Love and Let Spy (Lord and Lady Spy) (35 page)

The steps were steep and narrow, and her heart thumped as much from excitement as from the fear of falling. She seemed to descend forever, and when the staircase finally ended, she felt along the wall for some clue as to which direction to choose. She could feel Dominic behind her, staying close as they edged along the old stone. They moved silently and as one. Jane took long, slow breaths to keep the panic at bay. She was beginning to wonder if they might have become lost in the maze of the old palace when she heard something scrape along the stone. She paused, reached back, and squeezed Dominic’s hand in question.

“Not me,” he whispered so low she almost couldn’t hear him. Her chest was tight with fear, and her legs felt as heavy as cannon balls, but she forced herself to move forward. The wall curved, and as she slid around, she saw the first sliver of light. It was coming from a door at the end of the passageway. That small shaft of light illuminated all for her. She glanced back at Dominic, craving the sight of his face. And when she saw him, she took comfort in the cool, determined expression he wore. She didn’t need to tell him this was it. He knew Foncé lay ahead of them. She took another step forward, her gaze on the door. It was slightly ajar, and she watched for any sign of movement.

She did not see the bend in the corridor, the alcove just large enough for a man to fit his body if he made an effort. She did not spot it until it was too late, and Foncé’s arm snaked around her, the blade of his knife at her throat.

Twenty

Q watched as Moneypence ushered a group of arguing members of the House of Commons out of St. Stephen’s Chapel. They were not moving as quickly as she would have had she been alerted to the fact that a madman planned to blow up the building, but she supposed Moneypence and she were probably having an easier time of it than Melbourne, who had taken the House of Lords. She followed the last of the MPs out, and Moneypence fell into step behind her. Her spine tingled at his closeness. Considering their situation, her feelings seemed entirely inappropriate, but she could hardly fail to notice when he was near. After all, she’d been in love with him for years.

And now—today—he’d noticed her. He’d kissed her! How could she not tingle in his presence? And how could she not question his motives? Had he simply kissed her because he was upset about Bonde’s betrothal? Q was not anyone’s second choice. She was not anyone’s first choice, either, but that seemed beside the point.

The point, or what should have been the point, was that the madman Foncé was attempting to blow up the Palace of Westminster. That should have been her focus. But when the MPs slow shuffle caused her to pause, and Moneypence paused beside her, she gave him a sidelong look. He wasn’t as broad or tall as the agents working for the Barbican, but men like Baron and Wolf intimidated her. Nor was Moneypence as handsome as Blue, but she was no diamond of the first water. Moneypence had a pleasant look and a regal bearing. He always stood straight and seemed sure of himself. He had lovely brown eyes, good teeth, and a keen mind. Not to mention, much like her, he was far too intelligent to rush headlong into danger. In her opinion, that made agents rather more foolish than brave. The Barbican could use his—and her—talents elsewhere.

He was quite obviously an intelligent man, and that was why, as they stood there with nothing to do, she had to know. “Why did you do it?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked at her in the adorable way he had when he was confused. “Pardon?”

She looked over her shoulder at the MPs, who were still shuffling, slow as snails. She stepped closer to him. “I asked why you did it. Why did you kiss me at Bonde’s town house?”

“I…ah—did I offend you?”

“No.”

“Good…then…must we speak of this now?”

“Why not now?”

He waved a hand quickly. “No reason. I suppose I kissed you because I wanted to. I think I’ve wanted to kiss you for quite some time, Miss Qwillen. I just did not know I did.”

How was she supposed to react to that kind of sentiment? She wasn’t the type to swoon, and smacking him because he had been such a dolt for all this time hardly seemed an appropriate reaction. “Are you going to kiss me again?” she asked.

“I might,” he said cautiously.

“You had better,” she told him. He nodded then extended his arm, indicating she should precede him to the exit of the palace. She did so, following the last of the MPs into the streets where the guards had stopped passing carriages and were ushering the parliamentarians onto the Old Palace Yard, a safe distance away. She did not spot Melbourne or any of the lords, but they were in another building and might have exited another way. She moved toward the guards, eager to be out of the shadow of Westminster, but someone caught her arm. She turned, and Moneypence was looking at her. He was only slightly taller than she was and not much more substantive, but in the moment, he seemed large and safe and secure.

“Miss Qwillen, before I kiss you again, I have one question. What is your given name? Mine is Pierce.”

She’d known that. How many times had she whispered
Pierce
Moneypence
to herself before falling asleep?

“It’s Eliza,” she said. “Eliza Qwillen.”

“Eliza.”

She liked the sound of her name on his lips.

“May I court you, Eliza?”

Foolish man! He’d already kissed her. Did he not know he could court her? “Yes, Pierce,” she said. “You may.”

“May I kiss you, Miss Qwillen? Dear Eliza?”

“Yes, Pierce.” She smiled. “You’d better.”

He bent and brushed his warm lips over hers, warming her through and through. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, and that was when they heard the sound of an explosion.

***

The cold steel of the blade slid over the vulnerable skin of her throat, and Jane dared not do so much as swallow. She could feel Foncé behind her. He was taller than she’d thought he’d be, more solid and more muscled. This was no puny weakling. This was a man of power. He smelled clean, as though he’d bathed recently. She was dismayed not to detect the scent of fear on him. She was certain he could smell her fear. But this time she was not afraid for herself. She was afraid for Dominic. She tried to catch his eye, to tell him all was well. She would be well. It was a lie, of course. She was going to die.

Dominic saw her look, their gazes met, but he did not step back. His expression could only be described as murderous. That was not good. He would end up dead himself, at this rate.

“Agent Bonde,” Foncé said silkily, his breath caressing her ear. “Finally, we meet.”

