His Sinful Secret (20 page)

Julianne was no longer an abstract concept. Something foisted on him by guilt and a need to assuage his parents’ grief.

The woman sleeping in his bed was symbolic of change in his life.

Whether he wanted it or not.

He brushed a stray curl from her cheek with one finger, marveling at the smoothness of her skin. It was a surprise to him, but maybe he did want it.

“W
hat you are telling me,then,monsieur,is that Roget has been active in his own nefarious way in the circles he used to frequent. You are, of course, sure it is him?” Antonia suggestively smiled and swirled the wine in her glass.

The operative nodded, his gaze now and then flicking to her bosom. “Yes, madam. He has the same distinctive voice. I heard it before he was rumored to be dead, and the other night, it was unmistakable.”

“Tell me again.”

“He suggested there were new plans.” The young man licked his lips nervously. “The Marquess of Longhaven was mentioned. It caught my attention. When I started listening in earnest, I realized who was speaking.”

So few people knew Michael’s true role in the English government, it smacked of a lie. Antonia leaned forward just enough. “So,” she purred, “you came to me. Why?”

“Your relationship with the marquess is well-known.”

No, it wasn’t. That is, unless you were in just the right circles. Roget knew, the bastard.

So his men knew. There was always the chance this youth was a double agent, sent by Roget himself to lead them into some sort of trap.

The hair lifted just slightly along the nape of her neck and she adjusted her elbow-length glove in a languid movement. “What is in this for you?”

“Let us just say my employer would prefer the marquess stay alive. He sent me.”

“Who?”

“I am not at liberty to divulge his identity, madam.”

Charles Peyton would be her guess, if this was a legitimate English agent. The man had a longer reach than the king himself and certainly he had used Michael’s considerable skills to his advantage.

Her visitor leaned forward, wispy, fair hair framing a long, narrow face. His voice was low. “Roget is more than dangerous. If he is the one trying to kill the marquess, my superiors would like for Longhaven to deal with the situation as soon as possible.”

“Why not visit the marquess yourself?” Antonia eyed him with cool suspicion.

“The French watch him. Forgive me, but you are not quite as important.” The young man shrugged and rose to his feet, giving her a small polite bow. He was dressed like a member of one of the affluent lower classes, well but without ostentation. “The ducal household also is run in such a fashion that a lowly silk merchant wouldn’t call and ask for the marquess himself and expect an audience. You live more simply and are more accessible.”

There was just the slightest hint of innuendo in the last word, and she’d seen how he’d looked at her. In truth, he was attractive, young, and no doubt virile, but Lawrence would skewer the man if she as much as looked sideways at him, and she had no desire for a murder in her household. Instead, she rose and offered her hand with a composed smile. “I will pass on the information. What Longhaven does with it is up to him. He is very much his own man.”

After he was gone, she sank back down in a brocade-covered chair and brooded at her half-empty glass. It was only a few moments before Lawrence joined her, uninvited but not unwelcome. She needed to think out loud. It was interesting, for while the two men were worlds apart in their place in society, Lawrence, in his own way, was every bit as confident and astute as Michael.

The mystery of his past intrigued her, but though she’d tried several times, he refused to speak of it with such cold withdrawal that she understood and let the subject drop at once. She knew all too well life could hand a person bitter experiences best not revisited.

“What the devil did your visitor want?” In midafternoon Lawrence wore a white, full-sleeved shirt, fawn breeches, and unpolished boots. Instead of taking a chair, he went and stood by the sideboard, pouring himself some claret. “Not to sell you cloth for new gowns, I’m going to guess. If he is a silk merchant, I’m a Catholic nun.”

She eyed the width of his shoulders and his imposing height, plus the cynical gleam in his dark eyes, and laughed. “I think God might take issue with the depth of your devotion, and I’m not sure the uniform would suit you.”

“He must take issue with my faith,” Lawrence agreed, sipping from his glass. “He has tested it often enough. Now, then, what did our devious friend have to say?”

