In Bed with a Spy (10 page)

R
IDING AT A
sedate pace was a constant irritation. The groom riding at an appropriate distance behind her was an even greater irritation. But it was London, it was before breakfast and she couldn’t go to Hyde Park alone.

Not that the park was deserted. The Season was still in full swing, and even though the midsummer weather was cold enough to be September, there were a few early morning riders in the park. Each one of them looked at her askance, as she rode her mount astride just as she had on the march. She’d learned to ignore the odd looks as people caught sight of the breeches beneath her gown.

She wanted the open space. To think and breathe and just be. Rather, she wanted to
not
think, even for a few hours.

But of course, not thinking was impossible. She rubbed the spot between her eyes where trouble concentrated. She was foolish and unwise. Being with Angelstone was ten times a mistake.

They had not made love, however. That would be tender and sweet. This had been needy. She did not want it to be anything more than a fierce, urgent coupling. God, she could not even think of love or marriage. She could not trust herself to pick a proper man.

Although, however foolish it was to take a spy as a lover, it was no worse than being married to an assassin. At least this time her eyes were wide open. What woman wouldn’t enjoy sex with a skilled lover who touched her as though she was the first woman he had ever loved? Calloused thumbs brushing a nipple, long fingers stroking skin. His eyes. Oh yes. Those were just as compelling as his touch.

And thinking of it would not quiet her body.

Treacherous, treacherous body.

Lilias leaned forward and set her mare to canter across the open field. The hooves of the groom’s horse thundered behind her. Perhaps she could simply keep riding. Perhaps she could outrun Jeremy and her memories of him. Angelstone had only temporarily erased six years of marriage. In the morning light she was still in Fairchild House, with a miniature of her husband tucked in a drawer. There was no outrunning betrayal.

Or murder.

She increased the horse’s pace to a gallop. She needed a quick, hard ride. No light canter would do. She lifted her face to the cloud-obscured sky so the chilled morning air rushed over her skin. Wind plucked at the hat perched on her head. It felt good to simply release everything, just for a few minutes. Everything eased, muscles, temper, nerves.

She slowed the mare’s pace as they neared the end of the field, settling into a light trot to let the animal work out the gallop.

With an expert twitch of the reins, she turned the horse toward the sandy track threading through the park. The groom took a position to the side and just behind her. It made her edgy to have someone follow her so closely and she fought the urge to look behind her.

“The mare is in fine form this morning, ma’am,” the groom said.

As though in agreement, the horse tossed her head.

“So she is.” The animal was in better form than her mistress, at any rate.

“Mrs. Fairchild!” The call was accompanied by the nearby beat of hooves. Jason Hawthorne rode toward her, looking as dashing as ever in his top hat and riding clothes.

Her smile warmed. Hawthorne had been her husband’s closest friend. He’d helped her return to London after Waterloo when she’d been exhausted from the battle and grief—and he had championed her the previous evening when Angel had imperiously demanded to stroll with her.

“Good morning,” she called as he drew to a stop beside her.

“I’m surprised to see you still riding astride.” Hawthorne tipped the brim of his hat. “If you weren’t a favorite with Wellington, society wouldn’t accept it.”

“I’ve spent too many years on the march wearing breeches beneath my skirts to change my behavior now.” She looked down at her riding habit. “Riding astride is so much less precarious. And I was in need of the exercise.”

“I am afraid it will be short-lived, however. I think it is going to rain.” He looked up at the sky. Dull gray clouds formed a patchwork field over the city. He waited a moment, as though considering some weighty subject in the sky, before looking back at her. “Did you enjoy your social engagements yesterday evening?” he asked.

“I did.” She frowned at him. He was watching her steadily, brown eyes probing. What did he want to know? “But I saw you yesterday evening, Hawthorne.”

“I remember.” His voice was tight. “You danced with the Marquess of Angelstone.”

Ah. That was what he wanted to know about. “I did, indeed, dance with Angelstone,” she said slowly.

“You have not danced since Jeremy died.”

“Are you noting down my dance partners?” She raised an amused brow. With his chest lifted in indignation he looked like an offended older brother.

