Love and Let Spy (Lord and Lady Spy) (13 page)

“That missed me,” Griffyn said low. “Perhaps you are not trying hard enough to see me killed.”

“Ye of little faith,” she muttered. The barrels were in place, and that had been all she asked. She heard the men’s footsteps on the stairs, and she moved to the door, keeping low. “Step back,” she said, motioning Griffyn out of the way.

“I’ll help,” he said, refusing to budge from her side.

She huffed out a breath. “This is no time for chivalry.”

“It’s not chivalry. It’s survival.”

She had no time left to argue. The sound of the footsteps grew closer and closer. Beside her, Griffyn leaned forward with anticipation. She put a steadying hand on his arm. Timing was crucial. She could hear him breathe faster as the footsteps crashed down on them, and still she waited. Finally, at the last moment, she threw the door open, knocking one of Foncé’s men backward. “Now!” she yelled, and Griffyn heaved a barrel down the steps. They rolled mercilessly, striking first the man, who reeled from being hurt by the door. He tumbled down, taking the other man with him. When they tried to rise, Griffyn launched another barrel at them, sending them tumbling down the stairs.

“Follow me!” Jane yelled, running down the steps. She didn’t look to see if Griffyn followed. She could protect him better by killing Foncé. She leaped over the two men, who were lying unconscious at the base of the steps, and spotted Foncé making for the exit door. “Oh, no you don’t,” she murmured pulling her pistol from her pocket. She aimed, cocked the hammer, and fired, but she missed—barely—and Foncé scooted out the door.

She uttered a scream of frustration and followed, only to be pulled back by strong arms. “Griffyn!” she yelled.

But it wasn’t Griffyn.

The men at the base of the steps weren’t quite as lifeless as she’d hoped. One of them had her by the arm, and when she turned, he punched her in the stomach. Her breath whooshed out of her, and she doubled over, but she recovered before he could hit her again and kicked his shin.

He didn’t release her arm, though she yanked hard enough to tear her sleeve. Foncé was escaping! “Let. Go!” She tried to kick him, but he danced backward and struck at her again. This time she saw the glint of steel.

He laughed at the surprise on her face as Griffyn grabbed his shoulder from behind and spun him around. The man released Jane, but she watched long enough to see Griffyn’s strong right smash into Foncé’s man’s nose. “Thank you,” she called.

“Go!”

She was already gone. She raced out of the warehouse, hearing the thud as the door slammed behind her. Immediately, she pressed her back against the outside wall. Foncé could be waiting out here. This might be a ploy to lure her outside. She scanned the area for him and saw nothing and no one. She edged along the wall, stopping to listen.

Plop. Plop.

Was that the Thames lapping against the dock?

Plop.

Was it Foncé? Had he been wounded?

She felt something plink onto her boot and looked down. Hellfire and damnation. She was the one wounded.

Blood stained the front of her gown, and she pressed a hand to her belly. Foncé’s man had stabbed her with his dagger. She’d thought it only his fist, but this wasn’t the first time the excitement of the moment cushioned the pain. She felt it now. Keenly.

She drew her hand away, staring at her crimson-stained palm. Head dizzy, she lurched back inside the warehouse. It took her a moment to catch her bearings. Griffyn was being useful. He’d tied up the man with the knife and was working on the other man, utilizing a long piece of rope of the sort found on sailing vessels. He glanced at her then looked again. Whatever he saw caused him to drop the rope and abandon the man he was binding. “What the hell happened?”

She waved her hand as though the wound was nothing. And no organs were spilling out, so she considered it a mere flesh wound. “I’m fine,” she said. “Secure him.”

“You’re bleeding,” Griffyn pointed out.

“It’s a stomach wound. Those take a long time to kill a person.”

“That’s reassuring.”

