In Bed with a Spy (3 page)

F
ASCINATING.
A
BSOLUTEL
Y FASCINATING.
Angel studied Mrs. Fairchild’s retreating back, covered by an elegant silver shawl. The avenging goddess of the battlefield was well hidden, even as that wildly curling hair was subdued in a tidy coiffure.

But he had seen her eyes flash. He’d heard her battle cry.

What had Langford said? Steel. Yes, he could see it. Steel wrapped in lush curves and sensuality. He had the most intense desire to unwrap those curves and explore the center of her.

He stepped toward the French doors leading into the townhouse, thinking to find the card room and cool his ardor. The toe of his boot kicked something and sent it skidding across the terrace. A circular metal object, only an inch in diameter, lay on the patterned stone floor. Mrs. Fairchild must have dropped a coin.

He bent, reached for it—and his blood ran cold.

Candlelight glinted on a small medallion, coloring the silver a burnished gold. In the center, an inlaid onyx symbol shone dull black. His breath wanted to hitch, so he clenched his teeth and drew air between them. It wasn’t rage that gripped him, but an icy calm.

He folded the medallion into his palm, squeezed. The round shape bit into his hand. Flesh held memory. He’d held a similar medallion once before—only that time, he’d stood over a woman as her life was just beginning to seep from her body.

The medallion was the sign of the Death Adder. An assassin that struck quickly and silently, before slithering away into the dark and leaving only the medallion behind as evidence of his kill.

Flipping the disc over, he studied the reverse side. There it was, glinting in gold light from the windows. The twisting “A” stamped into smooth silver. He turned it again to view the onyx symbol and ran a thumb over it. No two assassins used the same symbol on the front of their medallions. He’d always thought it a mark of pride as much as a calling card. This one he recognized easily enough. He had spent months meticulously researching that single French gypsy symbol.

Here we have to take revenge.

It had been revenge against him that caused Gemma’s death. Now, here in his hand, was the same sign, which indicated it was from the same assassin.

His fist clenched around the silver circle. Mrs. Fairchild carried the same assassin’s sign as Gemma’s killer. If he hadn’t seen a man running away that day, he would suspect it was Lilias Fairchild who had stolen that vibrant life.

He looked through the terrace door. The Widow Fairchild laughed with some poor sod who was dancing attendance on her. Damn if that smile didn’t look genuine. But he had seen her wield a sabre, had heard her war cry rise above the battle.

Ah yes. She could be an assassin.

And she had the medallion.

—

I
T
WAS RIDICULOUS.

She was thinking of having an affair with Angelstone. Her cheeks warmed at the thought and she lifted one hand to her face. The exhilaration that had whipped through her at Lord Angelstone’s words still hummed along her skin two hours later. She very much wanted to see him again.

The Fairchild carriage rocked on its springs as it turned a corner. Lilias shifted in her seat and pulled her shawl closer.

“Are you chilled, my dear?”

“No, Grant. I’m comfortable.” She smiled at the man ranged on the seat across from her. Her husband’s cousin. She’d known him for as long as she’d known Jeremy and his face was nearly as dear to her. “I’m quite warm, in fact.”

“Good. It’s cold this evening.” The carriage lamps gilded Lord Grant Fairchild’s burnished hair and threw his broad shoulders into relief. “I don’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Oh, she’s fine, Grant.” Catherine Fairchild nodded her head knowingly, sending the black feathers anchored in her hair quaking. “You insist on coddling her, but all of society knows she’s quite resilient.”

Lilias shared a laughing look with Grant before responding to the third occupant of the carriage. “Thank you, Catherine.” Her mother-in-law knew her well, even if Grant thought her a delicate English flower.

A feather drooped over Catherine’s ear. She shoved uselessly at it. “You wouldn’t have followed my Jeremy all the way to hell and back if you weren’t resilient, dear.”

“Catherine!” Lilias coughed into her glove, trying to hold back the laugh threatening to spill out.

“Nonsense.” Catherine waved her hand dismissively as the carriage rumbled to a halt. “As I always say, men do tend to forget the good Lord created women for childbirth. Thus, we can do anything. Now, Grant, help me down. I’m old.”

