B00Q5W7IXE (R) (2 page)

A sliver of light pierced the floor to his left.

“I do accept your apology, Mr. Burton.” His wife’s voice sounded from her doorway. Clearly, her interview was at an end.

Would Baron never leave?

“Goodbye.” Blue shooed Baron with his hands. The last thing he needed was for Helena to think he had taken to working with the Barbican group again. He’d told her he was through with spying, and he’d meant it. She’d understood when he’d had to go back, briefly, to help Bonde defeat Foncé. But the madman who had endangered both of their lives was now dead, and Blue would keep his promise to make Helena his priority.

“Blue,” Baron muttered, refusing to be pushed aside. The man was a veritable mountain. “I need but five minutes of your time.” He waved a crumpled sheet of folded vellum.

“Ernest?”

Blue heard Helena’s questioning voice.

“Go away,” he hissed at Baron. “Coming!” Blue called to Helena.

“If you would just glance at the missive—”

“Where are you?” Helena asked, a laugh in her voice. “Hiding?”

Blue glared at Baron. “No missive. Ask Wolf to help you.” Blue stepped out from behind the beam and waved at Helena.

“There you are.” She’d dressed in a green gown with red ribbons on the sleeves, bodice, and hem. A green ribbon threaded through her upswept hair, accenting the auburn tresses. She’d chosen the perfect attire for a Christmas Eve ball. He eyed the ribbons, tied primly at the swell of her breasts. Later he would untie them and unwrap her in a private holiday celebration.

“Why are you hiding back there?” she asked.

“I...ah...dropped my pocket watch. One moment, and I’ll help you with your wrap.”

“Clearly this is a pocket-watch crisis. I shall fetch my wrap and be back in a moment.”

Blue waited until she’d disappeared into her dressing room before facing Baron again. One of the Barbican leader’s shoulders was jammed against the beam.

“Found your pocket watch yet?” Baron drawled.

“Go away. Happy Christmas and all that.” He turned to walk away.

Baron put a restraining hand on Blue’s shoulder. Blue paused, looked at the offending hand, and removed it finger by finger.

“You are the best we have, Blue. The missive is coded, and no one knows the cipher. Five minutes, and I know you will decode it for us.”

Blue could feel his resolve wavering. He did love a good puzzle, and a coded missive was one of his favorites. The content was undoubtedly banal—troop numbers or weapons shipments—but still the challenge invigorated him.

He tamped down the urge to agree, stilling his itching fingers at his side. “I am retired.”

Baron skirted around to face him and spread his hands. “Fine. Forget I was ever here.”

“With pleasure.” Blue moved aside, tossing a curious look at Baron as he made his way toward Helena’s dressing room. His escape had been almost too easy. He’d expected Baron to make a scene with Helena or further appeal to Blue’s sense of patriotism.

Helena emerged, holding a red velvet cloak before her. “Who were you speaking with?” she asked, giving him her back, so he might drape the garment over her shoulders.

“No one of any consequence.”

“You sound odd.” She peeked at him. “Almost guilty.”

“Me, guilty?” Blue barely contained a wince. He might as well confess all now.

“Do not say you are spying again,” she said with a laugh.

“Oh, you are too amusing.” Blue laughed as well, an overblown, deep guffaw.

Had he implied he could act? He’d lost the talent in the last five minutes.

He dropped the heavy velvet cloak over the bared skin of her shoulders and she reached up to fasten the ties. Blue glanced back once again, but Baron had disappeared.

Good. The source of temptation had been removed. He shifted, preparing to offer his arm to his wife, when he heard a rustling sound. He patted his coat, which crinkled in response.

“That bastard.”

“Pardon?” Helena said, looking up at him.

“You look lovely,” Blue said, reaching into his pocket and feeling the missive tucked safely inside. “Are you ready for the ball?”

“As ready as I will ever be. Tell me we shall leave early.”

“We shall leave early,” he said, taking her arm.

Nestled between them, the forbidden missive seemed to burn a hole through his pocket.

