. “No. King Henry VIII.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Not one of his wives?”

“I couldn’t choose.”

He chuckled. “See what you can find out about the others. A spiritualist meeting may reveal hidden secrets.”

“I thought the same thing.” The scent of his shaving soap teased her nostrils when she leaned close to whisper, “What are you up to tonight?”

He winked. “The manor has countless rooms to investigate.”

…

Robert slipped into Sir Falk’s bedchamber while the men were drinking their after dinner port, smoking cigars, and conducting experiments regarding magnetism and the effects on compasses.