“Only Angelstone. I was not aware you were acquainted with him.”

“I have many acquaintances you do not know about.” Why was he prying into her relationship with Angelstone? It wasn’t simple curiosity that lowered Hawthorne’s brows so menacingly. “If you have something to say, please say it.”

“Mrs. Fairchild.” Hawthorne spoke through gritted teeth. “Lilias. What are you about?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t think me a fool. Angelstone couldn’t keep his eyes from you yesterday evening. You
danced
with him.” Now he sounded like an offended father. But even with the scowl darkening his face, she knew it was concern for her that had him speaking. “He is not for you, Lilias,” Hawthorne finished. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched it.

“Whether he is or not, it is my decision, Hawthorne. Only mine.” She lifted her chin. “Jeremy has been gone for two years. I can dance with whomever I choose.”

“It’s my duty to protect you. I promised Jeremy I would.” Hawthorne glanced once at her groom, who was still behind them at a respectful distance. Far enough not to hear, but close enough to be proper. “Let’s walk the horses.”

They set the horses to a slow walk on the sandy path. Others were starting to take the morning air now, and they passed a pair of old gentlemen moving slowly.

“What is it that has you so worried about Angelstone?” She could not stand firm against his concern. They had been friends too long.

“There are rumors about Angelstone. He’s a rake.” Hawthorne’s eyes remained forward, as though it was most proper to deliver bad news without making eye contact.

“And you aren’t a rake?”

He shook his head. The dark hair peeking from beneath his hat fluttered in the breeze. “It’s not the same.”

“Of course it is.” She tapped the butt of her whip once on his arm. “You’re feeling protective, Hawthorne. I understand that. But I’m not a simpering miss or naïve widow that needs protection.”

“I know. But—” Hawthorne looked over now, met her gaze with serious eyes. “There’s more. He was a soldier that suddenly left his regiment. No explanation.”

She sucked in a breath.
Desertion?
She didn’t dare say it aloud. But no, it wouldn’t be desertion. It would have been espionage. She could not imagine Angel would desert his regiment—but then, she wouldn’t have expected Jeremy to be an assassin.

Perhaps she wasn’t the best judge of character.

“No one knows where Angelstone went or what he did during the war,” Hawthorne continued. “He disappeared one day, then would appear occasionally at various battles. Like Waterloo.” He sent his gaze out across the park again. “There are rumors linking you to him.”

“Rumors?”

“An affair. They are wondering how long you’ve been his mistress.”

Of course. She should have guessed. When a widow who has not set foot onto a dance floor in two years invites a well-known rake to dance, the rumors would multiply a hundredfold before she finished the dance.

“Already the gossips have left their mark.” She tried to let the irritation roll from her shoulders. “If we are involved, it is between Angelstone and me. No one else.”

“You don’t have to ally yourself with Angelstone. If you are looking for companionship—” He choked on the word, swallowed, recovered. “There are any number of better choices.”

She laughed at the self-conscious flush on his sharp cheekbones. Older brother, indeed. “By whose measuring stick, Hawthorne? Yours or mine?”

“Society’s.” He looked down at her, let out a long, low breath. His eyes warmed, reminding her of her morning chocolate. “I only want to see you safe and happy, Lilias.”

The wind snatched the sigh that slipped from her lips. “I know.” There was nothing he said that wasn’t true. Angelstone was known as a rake. If he’d disappeared from his regiment, it was for reasons he—and she—could not reveal. It was one more secret they shared.

And suddenly, she knew that she would be with Angel again.
She
would pursue
him
. There was no one else in the world just now that knew her secrets. An exhilarating thing, that shared sense of intimacy, however strange the connection. And no other man in two years had stirred her. So she would seduce him again, and probably again, until they were tired of each other.

“I’m grateful for your concern, and for knowing that I can lean on you if I have a need. But for now, I’ve chosen Angelstone. When we’re finished with our
companionship
, we’ll go our separate ways. No harm to either of us.” Her voice sounded strong.

She almost believed it.