Two

The biting December wind made Helena shiver. Blue pulled her closer and hurried her the few steps from the theater door to his waiting coach. She pitied the horses, who had to leave their warm mews on this Christmas Eve to fetch and ferry her to the Ely Ball. She raised a hand in greeting to the coachman. Poor Gordon resembled a sausage in his multiple layers of coats and scarves. Helena made a note to give him something extra when she distributed gifts to their small retinue of servants on Boxing Day.

Blue and she tumbled into the coach, and he pulled the door closed and rapped on the roof. The drawn curtains and flickering coach lamps made the interior seem warm and cozy, but it was still cold. She shivered and Blue pulled half a dozen blankets around her and settled her into the crook of his arm.

“Are there any blankets left at home?” she asked as the horses clopped away from Covent Garden.

“Perhaps one or two. Are you warm enough?”

She smiled. Ernest might play the part of the dandy, with care for nothing but fashion and gossip, but the man beneath the mask was warm and thoughtful and infinitely attentive. Considering his sense of fashion lacked...well,
sense
, his husbandly merits were welcome.

“Yes, I’m warm now.” She snuggled closer to him. “You look quite festive tonight. The violet waistcoat?” She raised a brow.

He puffed out his chest, which under the hideous waistcoat was quite impressive. “Everyone will be wearing green or red. God forbid I blend in with the masses.”

“Yes, God forbid,” she muttered. He would not blend in with that ghastly wardrobe combination.

He pulled at his lace sleeves, which she knew he adored although they had gone out of fashion with the revolution in France, and then patted his coat pocket. His gaze met hers, and he dropped his hand.

Interesting.

That was the second time tonight he’d touched that pocket with an uncomfortable look. Now what was he hiding?

“Your parents are aware I am accompanying you to this ball?”

“Of course. They did send the invitation.”

“An invitation addressed solely to you, Lord Ernest Bloomington. I was not included.”

The coach bounced over a rough patch in the street, and he held her tightly to steady her.

“You are my wife. You are implied.”

Helena bit back a retort and swallowed. “How utterly lowering,” she said with forced gaiety.

“Darling”—he nuzzled her neck, his breath warm on her chilled skin—“you must know you are much more than an implication to me.”

She did know. She knew he loved her madly.

He’d loved her enough to defy his parents’ wishes and marry her, a lowly opera singer. She hadn’t yet achieved any renown all those years ago. She’d been but a chorus singer with potential. Now that she’d earned distinction as not only a singer but an actress, the Duke and Duchess of Ely’s oversight stung.

She might have attended a half dozen other doings this Christmas Eve, affairs into which she would have been not only welcomed but received as an honored guest. Instead, she was en route to the one place no one—save Blue—wanted her.

And that was reason enough to go. Blue needed her at his side. She did not believe for a moment that the duke and duchess had changed their minds and accepted her. The salient point was Blue
did
believe it—or wanted to believe it. Helena wanted it to be true for him.

She shivered, though not with cold, as his lips continued their gentle attentions to the sensitive spot below her ear. Heat flowed through her, and the arousal he’d kindled in her dressing room simmered. His fingers found the ties of her cloak, yanking them free so he might slip it off her shoulders and kiss the bared flesh.

She’d never doubted Blue’s love for her. Even during the long years of their separation—when she had pursued recognition on the Continent and drowned her loneliness in too many glasses of champagne or gin or brandy—she had never doubted he loved her.

But he hadn’t loved her enough. Defying his parents was one thing, but giving up his work for the Barbican group quite another. He loved his work for the Crown more, and the Barbican was a greedy mistress. She’d thought she’d lost him to it forever.

Amazingly, he had come back, and had retired from the Barbican group to dedicate himself to their marriage. But she had been shocked that she’d felt more relieved than panicked when he’d come out of retirement for a few days several months ago. It was nice not to have him haunting the corridors of Covent Garden, looking lost and forlorn. He might be the son of a duke, but he needed a profession to occupy him. No, that wasn’t quite true. Not just any profession would do. He was happiest when engaged with the Barbican group. If only it did not consume him...

Even his temporary return to the Barbican had made her worried she would lose him once again to the lure of secret agents and coded missives and outlandish disguises.

His tongue flicked over her earlobe, and she couldn’t stifle a moan. He’d worked his way from her neck to her shoulders and back to her ear until her resolve faltered.

