In Bed with a Spy (8 page)

In fact, she more than remembered them. Their bodies moved in tandem. Spinning, whirling. The room beyond was a swirl of color and music, a soft, unfocused mix that insulated them.

“I need to speak with you about my husband,” she said.

“Ah, so it is business that brings you to me.” But the quickening of her breath betrayed her. She was as aroused as he. “Why?”

“Because I believe you.” She said it fiercely. Her fingers dug into his shoulder as they spun across the floor. “Jeremy was an assassin.”

“Indeed?” Angel’s brows rose. “What changed your mind?”

“I’ve thought back over the entire six years of my marriage.” Her velvet skirts moved around and between them, a swish of fabric brushing against his legs.

“And?” If his pulse hadn’t already been pounding from lust, it might have spiked with the thrill of the hunt.

“Jeremy was everything you say he was—and nothing I thought he was.”

“If you want to speak of espionage, why are we waltzing?”

“Because I’ve chosen to dance again.” Her eyes met his. “But only with you.”

The music’s tempo increased. So he swung her around and around, faster and faster, bodies almost touching. The lace rimming her bodice brushed against his coat. Her lips parted in shock and her breath shuddered out.

“Only with me.” He repeated it as the beast within him roared.

She had come to him, as Sir Charles had said she would. But it was not the way he expected.

The set ended and they stood there a moment, joined hands trembling in each other’s grip. His other hand still rested on her waist. He could feel the measure of her breath, in and out.

She relaxed her fingers and stepped away. The fan that had been dangling from her wrist snapped open. She fanned herself in long, slow movements. “Send your carriage for me. Midnight. Do
not
let the coachman sit in front of Fairchild House. I’ll meet him at the northwest corner.” She spun on her heel and disappeared through the crowd.

His fingers twitched reflexively.

She wanted to dance.

“W
OULD YOU CARE
for a drink? Wine, perhaps?” Angelstone gestured to the sideboard in his private study as they entered.

A decanter rose from the mahogany surface. Its crystal shape was one long, sinuous line accented by the ruby liquid within. Such an elegant picture. But Lilias didn’t feel elegant. That was too nice of a word for what she felt. “I would like something stronger, please.”

He raised his brows. “I promise the questioning won’t be that difficult to endure.”

But he poured brandy into two glasses just the same. The squat, cylindrical glass suited her better. Not a snifter, but something much more practical, and filled with a good, fortifying liquor.

“Difficult is relative, Angelstone.” Her heart jittered around her rib cage, a hard rock tumbled by a brutal flood of emotion. The river that had been dammed was now rushing uncontrollably.

She took the glass he offered. Gloved fingers brushed. His lingered there, just a moment, while he watched her. It was a heady thing to be so intensely watched by a man such as Angelstone. It was not open desire in those eyes. That had been banked for now. But the quiet focus of those eyes, only on her, could make a woman aware of her body in the most fascinating way. A tingle along the skin, the air between him and her, the position of her legs, just so, as he walked past her.

Lifting the glass to her lips, she sipped the smooth brandy and let the fire rest on her tongue. Clearly, her choice in men was suspect. Her husband had been an assassin. The man she now wanted as a lover was a spy.

She had very poor judgment.

At least Angelstone didn’t lie to her. At least there was honesty between them. Or there would be, once she told him everything.

She cast her gaze around the room. She had been in his study when he’d abducted her, but hadn’t noticed the décor then. It suited him. Elegant, spare, masculine. Not dark, but not the light, pretty colors associated with women. And it was practical. A locked cabinet in the corner containing untold secrets, an unobtrusive pair of pistols, side by side on a table. A wall mount that held knives. Three spaces were empty, tiny arms waiting for their respective weapons. Was he wearing those knives under all his evening clothes? Her eyes flicked over his body. What a stimulating idea.

“What is this place, Angelstone?” she asked. “It is not your family townhouse.”

“My bachelor’s rooms before I inherited the title.”

“Ah.” She leveled her gaze at him over the rim of her glass. “Now you use it for spying?”

“And other things.” His grin was tempting. The rogue. “Please, have a seat.”

She settled into the chair he gestured to. It was the same one she’d sat in when she’d met Sir Charles. Soft, comfortable and without even a hint of femininity. She envied men their comfortable retreats.

Angelstone remained standing, the dangerous spy hidden by fashionable clothing. She could almost imagine he was a titled gentleman enjoying a drink at the conclusion of his evening.

Almost.

“Mrs. Fairchild—”

“Don’t call me that.” The words whipped from her before she could stop them.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t call me Mrs. Fairchild.” The name tasted acidic in her mouth. She hadn’t been aware of her revulsion for it until he’d said it aloud. “I don’t wish to be called by my last name at the moment. Particularly by you.”