H
AWTHORNE WATCHED HER
steadily. “Be careful, Lilias. You’re playing a deep game with Angelstone, and you are a novice.”

“I will.” The ribbons of her hat fluttered against her cheek. She brushed them away. He didn’t know what a novice she was—at espionage, at any rate. Nor did he know the extent of Angel’s experience. “Hopefully you won’t need to pick up the pieces of my life again.”

“I will, however, if need be.” The smile he sent her held understanding.

Hawthorne had picked up the pieces for her in the Netherlands and brought her home after Waterloo. She flicked her gaze at his profile. Strong, handsome. Noble. Could he have known Jeremy was an assassin? Suspected something? Perhaps, like her, what he thought were ordinary meetings were only a cover for murder. She had to tread carefully to find out.

“Do you think often of those campaigns with Jeremy?” She twitched her skirts into place to better hide her breeches. She would have to guide the conversation. Lead him around to it. “I find I can’t remember some things.”

“It’s been two years since he died,” he said softly. “Time fades memories.”

“It does.” The conversation would turn maudlin in a moment—or more maudlin than it already was. Lifting her voice over the thud and scuff of the horses’ hooves, she said cheerfully, “I remember Jeremy teaching me to fence the winter after we withdrew from Madrid and went into Portugal. I borrowed your sabre. I was so clumsy, do you remember?”

“You were beyond clumsy. You were miserable at it.”

“Hawthorne! It’s ungentlemanly to remind me how bad I was.” Relieved to be on easy footing again, she winced playfully. “Though it is true.”

“By the time we left Portugal you were proficient enough.”

“Quite an unladylike skill, I’m afraid.” She wasn’t the least bit sorry for having learned it. “Fencing passed the time that winter.”

“The boredom was worse in the barracks.”

“I know.” She studied a pair of doves winging across the sky and contemplated her next direction. It seemed pitifully easy to guide a conversation. Is this how Angel conducted his spy business? “Do you remember when the fever spread through the barracks in Madrid? I was thinking just the other day how glad I was that even though Jeremy spent the week in the barracks with you, he never fell ill.”

It was an arrow released into dense fog. She could only hope to hit a target.

“I remember that. We lost a lot of good men in Madrid.” He frowned, eyes gazing into the middle distance. “But I don’t remember Jeremy being in the barracks when the fever spread.”

“Oh.” She pursed her lips and tried to ignore the sudden thumping of her heart. She’d hit her target. Perhaps the fog was only a light mist. “I must be mistaken on the campaign. Or the city. They do blur together.”

But she wasn’t mistaken. She knew the date. She knew it had been Madrid when she had run into a surprised and shocked Jeremy outside the opera.

He hadn’t been in the barracks
.

“No,” Hawthorne said slowly, eyes sharp. “No, you never forget cities or campaigns. You know them as well as I do.”

Clearly, she was not being subtle enough in her questioning. She tightened her hands on the reins. The mare responded with a jerk and Lilias forced her hands to relax. Foolish to think she was as experienced at espionage as Angel.

“As you say, memories fade,” she said.

“It’s more than that. I can see it in your face. What has happened?” It wasn’t a question, but a demand for an answer.

“Jeremy is not the man I thought he was—that any of us thought he was.” The words spilled from her lips before she could stop them. “I can’t tell you about Jeremy. Not yet. I will, as soon as I can.” She pressed her lips together. She’d already said too much.

“Are you in debt? In legal trouble? Or—” A quick tug on the reins drew his horse to a sharp halt. The animal snorted in protest. “Are you in danger? It isn’t Angelstone, is it?”

She shook her head and reined in her own mount. “No, I’m not in danger. Far from it.” When a spy loomed over one’s life, one was safe enough. “But the secret isn’t mine to share. It will have to wait.”

“Tell me if you need assistance.” His gloved hand reached out as though to touch her arm, but fell away before it made contact. “You will tell me, won’t you? You’re not alone.”

“No. I’m not alone.” The smile she sent him came from her heart. “Thank you, Hawthorne. I will tell you everything as soon as I can.”

“Good.” His face relaxed, his shoulders eased. “I’ll always be here to rescue you.”