“Foncé,” she said, moving her mouth as little as possible. “I cannot claim this is a pleasure.”

“Too bad. Call off your attack dog. Mr. Griffyn and I have met before. If we had more time, you would have to tell me how you managed to escape.”

“I have a few surprises in me,” Dominic murmured.

Jane glared at him, willing him to take himself and his surprises to safety. She had to think now. She had to think and plot, and she did not want to consider anyone’s safety. She might have to sacrifice herself to stop Foncé—she certainly would—but she did not think she could sacrifice Dominic. This was why she never worked with a partner.

This was why she’d never allowed herself to fall in love.

She stared at Dominic now, knowing that she could never allow any harm to come to him. More than that, she herself did not want to die. She wanted to live because he loved her.

“Would you like me to show you my surprise?” Foncé asked.

Jane took a breath. “Yes. I want to see it, but you have to let him go.”

“What do I care?” Foncé asked. “It is too late for him to save you.” The hand around her midsection tightened, and he dragged her toward the open door.

“Go, Dominic,” she said, keeping her voice hard and emotionless. “Get out.”

“I won’t leave you,” he said. Vexing man.

“How terribly touching,” Foncé said, mocking them. “Shall I kill him and solve the dilemma?”

“Go, Dominic,” she said. “I don’t want you.”

He knew she was lying, but she would have said anything to make him leave her. He couldn’t save her. Foncé would kill her for half an excuse. He was already digging the knife into her flesh, and she felt the trickle of blood oozing down her neck where he’d pricked her with the point of the blade. This was a man who liked to cut, who liked to carve.

Dominic did not move, but Foncé continued to drag her. She blinked into the bright light of the room and stared at Dominic’s face before Foncé kicked the door closed. Then he swung her around, and she blinked in shock at the monstrosity in the center of the room. It was a simple room, rectangular in shape, one entrance and one exit. There were no windows, as it was underground, and she noted the faint outline of furnishings on the floor where pieces had once inhabited the space. A storage room for clothing? No, too damp. Perhaps for plate or serving utensils?

But now it had become something else entirely. Crates and crates labeled
Gunpowder
had been stacked in the center, rising almost to the ceiling. Snaking out from the stack in all directions were long fuses. It would take but a single spark to ignite one and blow them all into oblivion.

“What do you think,
chérie
?” he asked. “Do you love it? My little creation?”

She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know if it would help to say anything. Had enough time passed for the MPs and the lords to have escaped? And did it even matter? Dominic had said he would not leave her. Could she allow Foncé to kill him without even a fight?

“You do not have to do this,” she said, feeling the knife point cut into her skin at each word. “I know you want revenge, but if you want to kill Melbourne, why not go after him? He is far away from the palace at this moment. You won’t hurt him by your actions.”

“Oh yes, I will. I will hurt him more than a simple death ever could. You know it as well as I. The shame of his failure will eat him alive.”

It was true. God help her, but it was entirely true. This would ruin what had been a long and stellar career for Melbourne. This would tarnish his sterling reputation forever.

“Why do you hate him so?”

Foncé laughed softly. She felt him laughing more than she heard it. She hated being so close to him, having his hands on her. She itched to dig her elbow into his belly, kick his shin, smash his nose with the back of her head, but any such action on her part would leave her lying in a pool of blood from the gash in her throat. And Foncé would be free to strike a match to a flint and light the fuses. “
Chérie
, you know better than anyone else why I hate him. I hate him for the same reason you do.”

“I don’t hate him.”

He laughed again; this time she could hear the mirthless sound. “Yes, you do. You despise him. Admit it, and I may allow you to live another minute.”

Jane could play along. Another minute, and she might find a way to stop him. “Fine. I despise Melbourne.” She was surprised at the vehemence in her voice, surprised that she meant what she said, even though she had been humoring Foncé.

“Of course you do. He used you. Just as he used me.”

She shook her head, feeling the flat of the blade hot on her skin now. “We’re nothing alike.”

“There you are wrong.” He moved her closer to the altar in the center of the room, pushed her away, and the sudden freedom startled her. She stumbled and fell onto one of the gunpowder crates. The acrid smell of it burned her throat and nostrils.

“We could be brother and sister,” Foncé said, kneeling before her like a nervous suitor asking for the hand of his lady. “He took you in when you were lost and afraid. Your parents were dead, and you had nowhere else to go. He gave you security in a world turned confusing and frightening.”

Jane stared at him, this handsome man who seemed to know all of her thoughts and feelings. It was true. When she’d lost her parents at the age of six, her entire life had changed. But Lord and Lady Melbourne had welcomed her. They had given her a home with no conditions.

Or so she had thought.

“You were grateful,” Foncé said. “So grateful you would risk your life for him. You would kill for him.”

“No.” She shook her head. That was not why she had joined the Barbican.

“
Oui
,” Foncé said, nodding his head. “You wanted love and the security of a family, and he turned your innocent desires into clay he could mold to his liking.”

Jane felt her face burn. It was as though Foncé looked deep into her heart, into her mind, and read the story written there. But she was no naive child. She knew Foncé’s tactics. Nothing he said was meant to soothe her. Here she sat, on his altar like a pagan sacrifice. He would kill her when he was finished tearing down her defenses. “You have done your research, Monsieur Foncé, but my story is not yours.”

“Is it not? I too was an orphan. I fled the brutality of the revolution in France. I arrived in London homeless, penniless, friendless. Your uncle—he was no lord then—took me in, showed me kindness, and gave me a vocation. I was part of your precious Barbican. I made it what it is. The prestige of the Barbican group was founded on the blood of the traitors I murdered.”

She stared at him, hating him and wanting desperately to discount everything he said. But she could not. There was too much truth, despite the madness she saw in his eyes.