She ignored him, focusing on Viking instead. He still hadn’t moved. It might already be too late for the other agent. “Viking,” she said, walking toward him. She wobbled unsteadily, her legs swerving off to one side without her permission. Jane fell to her knees beside the other agent. He had a shock of blond hair, pale blue eyes, and wide shoulders, an appearance that had earned him his sobriquet. She lifted his square face from his chest, and his eyes fluttered and rolled back. “Oh, Viking.”

Griffyn came up behind her. “He’s still alive,” she said without waiting for him to ask. “Help me untie him.”

She had intended to assist in the untying, but she couldn’t seem to force her legs to hold her. She stayed kneeling beside him, which might have been for the best. As soon as the agent’s hands were free, he tumbled to the floor. She caught him, breaking his fall and noting the blood on his chest.

“What happened?” she asked, listening to his ragged breathing. Tears she refused to shed stung her eyes. She knew the sound of the death rattle.

“Listen,” Viking said, blood gurgling in his throat. “Not much time.”

“Nonsense. I’ll take you to Farrar. He’ll patch you up in no time.”

“Bloody butcher,” Viking croaked, but he was smiling. “Keep him away.”

“Just hold on.” She began to rise, intending to pull him up beside her, but he grabbed her gown.

“Listen, Bonde.” His voice was low now, almost inaudible. She bent close.

“I’m listening.”

“He knows. Watch your back. Tell…”

He coughed, blood spilling out of his mouth and onto his chest. A good deal of it splattered on her, but she didn’t flinch. Griffyn—she’d all but forgotten him—handed her a handkerchief, and she used it to wipe Viking’s chin.

She wanted to tell Viking to save his strength. She wanted to be kind, but she needed to know what he knew. Swallowing her disgust at herself, she prompted, “Tell…”

Viking nodded. His eyes closed, and his breathing stuttered. She was losing him. “Viking. Tell what? Tell someone?”

He nodded. “M,” he rasped.

“Tell M. I will. What should I tell him?”

The silence was loud, punctuated by the slow, labored breathing of Viking. She could hear the struggle his lungs made to pull in one last breath. She was killing him. Making him talk was killing him faster. No matter that he would die despite any action she took. She would never forgive herself for this. She would add it to the list of all the things she’d done for which she could never forgive herself.

“Foncé,” Viking whispered.

“Yes.” Jane nodded. “What about Foncé? What should I tell M?”

He pulled in a ragged breath. “Knows him.”

Jane waited. She waited for Viking to exhale. Waited for him to speak again. After a long moment, she realized he never would. She was shaking when Griffyn put his hand on her shoulder. “He’s gone.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” she spat at him. Then she closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“No apology required. You’re wounded. You need a doctor.”

“I know.” She allowed him to help her rise. Her head was spinning too much for her to manage it on her own. Her stomach churned at the smell of blood and death clinging to her. She would not allow herself to cast up her accounts. To do so would serve no purpose but to split her wound further. Straight spine, Bonde, she told herself. Her uncle had said it enough times that the words were almost her own.

“No argument?” he asked when she’d gained her feet.

“I know when I need help.”

“Good.” And the next thing she knew he’d swept her into his arms.

“No!” Now her head reeled. “I can still walk. I want to walk.”

“You don’t always have your way. I’m taking you home.”

“No.” She
would
have her way on this. “Take me to Piccadilly.”

“Piccadilly?”

“There’s a doctor there,” she said.

“This Farrar you mentioned?”

She nodded, struggling to keep her head up. Finally, she gave in and rested it on his shoulder. She didn’t want to be close to him. She simply needed the support. But she couldn’t stop herself noticing how clean and wonderful he smelled. She had no choice but to smell him.

“Where on Piccadilly?”

She opened her eyes and started. She was sitting on his lap, and they were inside a carriage. “Where are we?”

“Hack. Where on Piccadilly?”

She gave him the address and fought to keep her eyes open. She had never lost consciousness before, and she refused to believe she’d done it tonight. Knife wound or no.

