One Night With a Spy (6 page)

Her ladyship had actually glowed, animated by the spirit of battle. Damn, he ought to have thought of that tactic himself. After all, this was his chosen profession. Yet nothing seemed to be going to plan.

He'd come here hoping to do what all the others did, to get close to the Widow Barrowby. Now that he'd come to know her a bit, he'd stopped seeing her as a means to an end and begun seeing her as a woman, a lovely and amusing person in her own right.

He hated it when that happened. Now he'd be forced to think about how his actions influenced her, and her feelings, and all that rot. He let out a long sigh. Was there no end to the obstacles in his way?

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"
All my days are consumed by thoughts of my nights
…"

Evening came more quickly with the passing days. The sky darkened and the fires were lighted for warmth instead of show. Barrowby was empty of callers, but for once that isolation did not soothe. Peace and quiet did not always bring peace of mind.

Julia became aware of the trail of petals she'd left zigzagging down the fine carpet of the gallery behind her as she'd restlessly picked at the posy Elliot had given her.

Dismayed, she gazed down at the stripped bunch of twigs she now held in her hands. Oh, dear. And he'd probably spent his last shilling on it, too.

It was all Mr. Blythe-Goodman's fault!

She thrust the wreckage of the posy into her pocket and absently continued her pacing. "Another woman's dress." What a terrible thing to say! Of course, it was true, but that wasn't the point. The present Lady Barrowby had nothing but colorful clothing to wear, for it had pleased Aldus's fading vision to see her brightly clad. She hadn't had even a yard of gray silk to her name when Aldus had died.

Which was silly as Aldus had been dying for some time. She ought to have been thoroughly prepared. Yet she'd not been able to bring herself to order mourning clothes—as if it would hurry his end somehow.

She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. "Oh, Aldus, how do I make them go away?"

More importantly, how did she make Mr. Blythe-Goodman go away?

Choose one.

She stopped, her breath caught. Choose one? Could it be that simple?

But it was. All she need do was indicate her preference and the others would go away, taking their noise and their appetites and their brooding, disturbing presences with them.

Yet that would be cruel, wouldn't it? To raise a fellow's hope in such a way? There were words for women like that. She'd certainly never applied them to herself before and she found it distasteful now.

That thought led her down a different path. What if it were not false hope? What if she did marry again?

For the first time, it occurred to her that her current popularity might not be temporary. If Barrowby's heir wasn't found, then custom demanded that she live out her days on the estate and its rents, until the Crown seized it upon her death.

She pressed one hand to her throat. A lifetime of being pursued by money-hungry men? She nearly staggered at the sheer exhausting possibility. Heaven forbid!

So marriage might be in her best interest. After all, members of the Four were encouraged to have unremarkable lives, and what could be more unremarkable than a widow who remarried to a respectable man?

Part of her cried out against it, for she still thought of herself as Aldus's faithful wife, but the logic was inescapable. Once her mourning period was ended, the barrage of suitors would only increase a hundredfold.

Or worse. She knew from her own position as the Fox that Napoleon was on the run and the end of the war was imminent, which meant that England was about to be deluged with restless young men fresh from the war looking to marry.

Good God, what a horrifying thought. She shut her eyes against the vision of wall-to-wall redcoats, voracious, competitive, elbow-jostling ex-soldiers, all earnestly vying for her attention and her wealth.

It made one long for a nap, that's what it did.

What she ought to do was arrange an informal agreement now for a quick wedding in two years' time—take on a consort, so to speak. A clear message to other suitors that the position had been filled.

The thought of the peace and quiet that would ensue took the idea from outrageous to charming in an instant.

Choose one.

But which one?

Eames was a good man, and more inclined to verbosity than passion—would she never be allowed to have passion? No, unworthy thought. Passion was too complicating—but he was also inclined to be officious and Julia had never been inclined to mindless obedience.

