In Bed with a Spy (23 page)

“H
AS HIS LORDSHIP
returned?”

“Yes, Mrs. Fairchild.” Graves took her pelisse and the umbrella she’d carried against the threat of heavy gray skies and drizzle during her walk. “Lord Fairchild was in his personal study after a turn in Hyde Park, but then retreated to his room to change his attire. I believe he will be back in his study shortly.”

“Thank you, Graves.” Lilias smiled at the butler before striding toward the study.

It was time to tell Grant the truth. Past time. She’d been a coward, she could admit now. It was so much easier to find excuses than to tell him the truth. Any little distraction would do. But it was not fair to Grant to let his marriage offer go unresolved.

The study was empty and quiet, though a low fire burned in the hearth to ward away the rain. It was considered Grant’s domain. She did not often come here. Few did, aside from the servants. Every shelf space was full. So full, in fact, that books were stacked in front of the typical vertical spines. They littered the desk, the side tables.

She stepped to the desk and flipped open a treatise on ornithology. Riffling the pages, she barely registered the sketches of crossbills and thrushes and woodpeckers.

She suspected Grant knew her answer, though he wasn’t ready to accept it. His marriage offer was not out of passion, but convenience. Yes, she would be able to withstand diplomatic travel, the rigors of foreign courts, hostess duties here at home. Perhaps she could fulfill wifely duties and provide an heir as well. But none of those qualities moved her soul. They did not give her joy.

Marriage to Jeremy had taught her two things. First, one could not trust even those one loved most. Second, if she was to marry again, it would be for love. Anything else would pale in comparison. Because for all Jeremy’s faults, despite the assassinations, the betrayal, he had made her happy when he had been alive. Before she knew the truth, she had known happiness and love and desire.

It was as much of a juxtaposition as Donne’s poems about his mistress and his hymns to God. Jeremy had shown her true happiness. And true betrayal.

She shut the book on birds and opened another volume stacked on the desk. Drat. More birds. Beside the book were feathers and sketches and binoculars. All of them irritated her. Unreasonable response, but she couldn’t care. She shut the second book as well, snapping it closed in a fit of temper.

The book slid from the desk. The spine landed on the carpet with a dull
thwack.
The cover fell open. Pages fluttered like a whisper on the air.

And she saw it, inked onto the page. A circle with a black “A.” Her pulse beat an irregular tattoo as she stared at it. Weak light from the window filmed the pages in pale yellow. She blinked, certain the symbol would disappear in the light. But it did not.

The symbol of the Death Adders.

Movement was impossible. She couldn’t quite grasp what she was seeing. A mirage. A hallucination. Certainly people hallucinated in a London study at midday. A log snapped in the fireplace. The sound fueled her. She swiped the book from the floor and frantically thumbed through it.

Birds. Just birds. Sketches, descriptions. All by Grant himself. She recognized the slanting scrawl of his handwriting. An ornithology diary. Some pages held blots of ink, others scratched-out sentences or paragraphs. They were all dated, with details of where he was and what birds he had seen. Behaviors. Colors.

Every few pages she saw the sign of the Adders. It was small, not even as large as her smallest fingernail. Always in the upper right corner. But the design was recognizable. If she didn’t know it belonged to the Adders, she would not have thought twice about it.

But she did know.

Swallowing, she scanned the pages related to the last few weeks. A crossbill. There was a little sketch of a bird’s wing.
Loxia curvirostra. Drank from puddle. Hopped four times, flew twenty meters to a spruce . . .
Then, in the middle of the page,
Lord P______. #9.
A series of numbers followed it.

Ice pooled in her veins. She flipped through the pages, going back in time. Only a few days from today. In the middle of a description of a kingfisher observed near the beach,
Mrs. L______ F______. #6.
More numbers followed the reference.

But it was the
L______ F______
that caught her eye. Those initials, on that date, with the Adder symbol.

Oh, God.
The ice that had stopped her veins turned to shards of glass. Her very bones felt brittle.

“It is me.” Terror and betrayal scored her throat. Numb fingers turned more pages. Backward. 1817, 1816. What about other years? Horror etched itself on her heart. What about 1815? What about Waterloo? Her hand shook as she flipped to June.

Major J______ F______. #4.
The numbers following it were insignificant. Meaningless. The initials and the date were all that was necessary.

She staggered, knees giving way. Gripping the edge of the desk, she stared at the page. Denial rose to her lips, but no sound came out. She read the very first page. 1814.

