A Spy's Honor (6 page)

“My lord,” John said, before Sidmouth thought him an utter idiot. “I will do whatever you think is necessary to stop this assassination.” And he would. He couldn’t turn down an assignment from top government officials and expect to continue his career. Besides, he no more wanted to see the country devolve into chaos or anarchy than Sidmouth did. He hadn’t toiled for England’s security during the war just so she could go up in flames now.

Sidmouth eyed him for a long moment before handing John a file. “The letter Lord Castlereagh mentioned is in here, as well as the rest of what we know. The note should narrow your investigation down. You have one hour to read and memorize this information. You will not speak of it, or this mission, to anyone. After today you will not meet again with either Lord Castlereagh or myself. Your liaison will be in the card room at White’s more often than not, wearing a cravat pin in the shape of a serpent.” He hesitated and then added grudgingly, “If you want to view the file on previous threats, meet me at the Home Office in two hours. Is anything unclear?”

“No, sir. You may be assured I will do my best to prevent this tragedy.”

“See that you do,” Sidmouth replied and then disappeared through a side door.

Castlereagh raised a hand to indicate the exit behind John. “Dickson will show you to a room where you can review those documents. Please know in advance I appreciate your assistance, Lord John.”

John nodded and followed the clerk out, his thoughts churning. If left to his own devices, he probably would have remained on the Continent indefinitely. Now he would see his brother and his mother again, a suddenly welcome prospect.

And Claire.

Seeing her would be awkward. Thoughts of the girl he’d let go still beguiled him. He’d had a few quiet affairs over the years, but these never lasted more than a few months and he never dwelled on them overlong once they ended. But Claire had burrowed into his heart in a matter of days. Even after all this time, he’d never been able to dislodge her completely. With every letter his family sent he had waited with the dreaded anxiousness of one anticipating bad tidings for news of Claire’s marriage. It had never come.

He was a different man now, different from the weak, hen-hearted youth who disappointed her, and he consoled himself with that. He’d left England with the express intent of making himself better; and he had, except for the irony of his disfigurement. Would Claire think differently about him now that he’d matured and experienced the world, or would his past failure forever color how she saw him?

There was only one way to find out.

Chapter Four

Working carefully to undo a knot in her sewing, Claire did not hear Stephen approach the silver salon as she usually did. But she heard the door click open. Head bent over her task, she murmured, “Good afternoon. Just give me one…moment. Aha. There, I have it.”

She grinned up at him.

Him
. Not Stephen, but John.

“Claire!”

The grin slid from her face. She tried to stand but couldn’t, instead sinking back into her wing chair. Her sewing—needle, knot, and all—slipped to the floor.

She closed her gaping mouth and drew in deep, restorative breaths through her nose. Fainting was unthinkable. Lord John Reyburn was not worthy of a fit of the vapors.

He’d changed considerably. She frowned, though who could be displeased with the lean, bespectacled, in-need-of-a-shave sight of him? On his left hand he wore a black glove. Ah, yes. Years ago, Allerton had mentioned that John injured his hand while abroad, but she did not know the details. He was taller and no longer looked like a slight almost sickly boy. His drab coat might be rumpled and his tan breeches wrinkled, but he now exuded the air of a composed yet reserved man.

His expression of surprise transformed to one of…well, she couldn’t say. His blue eyes had shuttered at the sight of her.

Long strides carried him toward her, and Claire panicked. Would he take her hand? Embrace her? Whichever, she could not allow it. She bolted upright and whipped around behind the chair, clutching the silver-embroidered upholstery as if it were a shield.

“Lady Claire.” John stopped and bowed, rather stiffly, as if such formality had been his intention all along.

And perhaps it had been. Lord knew she had played the fool in his presence more often than not, naively believing he had cared for her, wanted to marry her. Even now her heart pounded furiously.
Hmph.
She gripped the chaired tighter still. “Why are you here?”

His mouth curved into an almost-smile. “This is my home.”