“Blue.” She pushed at him feebly, without any real intention. “I do not wish to arrive at the ball with a wrinkled gown and unkempt hair, looking like the opera singer I am.”

“Madam!” Blue straightened stiffly. “I would never wrinkle your gown or muss your hair.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “And I like opera singers, despite—dare I say because of?—their reputed loose morals.”

She laughed, unable to resist him. Grasping his cravat, she pulled his lips to hers. Heat smoldered between them, so palpable she could almost see it shimmer and spark. He deepened the kiss, pushing her back into the velvet squabs, and she ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He always carefully tousled it, and she took secret delight in ruining the artful carelessness of his look. If he wanted tousled hair, she would give it to him.

“How is it you taste so sweet?” he murmured against her lips.

“Honey in my tea after a performance,” she answered, allowing her hands to roam down the back of his tight-fitting tailcoat. How she wished she might remove it and touch the muscled skin beneath.

“Honey?” he said, his voice rising. “That gives me ideas. Zounds, how many layers are you wearing?”

She laughed and pushed aside the cape and blankets tucked around her. She did not need them with the heat the two of them generated. His hand slid up her thigh, and she wondered when he’d removed his gloves. His smooth fingers flicked over the flesh above her stockings, inching higher until her breath grew quick with anticipation.

He’s always had such sure, skilled fingers. Even when they’d first met, and he’d been a randy youth with more enthusiasm than skill, his touch had never been hesitant or tentative. He knew what he wanted. After all these years, he knew what she wanted too.

“Surely you do not mean to tumble me in a coach in the middle of London.” A thrill raced up her spine at the thought. They had coupled in more than one unlikely location but never in a carriage.

He sniffed with an imperious arch of his brow. “I would never be so uncouth. I merely plan to—” He whispered in her ear, his words making her face heat and her heart pound, thick and slow against her chest.

His hands ruched her dress higher, his fingers slow and teasing as they trailed a measured path up her thighs. She bit her lip and dug her fingers into the velvet beneath her. Suddenly, she seemed to be wearing too many clothes. Her breasts felt tender and chafed by the fine linen of her undergarments, her legs overly warmed by the petticoats.

He kissed the swells of her breasts with his lips, leaving her wanting, and then, with a wicked grin, he slid to the floor and knelt between her knees. She would not be wanting for long.

She hissed in a breath as his fingers skated up to part her thighs, and he grasped the hem of her gown in his teeth.

The coach jolted, making them both bounce hard enough to rattle their brains.

“Whoa there!” Gordon called to the horses.

She met Blue’s gaze—impossibly blue even in the dim light—and he frowned back at her. The coach door flung open, and just as suddenly Blue drew a pistol and shoved her behind him. He moved so quickly she saw but a blur before she’d been thrust into a corner, blankets and velvet swirling about her face.

And she had been worried about his lovemaking mussing her hair. Apparently, she should have concerned herself more with the damage bandits might wreak on her appearance—or her life.

“What the devil do you plan to do with that?” a cultured male voice inquired calmly.

“Do put it away, Blue.” That was a woman’s voice.

A woman bandit—and one who obviously knew her husband. Helena struggled to sit up and peer around Blue’s back.

Her husband had already lowered his weapon, and the movement of his arm gave her a glimpse of a dark-haired woman and a man in a greatcoat and beaver hat filling the door of the coach.

“Just because
your
aim is rubbish, Saaaa...Sophia”—Blue gave Helena a quick glance over his shoulder—“does not mean
I
do not know how to use this.”

Helena realized these were no bandits. They must be spies. She’d never met any of Blue’s fellow agents for the Crown. She’d never asked to meet any, as she agreed with Blue that the less she knew about that aspect of his life, the better.

But now that they were in front of her, she wanted a better look. The spies obliged by climbing into the coach. At the same time, Blue slid onto the seat beside her.

Helena’s gaze locked with the woman’s.

“This is a surprise,” the woman he’d called Sophia remarked. “I thought you...”

“You thought I preferred baritones?” Blue said, fluttering the lace at his sleeves and patting—there it was again—his coat pocket.