“What would I do without you?” A fat drop of rain bounced off the edge of the bonnet, another trickled cold down her cheek. Large beads of water already dotted the mare’s dark coat. Glancing up, she saw dark clouds roiling above. “I think now would be a good time to return home.”

“Shall I see you to Fairchild House?”

“No, you’ll only get wet. The groom is sufficient.” She smiled at him as she turned her horse away. He tipped his hat, then rode in the other direction with a quick wave.

She was too late. By the time they reached Fairchild House, she and the poor groom were soaked to the skin.

As was Grant, who was leaping from his own horse to stride up the front steps. He left a muddy trail behind him, which did not surprise her. He often did so, and she’d grown to learn it meant he’d been chasing after his birds.

“Did you get caught by surprise?” she asked, once inside the dry confines of Fairchild House.

“I was tracking a Cirl Bunting. I was surprised to find it in London. It’s a songbird that only lives in—Well. At any rate, I wasn’t watching the sky.” A pair of binoculars swung like a pendulum from Grant’s fingers. “But you’re sopping wet and dripping everywhere. Towels, Graves!” Grant called, but the well-trained butler was already moving down the hall and calling for the housekeeper.

“I was in Hyde Park and lingered too long.” She needed to strip off the wet clothing and order something hot to drink. Moving toward the stairs, she began to ascend.

“Wait, Lilias.”

She paused to look down at Grant. Raindrops were liberally sprinkled through his dark brown hair, curling it at the tips and making him look a romantic figure. He came up the steps until he stood just below her.

“Your answer, Lilias?” His fingers closed around hers. He raised them to his lips. They were cool against her hand. “I’m impatient. The wait is becoming interminable.”

She opened her mouth, but was not certain what to say. How does one refuse an offer of marriage from a man that one cares for, but not enough? She struggled to find the right words.

“Silence is not rejection,” he said. She could see the tension in the lines around his mouth. “I care for you, Lilias. Deeply.”

“I know, Grant.” Oh, it was difficult to look at the face so dear to her and know she would hurt him. But temper was beginning to outweigh her pity. She had already given her answer.

“Is it me you are opposed to, or simply marriage?” His fingers tightened while he waited for an answer.

Perhaps the truth would ease the rejection. “I don’t want to marry again. Ever.” Now that she’d said the words aloud, she felt the weight release from her chest. And it
was
true.

“An easier barrier to overcome than opposition to me.” His fingers relaxed, then released hers. “I shall try to persuade you, then, for as long as it takes for you to realize we would be the perfect match.”

“Grant, that’s not what I mean. Or what I want.”

He only smiled at her, lightly amused, even flirtatious. “We’ll talk later, after you’re dry.” He plucked at a long coil of hair that had fallen from beneath her hat. “Order a hot bath. You’ll feel better.”

Then he was striding down the steps and calling for Graves.

A hot bath wouldn’t change her mind.

And damnation, she felt perfectly fine.

—

W
HAT GOOD WAS
a coat if it did not protect one’s neck from rain? Cold water dribbled beneath his collar to saturate the coarse shirt beneath. Angel hunched his shoulders to fight off a shiver. He’d rather stand watch in the snow than the rain. Snow might be cold, but at least it didn’t permeate everything a man wore with damp. Standing in the street attempting to look unobtrusive while being pelted by rain was his least favorite assignment.

Tugging his cap lower on his forehead, he tried to keep the wet out of his eyes as he watched Lilias arrive at Fairchild House, just behind its owner, Lord Fairchild. It hadn’t been an easy matter to follow her on foot, but the rain had sent people on the street scurrying for cover. Her horse’s pace had been slowed by burgeoning mud and wet Londoners.

Now she was perched atop the pretty mare, looking amusingly bedraggled. He shouldn’t laugh at her, even if she didn’t know he was watching. But the feather on her riding hat was drooping and one long rope of escaped hair hung down her back. He couldn’t hear the sodden shush of her skirts from this distance, but judging from the way the fabric dragged over the saddle, her skirts were as soaked as his coat. She didn’t seem to mind. She handed the reins to the groom, picked up the edge of those dripping skirts and calmly swept into the townhouse just behind Lord Fairchild.