Allerton House
was
his brother’s home. However, she was the one who now called it home. Why did he have to return now? He’d been gone for five years. Could he not have stayed away for another few months at the least? He hadn’t returned because Allerton informed him of her betrothal, had he?

Of course not. She’d long ago given up on the dream that John would come back for her.

The deep, abiding anger she’d smothered for so many years sprang free in her chest, buoyed by a stinging bitterness. She was to marry Stephen, and now John was home. “I don’t believe you were expected.”

“No.” He shook his head, rueful. “Though I can’t help but hope my return is welcome.”

Behind the silver spectacles, his eyes blazed with speculation—and seemingly the hope of which he’d spoken, which made the anger expand inside her chest. Did he wish to rekindle their brief attachment? How ridiculous. He had given up the chance to marry her, run off to the Continent without a word and—

“I am glad to see you. I
hoped
to see you.”

He skirted the chair and came nearer. Too near. Determined to stay her course, she took a deep breath. As the familiar scent of his almond soap engulfed her, however, she gave up the chair and escaped toward the white-painted fireplace.

From any other man, his words would merely be conversation, the polite thing to say. From quiet John, they were tantamount to flirting. How could he stride through the door and, with nary a word about his disappearance, begin making up to her?

He didn’t seem to know about her betrothal, either. Although it shouldn’t be necessary to forestall him, she would set him straight.

“John, so much has happened in your absence—”

“I know.” He hurried to her side, looming over her. “I, for one, am a different person than I was. And you, you are even more beautiful.”

His voice was soft, almost sensual, so different than all those years before, though it had been so long perhaps she misremembered. She wanted to lean into him. She wanted him to touch her.

But she could not forget what he had done to her.

And you are engaged
, her latent conscience added.

Resolved, she squared her shoulders and looked up into his face. A mistake.

His eyes darkened and his lips parted as if he intended to kiss her right there in the silver salon, minutes after he had returned home.

Her traitorous lips wished he would.

“Claire,” he whispered, as if trying to coax her into willingness.

Her wounded heart rose up in defense. She turned away from the temptation he offered and took up her seat once again. In an attempt to maintain some semblance of composure, she retrieved her sewing from the floor and concentrated on redoing a stitch.

John leaned against the mantel. “How have you been?”

He asked the question in such a calm manner Claire wondered if she had imposed passionate intentions on him where none existed. She
had
once been known for her romantic fancies, but she’d put a stop to those the day after he left for the Continent. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t hurt to let him know her feelings.

“Very well, thank you, considering.”

He straightened, standing tall as if concerned. “Considering what?”

“Considering that you jilted me.”

***

John stifled his surprise. He’d done no such thing. He strode toward her again, feeling as if he were chasing her around the room. After so long, though, he found it impossible not to be near her.

“I didn’t jilt you.”

As much as he wanted to see Claire, why did she have to be the first person he encountered before he had any chance to think of what to say to her? On that day she had clearly expressed how lacking she found him.
“John was just as frightened as I. He couldn’t move.”
Her recitation of his failures had continued in Allerton’s coach on the way back to London as she described every detail of their encounter with the highwayman. She’d no longer needed a husband, he’d found out the next day, after Allerton put Lord Landry in his place and told Claire’s father in no uncertain terms that she was coming to live with him and Emily. Especially not a husband like John. He’d done her a favor by leaving her in the safe care of his brother while he went off to prove himself. After all,
“If you love someone, you’ll be what they need
.
”

She laughed, a sharp and dismissive sound that cracked through the stillness in the room. “It doesn’t matter. We were so young. And that is all in the past.”

John shuddered. She had never been in the past for him. He had thought of her often, dreamed of coming home to her. Only, he’d never had the courage. One mission had led to the next and soon his country and honor were all it seemed he had left. Until now.

He studied her profile as she concentrated on her embroidery. Her coffee-colored tresses were piled on top of her head, a few tendrils slipping down the golden skin of her neck to her full, rising breasts. Her dark lashes swept down intermittently, shading those soulful brown eyes.