Griffyn gave the jarvey the direction, and the carriage jerked into motion. She hissed in a breath as her wound was jostled.

“Besides a doctor, what is on Piccadilly?”

She might as well tell him. It was a bit late for secrets, and he’d soon see, at any rate. “The offices for the Barbican group.”

He took her chin in his hand. “Stay with me, Miss Bonde.”

She realized she’d closed her eyes again, and she nodded and fought to keep them open.

“What is the Barbican group? And do not tell me you cannot say.”

She swallowed. “I
can’t
say, but I might as well. Remember you did not hear this from me.”

He gave her a look bordering on amusement. “I am the soul of discretion.”

Fine. Let him jest now. “The Barbican group is a subset of the Foreign Office. It’s the most elite group of spies England has to offer.”

When he didn’t respond, she glanced at him. It was a short glance as, slowly, she realized she was still sitting on his lap. Why did he not put her down?

His face was turned away from her, his jaw clenched.

“Griffyn?”

He stared at her. “I bloody well knew it.”

***

He didn’t know why he expected to see a sign on Piccadilly directing the hackney to the headquarters of the Barbican group. It wasn’t as though the Foreign Office wanted to advertise the location of the offices of its most elite spies.

Spies! Bloody spies! He glanced at Miss Bonde, who had moved out of his lap and was now sitting beside him, looking out the window. “We’re almost there,” she said. She said it as though going to spy headquarters was the most normal thing in the world for her. And it probably was. He didn’t want to believe she was a spy.
His
betrothed, a spy!

Well, she wasn’t actually his betrothed yet, as he hadn’t asked for her hand in marriage. But she was as good as betrothed to him. Women were not supposed to work as spies. He’d thought his mother’s career as an actress about the most outlandish career a woman could have.

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

He didn’t want a wife who was unconventional. He didn’t want a wife at all—not from the beau monde at any rate—another prim and proper miss who would look down on him because he was the bastard son of an actress. He’d lived all his life with the taunts and jibes of others because of his mother’s career. If he ever were to marry, he wanted a wife who stayed home and…did whatever it was women did. They did not carry pistols and suffer knife wounds.

Women wrote letters and…embroidered. That’s what they did.

Whatever the hell embroidery was.

He would raise horses. She would raise children. And that would be that.

Except it would not be the end of it. Bonde was not going to give this…occupation of hers up lightly. And the last thing he wanted was to be saddled with a spy. Bloody hell! He didn’t even think women could be spies.

No, he would cross Jane Bonde off his mother’s short list of marriageable ladies. She would have to find another bride for him. Not that ladies were exactly lining up. Yes, certain sorts of women were eager to trade favors, but they weren’t the sort one brought to dinner at Kenham Hall. Miss Bonde was that sort, but the others of her ilk were not so keen to marry a bastard—even the bastard of a marchioness.

Miss Bonde hadn’t seemed to mind his illegitimacy. Initially, he’d thought her disdain for him was the reason she tried to avoid him. Clearly, she had another reason. She was the one with secrets, the one who was not what she seemed. Did her uncle know what she was involved in?

Of course he did. Lord Melbourne worked for the Foreign Office, which meant he’d probably brought up his niece to continue in his footsteps.

“Why does your uncle want you to marry?” he asked suddenly.

She dragged her gaze from the window, where she was monitoring their slow progress along Piccadilly. “The usual reasons,” she said smoothly.

“You lie quite easily,” he remarked. “But then that’s your profession.”

“My profession is to stop madmen like Foncé and groups like the Maîtriser group, who are intent on destroying the sovereignty of the British nation. At times I cannot reveal certain aspects of my life. That doesn’t make me a liar.” She was in pain. Her voice was strained and higher pitched than normal. But otherwise she didn’t show it. He couldn’t help but admire her for that. She was no simpering miss.

But admire her or not, he wasn’t going to marry her.

“And you haven’t answered my question,” he said. “That was quite the patriotic speech, however.”