“Why not by me?” His eyes narrowed with curiosity.

“Because you, of all the people in the world, know the truth. You’re the
only
person who knows the truth.” She set the glass on the table at her elbow. It was disconcerting to have no sense of identity. She wasn’t the beloved wife of Major Fairchild any longer. She was the wife of some other man. The name would have to stay, but she didn’t have to use it—at least not with the one man who was as close to a confidant as she would have. “Call me Lilias.”

“Lilias.” The name sounded like a caress on his gilded tongue. “Tell me what you know.”

“He lied to me. That’s what I know.” The brandy was no defense against the fury gnashing its teeth inside her chest. “In a dozen large ways and a hundred small ones.”

“Run me through the lies, then. I need to understand the man. I can talk to other soldiers, other officers. But no matter how much information I obtain from them, I can only learn the man from you.” He sat on the edge of the desk just in front of her. Arms crossed, legs extended so his boot tips brushed against the edge of her skirt. “I’ve investigated his rank, his military record. It’s exemplary. Not a blemish.”

“That would be just another lie, wouldn’t it?” Sitting still was impossible. She pushed to her feet. She couldn’t know if Jeremy was an admirable soldier that cared for his men or whether it was a performance. Where did reality end and deception begin? “There were so many small things I never would have questioned Jeremy about. I simply accepted what he said.”

“Why would you question him?” Angelstone’s gloved hands flexed, like two caged animals trying to break free of their restraints.

“Because odd things happened.” She took the brandy with her when she prowled the room. The glass in her hand was solid. The liquid a known flavor. Brandy didn’t change. It was always warm in the throat, stinging the nose. At least some things stayed the same.

“Give me an example,” he said.

“We were in Spain a few years ago after Salamanca. I had taken rooms in Madrid with other officers’ wives during the occupation. We went to the opera with a group of English diplomats and ambassadors. Jeremy was supposed to be in the barracks—illness was spreading through the troops and provisions were low. He said he needed to be with his men.” The glass stayed round and smooth when she rolled it between her palms. Amber liquid rippled and shifted, a small storm inside the crystal ocean.

“We met Jeremy in the street as we left the opera. I bumped into him as he was passing. I thought he was a stranger at first. When I recognized him, he said he’d returned to town early and hoped to join us at the opera.”

She stopped. If she said the words aloud, they would be true. Truth could not be unsaid. She took a large swallow of liquor. The brandy burned less than the emotion bubbling inside her. But she would finish the memory.

“And?” he asked. “What made the incident odd?” He was pulling his gloves off, one finger at a time. Why the sight of Angel’s bare hands—long-fingered, tanned, natural—should comfort her, she could not say.

“He wasn’t dressed for the opera.” The words had their own will. She could not hold them back. “He wore riding clothes. When I asked him why he hadn’t changed into evening wear, he said he’d been too eager to see me. And I
believed
him, as I was eager to see him.”

“Perhaps it was true.” Angelstone shifted onto the table and began to swing a leg. He set his gloves beside him on the desk.

“You are playing devil’s advocate.” He was irritatingly rational about it.

“It is the only way to obtain the truth. One must confront all other possibilities and rule them out.”

“That sounds like a maxim you learned at a school for spies. Jeremy’s words outside the opera could have been true,” she agreed. “But they weren’t. He was shocked to see me. I didn’t think anything of it then, as he recovered quickly. But I remember the shock on his face, then the briefest look of panic. I dismissed it. I was so glad to see him alive and not succumbing to the fever spreading through the barracks.”

He rounded the desk to sit behind it. He looked comfortable there. Comfortable and competent. He smoothed a bare hand over a piece of blank paper. “What was the date?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I need to compare the date with known assassinations during that time—in the event your husband was the assassin.” His eyes turned dark, boring into her. Was he determining whether she would hold up to the accusation? Perhaps he expected her to have the vapors or something equally ridiculous.

Dipping his quill in ink, he waited expectantly. A droplet of ink formed at the tip of the quill. The black sphere shimmered in the firelight. He was writing down the information. Keeping a record. Words written on paper were final. They could not be unwritten any more than spoken words could be unsaid. Even if the paper were burned, the record had been made. Ink on paper. Black on white.

But neither could death be undone. Lies could not be unsaid. Betrayal could not become truth. Whether Jeremy was an assassin or simply involved in something disreputable that resulted in his murder, he was not the man she’d believed him to be.

Closing her eyes, Lilias searched her memories. Battle merged with battle, city blended with village, acquaintances with friends. She sifted through details, through time.