At one time, Claire’s every emotion had seemed to show on her face. John couldn’t read her now. Seeing her again, though, he knew he still wanted her. Wanted her physically, yes, and more than that. He wanted to be part of her life if she’d have him. Wanted to fulfill the promise that had been cut short all those years ago.

He bent at the knees and uttered her name again, wanting her to look at him, wanting her to see how he had never forgotten her, to see what he’d become for her.

She looked away, her brown eyes blazing. “Perhaps I was a little infatuated. Certainly I was caught up in the danger of the moment, and how could I have been anything but grateful for the heroic assistance you offered in keeping me out of that awful man’s clutches? Thank goodness my maturity and current circumstances now allow me to see that any emotion I felt at the time wasn’t about you but the adventure we were sharing.”

With intense effort John kept from wincing, and before he could even think Claire’s gaze refocused over his shoulder. Someone else had entered the room.

A smile broke upon her face.

“I beg your pardon.”

The voice behind John was deep, slightly mistrustful, and did not belong to his brother.

He tore his eyes away from the pretty vision of Claire and rose to greet the man who sauntered into the room, young, blond and absurdly muscular, like a Viking warlord trapped in a finely-tailored coat, striped waistcoat, and fawn trousers.

“I don’t believe we are acquainted,” the man said.

Claire sat, speechless, her smile now a bit dazed. The Norse god-like creature sidled nearer to her in a presumptuous sort of way. A chill ran down John’s spine.

“No,” he replied, “we are not acquainted.” He swept a glance over the man, who was definitely brawnier than John but of the same height, gave a decent bow, and said, “Lord John Reyburn.”

The man’s stiffened posture eased as he returned the bow. “Of course. The duke’s mysterious brother. My pleasure.”

Out of the corner of his eye John saw Claire jump up and approach. Her voice shook as she finished the introduction. “Lord John, this is Lord Kensworth.”

Viscount Kensworth? Impossible. His family’s neighbor in Hertfordshire must be seventy if he was a day.

The blond man watched Claire, who examined the rug. When she said nothing further he slid a few inches closer to her but addressed John. “The new Viscount Kensworth, of course. You’ve been gone many years, haven’t you? I must say you have excellent timing, though.”

John balled his fists, not wishing to hear more and yet at the same time wanting his suspicion confirmed. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to ask Kensworth to what he had so excellently timed his arrival.

Claire turned away from both of them and returned to her wing chair, answering Kensworth’s question. “He has been away for five years.”

Four years, ten months and six days
.

“His visit is completely unexpected,” Claire continued, sounding rather unhappier than he would have hoped.

“Unexpected, yes,” John agreed. “For me as well. It will be a lengthy visit, however.” Which was a lie, but no one else in this room needed to know he would slink back to Europe if Kensworth was about to announce what he feared.

Claire blinked rapidly then took a deep breath—lifting her glorious bosom—and raised her chin. “How lovely. I am certain your family will be delighted.”

Meaning, she was not.

Kensworth circled around the sofa and sat on the arm of Claire’s chair. “Welcome home!” he said with a smile so wide it had to be false. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about you or where you’ve been, as Claire rarely mentioned you.”

That statement was a relief rather than an insult. The thought of Claire discussing him with this man burned his gut. “There isn’t much to say about me.” John rushed his next question, knowing the response would not be to his liking but stupidly craving the truth. “How do you know the family, my lord?”

He had wisely moved across the room, out of range of Claire’s exhilarating scent. He was never so grateful for the distance as when Claire aimed her brown gaze at him, slipped her hand into Kensworth’s and said, “Stephen and I are to be married in four weeks.”

Kensworth squeezed her hand, but smiled—genuinely this time—at John. “Of course you’ll come to the wedding.”

The room spun, and John closed his eyes in an attempt to regain his focus. Married in four weeks? She’d had five bloody
years
to get herself married to her damned True Love. But, no. Now he would have to witness her engagement and wedding.