“You are anything but old, Aunt Catherine,” Grant said, stepping down to the walkway. He turned and offered his hand, then grinned at Catherine as she set her hand in his. “You’re slim as a fairy and delicate as a rose.”

“I may be slim and delicate, but I’m still twice your age,” Catherine snorted as they ascended the steps of the townhouse.

Lilias followed the pair up the steps toward the bright light spilling out of Fairchild House. As she stepped through the front door and into the soaring foyer, she thought for the hundredth time how blessed she was that Jeremy’s family had accepted her without a qualm after his death. She’d had nowhere else to go and little money. And she’d desperately needed a place to heal.

“Good night, my darlings,” Catherine called out as she tottered up the carved staircase toward the next floor and her bedroom. With decorative feathers bouncing in her white hair, she looked like an ancient sparrow flitting around the townhouse.

Lilias laughed quietly at her own fancy and let her shawl slip from her shoulders. Gathering the embroidered Kashmir in one hand, she pulled up her skirts with the other to follow Catherine upstairs.

Looking over her shoulder to say good night, she found Grant watching her steadily from the door of his study, an arrested expression on his face. He filled the opening, his wide shoulders elegant in black evening clothes.

Foot poised on the lowest step, she paused and raised her brows. “Grant?”

“May I have a word?” he asked.

Skirts rustling, she changed course and followed Grant into the study. He stood before the fireplace, his back to her.

Curiosity drew her forward. He seemed to be contemplating the three sets of binoculars displayed on the mantelpiece with great seriousness. When she stepped beside him and looked up into his handsome face, he met her expression with sober eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve said it yet, but I’m glad to see you’re out of mourning, my dear.” His eyes flicked over her cream and silver gown, down to her cream gloves, then up again to her face. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Though black did suit your fair coloring.”

“Thank you.” Though it was an awkward compliment.
She draped her shawl over the arm of a nearby chaise. Peeling off her gloves, she laid them over the shawl.

“What finally persuaded you to leave mourning behind?”

“It’s time.” Lilias breathed deep, so deep the thin fabric of her bodice strained at the seams. The comforting scents of wood smoke, beeswax and lemon mingled on the air. “I finally feel whole, Grant. I’m ready to live life again.”

The words were an echo of her conversation with Lord Angelstone. She felt a tingle in her veins as she pictured that strong face, the tawny eyes. Her stomach did a long, slow roll that left her breathless.

“I’m happy to hear it, Lilias.” Grant’s quiet words drew her attention again. “As is Catherine, I’m sure. You were so lost after Waterloo.”

“Only my heart had been lost.” It had seeped into the ground of the Netherlands, along with Jeremy’s blood. “But that was two years ago.”

“Jeremy would not want you to mourn for so long.”

“No.” But she would never forget. The long, hard marches they’d endured together and the interminable wait when she was left behind. The deaths from disease and exhaustion and hunger. And the laughter and camaraderie that still prevailed in the end. Life always triumphed over death. “Truly, I’m ready to live again.”

She skimmed a fingertip over the bird feather lying on his desk. It was both soft and prickly against her skin. She had not the slightest idea what bird it came from, though it was a bright yellow color. Grant would know. He knew birds and feathers and bone structure and species. But for all his knowledge, there was a space between them. He would never understand the horror of bathing blood from one’s arms and hands.

“Where did you go, Lilias?” Grant asked softly.

Fingers jerked against the feather. “Forgive me.”

Grant’s quiet words drew her attention again, as did the gloved hand that skimmed down her arm to her fingers. He raised her hand, set it against his lips. A faint alarm rang in her head and she considered tugging her hand free. But his touch was soft, and when his gray eyes met hers she saw genuine affection there.

“Lilias. You are free to marry again. A suitable amount of time has passed—more than suitable, in fact.” His eyes darkened. “
We
are free to marry.”

“Grant—”

“Please, listen.” He looked so serious, so determined, that she understood why he was an effective politician. And as he had so kindly invited her and Catherine to live with him after Jeremy’s death, she owed him much more than a few minutes of her time.

He dropped her hand in favor of curling his fingers around her shoulders. Gloved thumbs brushing lightly across her skin.