“The middle of August 1812. I’m quite certain. The opera was
La Viage in Grecia
.” She opened her eyes and hoped no hate showed there. The problem was, she didn’t know who she hated more: Jeremy for deceiving her, or herself for being hopelessly in love with an illusion.

Angelstone scratched a notation. She couldn’t read the bold scrawl from across the room, so she simply looked away. She didn’t need to know what he was writing, but she could guess. So she continued.

“Once, I saw a man standing in the street across from the rooms Jeremy and I had taken in Brussels. Three hours he was there. I mentioned it to Jeremy as we readied ourselves for bed, wondering what the man could possibly be waiting so long for.” It was as though she couldn’t stop the words and memories from tumbling out of her. The floodgates had opened. “Jeremy was jittery after I told him. He went out, ostensibly to speak with his commanding officer. But when I looked out the window again, the strange man had left as well.” She drew a deep breath. “It was nothing. It seemed like nothing. I barely thought of it at the time, dismissing it as the man in Brussels had left the street.”

She did not dismiss it now. Neither did Angelstone. The quill continued to scratch its inky path across the paper.

“What else?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “It’s all muddled in my brain. I can’t tell what is reality and what’s not.” She set the empty glass down with a sharp snick. The heat of the brandy was beginning to tangle her thoughts.

“There must be more than these two incidents, or you wouldn’t believe he was an assassin.”

“Fine. There are more. There are dozens.” Anger poured through her in hot waves. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to force it back. She pressed cold fingers against closed lids and ignored the scrape of chair legs and rustle of clothing as he stood up.

“Tell me, Lilias.”

When his hands touched her shoulders, she nearly shuddered. The touch was soft. His fingers were calloused. The rough patch on each thumb grazed the skin of her upper arms.

Oh, she wanted to put her head on his broad shoulders. To lean against that solid chest and feel his arms come around her. His heart might pound beneath her cheek. His skin might smell of citrus, or spice. Certainly it would smell of man. Taste of man.

She breathed deep. Perhaps speaking of Jeremy would exorcise that demon. Or perhaps Angelstone would make his notations and perform his research and tell her it was all a lie.

But it wasn’t a lie, so she told Angelstone everything she could remember. The occasional stranger Jeremy seemed to know so well. Midnight meetings she assumed had been related to his military position. The occasions when he’d been at one location when he’d told her he was at another. Messages that were delivered and quickly burned.

She had never questioned him. Because she’d loved him.

Desperate to fill the void, to smooth out the edges, she poured a second glass of brandy. She sipped it and watched Angelstone scribble his notes as she spoke.

A lock of hair had fallen from his queue so that it skimmed his sharp cheekbone. His full lips were pursed slightly as he wrote. When he looked up, his gold eyes were dark and focused. She wasn’t certain if it was concentration or something else that put that look in his eye.

He set the quill beside the paper and leaned casually back in his chair. “It seems you know more than you first thought.”

“So it seems.” Lilias stared into her brandy. She did feel better. Having said it aloud, sharing that burden, had dissipated the hard rock jittering around in her chest. “It was all just there, staring at me. Fool that I am, I never guessed.”

He cocked his head. “How could you guess? Women don’t suspect their husbands of being assassins. Perhaps an affair—but not murder.”

She raised a brow. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“My apologies.”

“Oh. You have nothing to apologize for. Not really.” She glanced at the low fire burning in the grate. “Is it warm in here?”

“I’m comfortable, but you’ve had two glasses of brandy.”

“Mm.”

The brandy was mellowing her. Warmth infused her muscles, light-headedness swamped her mind. But her heart didn’t lay easy in her chest. Her husband’s betrayal had scraped a raw, fresh wound there. A hollow that chipped away at the core of her.

They sat quiet a moment, the crackle of flames the only sound in the room. When she looked at him, his gaze was lingering on the neckline of her red gown. There was no fichu to hide the swell of her breasts. The fabric hugged her curves, moved with her when she walked so that it slid over her body like a lover’s hands.

She’d known it when she dressed for the ball that evening. She hadn’t intended to entice anyone specific, but only to feel desirable. To feel like a woman after being a widow for so long. To fill that aching hollow Jeremy’s betrayal had left behind.

“Angelstone.” She said it softly, so that he was compelled to look at her face. Calmly, to hide the churning inside her. Desire twined with loss. Lust merged with the need to belong. The smile she sent him was full of invitation, the finger flicking at her bodice a deliberate temptation. “Are you ready to dance?”

His eyes went dark. Jaw clenched. A quick indrawn breath rippled the air.

And then she
was
desirable.