Were there additional volumes? Grant had maintained bird diaries for as long as she’d known him. She went to the shelves on shaking legs.

It was an easy matter to find the other volume. An easy matter to skim the words and sketches. The mark was there every so often. Initials and indecipherable numbers followed. 1813. 1812. Pages rustled. 1811, 1810, 1809. Eight years. The same year she had married Jeremy. 1808. 1807. Ten years.

Nausea reached cold, dark fingers into her chest. It seemed impossible. He was keeping track of the deaths.

Ten years.

But perhaps there was an innocent explanation. He was a diplomat, a member of the House of Lords. Perhaps he, too, was a spy and Angel was unaware. A dozen scenarios flitted through her mind.

She was grasping at loose threads, and she knew it. Grant was an Adder.

The diary in her hand seemed to burn her fingers. She must tell Angel. Quickly.

Bitter anger surged through her. Choked her. For Jeremy. For herself. For all those who died by the hand of an Adder. Fists clenched. Unclenched.

“
Bastard
.” The word slipped unbidden from her lips and tasted like vengeance. Then she heard the footsteps. She recognized the uneven beat of his boots.

Grant.

She whirled to face the door, all hate, all fury, swelling viciously inside her. Curses tumbled in her brain, formed on her tongue, ready to be heaped upon Grant. But logic was a hard jolt of fear. He would be skilled in death. An assassin. She had no weapon.

She glanced at the second diary before shoving it back on the shelf. She needed to live long enough to tell Angel the truth. She buried the pain, the rage, beneath a cold, hard barrier where it could fuel the part she was about to play.

The door handle turned. Slowly. Inexorably. It might have been five minutes before the oak panels opened. It might have been seconds. It might have been a single heartbeat. And then he was there. A smile on his lips, warmth in his deceptive eyes.

She returned Grant’s smile, and could not understand how her face did not crack in two. She suppressed a shudder and felt it ripple beneath her skin. Beneath her bone.

“Lilias.” A pair of binoculars dangled from his fingers. “Did you enjoy your walk this morning?”

She gulped air as her lungs constricted. She couldn’t play this role. She couldn’t. She wasn’t prepared for it, wasn’t trained for it. She couldn’t—

“I did enjoy it, though the skies were quite threatening.” Shocking that the voice coming from her mouth sounded so normal. “I think it’s about to rain.”

“It’s always about to rain.” He crossed the room to the fireplace. Binoculars marched across the mantel, a little line of spying soldiers. He set the binoculars he carried in their reserved place. “There is a concert at Lady Burlingford’s this evening. Will you be attending?”

She frantically searched her memory for evening plans. “I haven’t decided.” Her brain was moving at the speed of a snail. She could not think of something as simple as a concert. “I think so.”

Grant’s large hand rested on the edge of the mantel. His blunt fingertips pressed against the white marble as though trying to dig into the stone. “Who will you be attending with?”

It seemed his words held some hidden meaning. Or perhaps she was reading meaning where there was none. “What is it you are asking me?”

“There are rumors linking you and the Marquess of Angelstone.” He turned toward her. The warmth in his face had seeped away. She searched his eyes for some sign he knew she was a target. There was nothing there. She couldn’t read anything.

But then, she did not know him at all.

She drew a deep breath as fear fled. There could be no fear when hate and betrayal consumed every inch of her heart and mind.

“You are wondering what is between Angelstone and me.”

“Can you blame me?” He stepped forward, reaching out a hand. “I offered you marriage.”

She thanked God she had not accepted. “And I have kept you waiting. I’m sorry for it.” Lies. But she must sound natural. She must be able to leave this room.

He took both her gloved hands in his and stepped close. Closer. He raised them to his lips. She could read his expression now. It was not quite pain in his gray eyes. Not quite excitement. But they were bright with something. Her eyes flicked over his face and she caught her breath.

Lust. Basic, animal lust.

His voice was rough with it. “Give me your answer, Lilias. I deserve to know.”

She could smell his cologne. The scent was as familiar as the scent of tea. It would have been as comforting—if she hadn’t known he was a liar and a murderer.

But it also brought clarity to her thoughts. Her mind sharpened, like a thin, slender blade. On one side she analyzed how best to avoid detection. On the other side of that keen edge, her heart held the knowledge of his betrayal.

It only sharpened the blade.

So the deception would start now. Before she was ready. She would have to play the coquette. Feign attraction. There was no other choice. She met his gaze and again saw nothing that indicated he wanted her dead. She wondered what he read in her eyes. It couldn’t matter. If it did, she
would
be dead.