“I need a wife, Lilias. One who can act as a hostess and understands politics. One who will withstand the rigors of foreign travel and comprehend the nuances of foreign ballrooms. I need a partner by day—” He cupped her cheeks, his fingers warm even through his gloves, and brought his lips within a breath of hers. “And a companion at night.”

His lips touched hers. Gently, although she could feel the tension in his fingers and sensed the controlled passion beneath the gentleness. She dug deep inside herself and tried to find some tingle inside her. But she felt nothing. No tingle in her blood, no frantic beating of her pulse. No passion. No love.

Grant’s lips left hers, but his hands still cupped her cheeks. Firelight flickered over his face—a face most women would think devastatingly handsome. To her, he was simply Grant. Her husband’s cousin. Kind eyes, broad shoulders she could depend on and a smile that charmed other women senseless.

“No.” Reaching up, she placed her hands lightly over his and drew them away from her cheeks. “No, Grant. I cannot.”

Understanding flickered and his face blanked. “Don’t refuse yet. Think about my offer. Give yourself a few more weeks, even months, to decide.” He stepped back, and her hands fell helplessly to her sides.

“I don’t need time to—”

“Just wait a little longer.” He strode to the door. His hand gripped the doorframe when he stopped at the threshold. He didn’t turn, but he spoke. “I would make you a good husband, Lilias.” Then he was gone, and all she could hear was his slow, heavy footfalls as he made his way to the upper floors.

“I know,” she whispered, her heart aching for him.

Picking up her shawl and gloves, Lilias followed more slowly, her steps light in the quiet house. When she reached her room, she lit a single candle and set it on the nightstand. Her shawl, gloves and reticule dropped to the floor. She lowered herself to the bed and gripped the edge of the mattress. Leaning forward, she stared into the dancing candle flame and tried to envision marriage to Grant.

Debutantes considered him a catch. Wealthy, titled, handsome. Young enough to be thought in his prime. She would be the perfect hostess for him and was accustomed to the travel. She understood war and politics in a way some women did not. Marrying Grant would be the most sensible course of action. She could not be a poor widow forever and depend on his generosity.

But having felt desire again—even briefly—she knew she couldn’t marry Grant. Not ever. Her first marriage had been for love, and with that came a passion that had never waned. Not even in a tent worn thin by the elements after marching for miles in the bitter winter cold.

A discreet knock sounded on the door and a young maid stepped in.

“D’you need help, missus?”

“Just the buttons and stays, please,” Lilias answered vaguely, standing and turning her back toward the maid. The girl made quick work of the buttons and laces before slipping from the room, leaving Lilias alone to change into her nightclothes. Lilias let the gown fall to the floor, a whisper of sound in the silent room. Her stays followed before she slipped out of her chemise and let that slide to the floor as well.

Reaching up, she pulled the pins from her elaborate coiffure and laid them on her dressing table, one by one. Ropes of hair fell down her back, thick and heavy and full. She fingered a strand, pulling the length between her fingers. She hadn’t cut it in six years, not since shortly after her marriage.

She looked into the mirror, studying the curling blond locks and the way they tumbled over her bared breasts and swirled around her naked hips. The long strands shifted over her body, shimmering and glowing in the candlelight.

The Marquess of Angelstone flashed into her mind. He was rough and virile and—masculine. She thought of him now. Of those eyes gleaming when he looked at her. How would her hair look spread across his pillow? Across his body? Would it look the same against his skin as it did against hers?

It had been a very long time since she’d thought of her body as anything but a shell that needed food and sleep. Now, she saw those round breasts as something to offer to a man.

Sucking in a breath, Lilias pulled her hair back in quick, rapid strokes. She braided it in a familiar rhythm,
right, left, right, left
, until every lock was tucked away, then slid her nightgown over her head.

Pulling a small wooden box forward on the dressing table, she lifted the lid. A miniature lay inside. It was a simple painting of Jeremy’s plain, familiar face. His boyish grin flashed and his smiling eyes beamed up at her. She ran a finger down the painted face. They’d been so young when they’d married. Nothing seemed to matter but being together. And yet they had learned that life was hard. Tough. Loved ones died. The world turned on its axis.