“Friend? Do you know him?” Antonia quirked a brow in inquiry.

“I know his kind. I am ever amazed any of us can fool each other. He had that careful way about him, and when he asked for you, I sensed it had nothing to do with textiles.”

She laughed again, but it wasn’t inspired by mirth. “Spies know spies, is that it? Let us all hope it isn’t true, though I have never really considered myself in that category.”

Lawrence lifted his glass to his mouth and asked casually over the rim, “What are you, then?”

But there was nothing casual in the intent look in his eyes.

“An instrument of justice in whatever form it might take,” she answered smoothly, the memory of the atrocities visited on her family in Spain no longer fresh, but still half healed over, leaving a gnawing ache in the background that she feared would never go away. “As you know, I have been, when necessary, an assassin. Roget is certainly a black spot that needs to be obliterated. It will be my pleasure.”

“Your pretend silk merchant came about Roget?” Lawrence halted in the act of lowering his glass from his mouth, his gaze riveted on her face.

“It seems more and more likely he is in London.”

He swore under his breath, softly enough that she didn’t catch the words, but the sentiment was clear enough from his expression. She didn’t blame him. The bastard had been a thorn in their side the entirety of the war. To eliminate him would be a pleasure she had been looking forward to for years now.

“Let the marquess handle this matter, Antonia.”

“Of course.” She smiled and reclined against the back of the chair, aware that her low-cut gown showcased her breasts in a tantalizing manner. “But, if in the course of keeping an eye out for his naive little bride, should I stumble across Roget myself, well . . . that would be fate, would it not?”

“I still have a hard time believing Longhaven agreed to your plan to shadow his wife.”

“He knows my
capabilities
.”

The heavy innuendo irritated Lawrence, as she’d known it would. Antonia regarded him with a heavy-lidded gaze, aware she pricked his jealousy on purpose, but not sure of her motives. Lawrence made no secret of his desire for her, yet she tested him constantly. Part of it was probably her past, experience being a bitter pill to swallow. Through no fault of their own, her parents and then her kindly husband had left her by dying. Michael, whom she loved, had married someone else.

Lawrence might also walk away. It was frightening to realize how much she’d come to depend on him always being there, always being ready to defend her, and worrying over her welfare.

She simply was not comfortable with such weakness.

“I’ll take the message.” Lawrence’s scarred face held the hint of a scowl, his glass looking absurdly delicate in the grip of his long, powerful fingers. “You barely slept last night. I think a nap this afternoon would help refresh you before the festivities this evening.”

“How do you know how I slept?” It rankled that he hadn’t come to her, but she was hardly going to admit it.

“I know everything about you,” Lawrence said softly, “whether I occupy your bed or not. For instance, you are right now wondering why I didn’t approach you last night.”

Antonia started to disdainfully deny it, but he interrupted.

“And you were restless without me,” he added, with irritating accuracy, before she could speak.

She had been, damn him, and though she’d all but ordered him to join her in her bedchamber, he had never made an appearance. “I slept quite well. Thank you.”

“Liar. You’ve been sulking all morning.” His mouth quirked at the corner. “It gives me hope. I rather wondered what you’d do if I declined your charming offer.”

She flushed, and that was a rare thing indeed. Maidenly blushes were for other women and she hadn’t been a maiden in quite some time. It was true, maybe she had been a little brash upon her return from the ball. It was partly too much champagne, partly a sense of triumph—mixed with an equal measure of despair—over her discussion with Michael.

He’d danced with his pretty wife, and Julianne Hepburn had gazed at her husband with a particular expression that Antonia recognized all too well. She was already under his spell, but that probably wasn’t all that surprising. Did men realize that the trust needed for a woman to give herself to a lover was as great a gift as the lovemaking itself? Where women trust, love often follows. Who knew what romantic notions Lady Longhaven might have held about marriage in the first place. She was young and sheltered, and Michael was a very attractive man. Yes, it was inevitable that she would fall in love with him.