“Grant. It hasn’t been fair to you, but—”

“You are saying no.” He let go of one of her hands and raised his to her cheek. He wore no glove. His hand was surprisingly cool against her skin. “I promise you, I will be a good husband. I know how badly you hurt when Jeremy died. But I shall live a long life. I shall make you happy and see to your every comfort. I don’t want you to be hurt again.”

Did death not hurt?

His thumb brushed her cheekbone, ever so softly. It felt like playing with the devil. She took a long, slow breath that turned ragged at the edges. When his eyes went dark with desire, she knew he’d mistaken her steadying breath as her reaction to his touch.

“Grant.” She turned her cheek into his palm and tried not to be repulsed by the smoothness of his skin. “I’m sorry I made you wait for my answer. But I had to be sure.”

“I’ve tried to be patient.” His other hand came up so that he cupped both of her cheeks in his palms. “The rumors about Angelstone have proved to me how much I care for you.”

Oh, how cleverly his tongue lied.

“I appreciate your patience. I—” She swallowed hard as his head dipped toward hers. As his lips came close to hers. Her fingers convulsed around his upper arms. She could not help it. “I know my answer.”

“What say you?” he asked. How had she never noticed the underlying sourness beneath the scent of his cologne?

“Yes,” she breathed, trying desperately to feign desire rather than showing the absolute disgust roiling in her stomach.

He stilled, his eyes dark and focused on her, before a tremor ran through his body. Then his lips swooped down to crush against hers. His mouth was hot and tasted bitter. His lips were hard, even harsh. When his arms pulled her to him, she gripped his shoulders—not in heat, but to repel him. Only she couldn’t. As her body told her to push him away, a cold part of her mind told her to play the game.

She had to stay alive. To escape. But she wished desperately for a knife she could slide between his ribs. Even if she wasn’t sure she could kill him, she wished for the knife so she could have the choice.

“Thank God.” Grant buried his face in her hair. “I’ve been waiting. Lilias, I care for you so much.” The liar. Then he kissed her again, roughly, as though trying to take possession of her. “I don’t know how long I can wait for you.”

“You’ll have to.” Breathing through her nose in an effort to control herself, she stepped away and smoothed her skirts. “I need to wait a few more months before announcing the engagement.”

“Why?” He said it in a flat tone that warned her his passion had turned to irritation.

“For Catherine. The second anniversary of Waterloo has barely passed, and she may not be able to contend with our marriage yet. That day was very difficult for her.” She willed herself to put a hand on his arm. “Please wait two months at the very least.”

“Very well. For Catherine.” After a quick, hard kiss, he stepped away and opened the door for her.

She swept past him and into the hall, then hurried up the stairs to her room. When she reached the bedchamber she’d called sanctuary for two years, she set her fingers on the smooth panels of the door. It shut with a quiet, final
snick
.

She waited a heartbeat. Two. Then she whirled and raced to the basin stand in the corner. Bile rose in her throat and she fought the urge to wretch. Pouring water into the basin, she scooped a handful and drank from her cupped palm. Inelegant, but she desperately needed to wash Grant’s taste from her mouth.

When she’d rinsed, and rinsed again, she lifted her head and stared at her own white face in the glass mounted on the wall.

So this was the game. She was, effectively, a spy.

She hadn’t known it would be so difficult.

H
ER CLOAK SWIRLED
around her body as Lilias and a sharp breeze rolled through the door. The air smelled of women and thunderstorm. Angel shut the door and blocked out the night air, but the mix of scents remained, along with the faint scent of wet leather. Narrowing his eyes, he studied the arms crossed over her chest. Beneath her cloak, he saw the butt of her pistol side by side with a dark swathe of leather.

“I must speak with you.” The urgency in Lilias’s voice sent his heartbeat spiking upward. Something was wrong. Something had changed.

“The study, then. Jones is there.” He didn’t bother to ask for her cloak. She was already halfway down the hall and scattering raindrops behind her. Her cloak disappeared through the study door. He was a step behind.

“I know the identity of a Death Adder.”

Her statement fell heavy into the room, as solid as the pearl-handled weapon she set on his desktop. A weight pressed against his chest, his lungs. He was conscious of the crackle of flames in the hearth, the tick of the clock on the mantel, Jones’s utter stillness in the corner, hands hovering over the dismantled pistol he was cleaning.

“Who?” His voice scraped against his throat, rough as tree bark over skin. “How?”

“It’s Grant.” She was nearly breathless. “Look.” She thrust something at him.