The light rain became gray sheets. He flicked his gaze up, checking windows, roofs, then up and down the street. Once, twice. Rain was a blessing and a curse. It was useful to hide in, but it also hid enemies. Angel slipped around the corner of a building and into rain-soaked shadows. But he didn’t leave her street. Couldn’t quite bring himself to.

There was no reason he needed to stand guard over Lilias, particularly. He’d gained some information, and she was willing to provide more. She exhibited no intent to flee London. She did not appear to be in danger. The question, then, was why was he standing in the rain, watching her townhouse? Worse, why had he lingered in the park while she rode with an old friend? Hawthorne, his name was. The soldier.

Because she’d watched him with those uncertain eyes while they’d made love. As though she couldn’t quite believe what she felt and saw was real. That bit of vulnerability had lodged somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

A carriage rumbled past, the driver huddled against the rain. He was alone on the carriage box while the family sat cozy within. Poor sod. But then Angel was standing in the street doing the same.

Except he wasn’t alone any longer.

He didn’t bother to turn and look at his companion. “What did you find?”

“Nothing unusual.” Jones leaned against the brick wall. Now they were two idiots huddled against the rain, both of them dressed in patched coats and drab colors. “Lord Grant Fairchild has a good reputation in the House of Lords. He’s a conscientious landowner. A Tory. He was a diplomat to Switzerland for a short time. Also to India.”

“Hm.” He knew those facts already. Jones also knew he wasn’t interested in any of that. “More.”

“He does not frequent gaming hells or bawdy houses. No known bastards.” Jones tugged at his cap. Rain dripped from the brim, sending yet more water onto the cobblestones. “No gambling debts. No uncertain investments. He’s conservative on the Exchange.” He sounded as though he were reciting some passage his tutor required him to memorize.

“Nothing interesting at all?” Angel swung around the corner again to peer at Fairchild House. Apparently the man was a veritable paragon of virtue. He didn’t like Fairchild, then, on principle.

“He’s an ornithologist.”

“A what?”

“Birds. He studies birds.” Jones’s face didn’t change expression. It stayed blank and unemotional. “The valet was scraping dirt from his lordship’s boots in the rear of the house yesterday as I was passing by on reconnaissance. I made a point of asking a question about the boots—the valet clearly took pride in their quality, so it was a simple conversation opening to make an inquiry about the boot maker.”

“Birds.” Angel looked up at the sky, as though a flock might be flying past. All he earned for his trouble was more rain and a glimpse of gray clouds. “Everyone has some preoccupation, I suppose. What of Hawthorne? The soldier.”

“He does frequent bawdy houses occasionally. He prefers experienced courtesans, but does not have the blunt to support a mistress. No known bastards.”

“Gambling?”

“No more than many other young soldiers on leave. No debts.”

“Not a paragon of virtue, then, but at least he’s human.”

Jones’s lips lifted up on one side. A quick acknowledgment of amusement before he went back to impassivity. “My source is obtaining Hawthorne’s military record. But I have gathered some information already. It’s not helpful.”

“Let me guess,” Angel sighed. “His record is as exemplary as Major Jeremy Fairchild’s.”

“Well, we know how
that
turned out.”

“Jones, I do believe that was a jest.” He raised his brows. “In all the years we’ve known each other, I didn’t think you had a sense of humor.”

“I jest, sir.” He didn’t smile, but Angel saw small lines form at the corners of his eyes. It was close to a smile. “Sometimes.”

Angel shook his head and squinted through the rain at Fairchild House. It looked no different than it had a moment or two before, except—yes. There. Drapes that had been closed on the second floor were now open. A bedroom window. Hers, he was quite certain. And then there she was. Little more than a blurred face, though he knew it was her. The angle of her head as she watched the street, the way her arm moved to push the drapes farther to the side—both told him it was she.

What did she see? He could not tell in what direction she was looking. She couldn’t possibly know it was he out here in the rain. He wanted her to, though. He wanted her to know he was in the street. In case she needed him for—something.