It was irksome to realize it had happened already, but Antonia could hardly blame the chit. After all, it had happened to her as well.

“I was in the mood for a little dalliance.” Antonia shrugged. “You were conveniently available.”

“I’m convenient? How flattering.”

Under his dry, amused tone, she sensed she’d hurt him. But his rejection had also affected her, as much as she hated to admit it. “Apparently not too convenient,” she said coolly. “I slept alone.”

“I am always available, in case it has escaped your notice.” Lawrence’s tone was modulated and even. “But never to ease your desire for Longhaven. Last night was much like the evening after his wedding. You were thinking of him, not me. I am not just a surrogate cock, ready to service you when you mourn the loss of what you never had in the first place.”

Because his words stung, Antonia said hotly, “I’ve had him, believe me.”

“No, my love,” Lawrence corrected, “never. Not in the way you desire.”

Fury rose at the observation, but just as quickly, it subsided.
He is right,
Antonia realized with morose introspection. Michael had never been hers in the way a man should be bound to a woman.

And Lawrence was right about something else too. She was suddenly quite listless. If she was to pit herself against someone like Roget, she needed to be alert and ready.

Antonia wearily inclined her head. “I agree. You should take the warning to the marquess.”

Lawrence murmured, “Very well. I’ll give him your regards.”

 

His rival sat in stoic challenge across from the desk, his face impassive. The puckered scar from a previous injury was stark in the slanting afternoon sunlight.

Michael watched Lawrence as he negligently tossed a piece of paper on the desk, but he wasn’t fooled. There was nothing nonchalant about his visitor.

“So Roget is truly in England,” Michael said with no inflection. “It is nice to know his whereabouts, though I do admit I wish it were elsewhere.”

“Preferably interred somewhere in the rocky Spanish soil.” Lawrence smiled with a brief flash of white teeth. “We both know the world will be better without his presence. I thought we’d taken care of it.”

“Apparently not.”

“Apparently.”

This was all his responsibility. He’d never had any illusions over it. Michael sat back. “I assume Antonia is intent on finding him.”

“Isn’t she always?”

“Yes.” The emotional Lady Taylor tended to do nothing halfway. “She does realize Roget might be the one who orchestrated the information? We have no idea if it is accurate.”

“I agree. If it is a trap, better you or I fall into it.” Lawrence didn’t dissemble.

“True.”

“Then how shall we deal with this?”

“I’ll find out from Charles if that was his man who came to see her. Tell me,” Michael asked, “has the man you hired to watch me seen anyone else performing the same task?”

There was a brief silence, and then Lawrence laughed. His expression was resigned. “I suppose it was naive of me to think you wouldn’t spot him.”

There was nothing naive about Lawrence. Michael lifted a brow. “I wondered if it was friendly surveillance or inspired by an enemy, so I did a little investigation of my own. I was relieved to find out he was in your employ. Has he reported anything interesting?”

“Johnson will be crushed to know he failed.”

“Forgive me, but his feelings were not uppermost in my thoughts when I realized I was being shadowed. Naturally I took steps. However, I have noticed no one else. Yet the man who visited Antonia says the opposition is watching my house, correct?”

“You cannot be sure Roget has anything to do with it. Pardon my frankness, but as you just pointed out, you have other enemies in this world, my lord. In our line of work, it is inevitable.”

That was true enough, but this situation bothered him. “Others do not worry me as much as Roget.”

“He is a canny foe, I admit.”

Julianne had gone out earlier. Michael picked up a paperweight and twirled it idly in his fingers, glad he’d sent Fitzhugh with her, though he could tell she disliked the restriction of being escorted everywhere by both his valet and her maid. There was safety in numbers, most certainly, besides the fact that Fitzhugh was both capable and a crack shot.

“He has seen only one suspicious thing, my lord.” Lawrence looked bland. “It has more to do with Lady Longhaven than yourself, but Johnson reported it just the same, in case it was significant.”

The paperweight went still in his fingers. Michael asked sharply, “What?”