Two slim volumes. Leather bound. Worn. Ordinary. He took them and ran a hand over the smooth cover of the top one. Ordinary often concealed the most extraordinary secrets.

“Open it. Find the entry for the day we went to the opera.” She was reaching for the first journal, ready to do it for him. Not eagerness, but urgency.

He flipped it open just before her fingers snagged the cover. Her haste echoed inside him. Blood pumped and rushed and roared through him in a deluge of anticipation.

Sketches of birds flew across the pages. Scrawled notes of feathers and flights followed. He saw them. Dismissed them. He found the date, stopped. He didn’t even need to read it. The sign of the Death Adders was there. Just there. Small, but clear.

Terror howled in his heart. Rage thundered though his mind.
She had been living with him
. Fairchild could have murdered her while she slept. While she ate breakfast. During tea. A primitive bloodlust hazed his vision, blurring the words on the page. But he could still see enough to know he’d found an Adder.

Mrs. L______ F______. #6.
Then an indecipherable code of numbers.

He struggled to bring himself under control. “It’s a record,” he said softly. “Son of a bitch.”

“I called him a bastard when I found the books,” Lilias said drily. “But I think the sentiment is about the same.”

Jones snorted, then coughed politely into his fist.

Lilias moved beside Angel and peered down at the page. “Grant killed Jeremy. He tried to kill
me
.”

“We don’t know he killed.” He ruffled the pages, searching for the sign. Each time he found the inscription, numbers were listed beside a name. “This is proof he is involved, but not an explanation of how.”

“I agree. But he kept track of the deaths.” She looked up, eyes bright and hard. “At the very least Grant is involved with the Death Adders. If he’s keeping track in this way, it seems likely he’s organizing the assassins.”

“Agreed. Jones? Take a look.” He passed the books to Jones when the man approached. He turned back to Lilias. “How did you find the books?”

“They were right in the open.” She fiddled with the clasp of her cloak. Her fingers trembled on the silver hooks. “I found the recent one on his desk. I knocked it onto the floor, and there it was. The sign of the Death Adders. I found the second one on his shelf, but I knew where to look. Angel, he has been carrying those diaries with him for years.”

“What do you mean?” He reached for her cloak as she swung it from her shoulders. He could still smell the rain mixed with the scent of her soap.

“He carries the diaries when he goes bird hunting. That’s what he calls it. ‘Bird hunting.’ He walks around in the country, hunting birds, but also here in London. Or he always said he was hunting birds.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“He found me in his study, right after I discovered the books.”

“What?” He jerked his head up to stare at her. Beside him, Jones did the same. “What did you tell Fairchild?” Though his actual question was
what did you reveal?

“Nothing. I promise.” She slid a glance at Jones, then back to him. Her shoulders hunched a little—a most un-Lilias gesture.

“Jones, can you give us a moment, please.” He kept his gaze steady on hers. When the door closed quietly behind Jones, he asked, “What did Fairchild do to you?”

“He wanted an answer to his marriage proposal. I told him yes. I did not know what else to say,” she added quickly. “I could not tell him I knew about the diaries. Or the Adders. I had to do something to distract him.”

“That is not all.” He saw it in her face. He cupped her chin in one hand and raised it to look more clearly at her.

“Stop.” She jerked her chin away. “I do not want to be manhandled again today.”

“Tell me.” Something possessive and manic and primitive rose in him. “He did not hurt you, did he?” Fairchild would pay if he had. In blood.

“No.” She shook her head, took a step forward. “He kissed me. I couldn’t stop him. Or rather, if I had stopped him, he might have questioned what I was doing in his study, or what I had found.”

She turned into him. A sob rose in her throat, then was suppressed again. He drew her in, as natural as breath. There was nowhere she belonged just now but holding on to him. He ran a hand down the ridge of her spine, the curve of her back just above her hips.

“He had no idea what I knew or what I had found. But he will know the diaries are gone soon.”

He feathered his hands over her cheeks. The oddest sensation settled in his chest. “Do you know, Lilias, that you’ve all the makings of a proper spy?”

Her laugh was low and relieved, and her shoulders relaxed. One corner of her lips tipped up. “I’ve learned from the best.”

Safe. She was safe and here with him. He caught her mouth with his own. Tasted her. Breathed her in. She was never the same. Always new. Hunger and need swirled around her. A low hum sounded in her throat. Approval, he thought, as her hands slid up his shoulders. Her mouth was hot and willing. He felt the need in her, as strong as in him.

But he drew back. There was a time for need. For now, there could only be action.