Stuckey was rather nice, and he'd be easy to please… but he wasn't altogether bright and might make stupid children—

Children
! A bolt of joy went through her.

But no… she might be forced to put her duties before motherhood, which was fair for no one.

Her elation fell flat. Ah, well. She'd never really thought children would be part of her future, not after Aldus had stopped making even the monthly obligatory trip to her bed.

Nonetheless, she had no desire to endure stupid conversation across the dinner table for the rest of her life, so Mr. Stuckey was out.

What about Mr. Blythe-Goodman?

Damn, she ought to have known he would come up.

For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine having lifelong access to that admirable form—those shoulders!—that restless energy, that quick wit…

Her breath quickened, until she caught herself short.

No. Too good-looking, too intense, too distracting from her duty. She needed someone interesting, but not absorbing. Someone easily managed. Someone as unconcerned for life's heavier subjects as she was herself concerned by them.

She needed someone like Elliot.

She turned the thought around in her mind, doing as Aldus had taught her, examining it from all angles.

Amiable. Light-minded but not stupid. Amusing. Unlikely to pry into anything he found tedious, such as the running of Barrowby, or the origins of its staff, or the mysterious work that occupied his wealthy and very generous wife.

She narrowed her eyes, thinking on Elliot. Good-looking enough to be pleasing. Though not as tall or as broad as Mr. Blythe-Goodman, Elliot had a lean, poetic appeal. His fair hair was most attractive and his blue eyes—or were they gray?—shone with sarcastic wit. She would not mind sharing a bed with such a man—

Not that her libido was a factor in any of this. Those days of wasteful fantasy were long over and had been ever since Aldus's collapse. She had duties to attend to.

Of course, Lord Greenleigh had a pretty new wife, as did Lord Reardon. If they could please themselves with an attractive spouse, then could she not as well?

Another point in Elliot's favor was that she would never be tempted to bear children with him. She knew his kind—"the flash sort," as Pickles would say. Good fathers that sort did not make.

Yes, she finally decided. It was a good idea.

She turned and swiftly strode from the gallery, kicking her skirts high with her hurry and sending the pitiful torn petals astir with the breeze of her passing.

Just as Aldus had always said, she took her time to come to a decision, but once made it was as good as done.

From the point slightly uphill from the manor house itself, Marcus could see all activity in the stable and kitchen yards. The Barrowby servants were an odd bunch, that was sure.

When one of the young footmen cartwheeled easily from atop the round cistern cover to land neatly on his feet on the cobbles, Marcus chalked it up to too much youthful energy.

When another footman, identical to the first one, did the same to land upon the shoulders of the other as securely as if he were standing on the ground, Marcus began to wonder.

When the third footman—they must be brothers, Marcus could not tell them apart—took a running leap to bound off the cistern and form the top of a human tower, Marcus was forced to restrain his applause. If milady wasn't careful, she'd lose the three of them to a traveling fair!

The small, swarthy butler hustled from the house and admonished the three for their play with much Gallic waving of hands. Chastened, the boys bowed their heads. The butler, Beppo, stood giving them what for, the picture of exasperation with his hands pointing and gesturing.

Beppo obviously ran a tight ship, proven by the gleaming condition of Barrowby itself. Marcus watched, amused, as Beppo delivered three identical ear boxings. Those three wouldn't shirk their duties for—

Abruptly, the portly Beppo further illustrated the point he'd been making by taking a running jump at the cistern himself.

The butler, livery tails flying, performed an inspiring double flip in the air, then landed with a flourish, arms high. It was as if a penguin had suddenly learned to fly.

Marcus blinked, his jaw dropping. What the hell was going on?

The sound of pounding hooves brought Marcus's attention back to the front of the house. He moved along the hillside several yards until the front drive came into view.

When Marcus saw Elliot arrive at the steps of Barrowby at a pace punishing for such a mount, his first thought was that there was some emergency. He had the impulse to run up the steps himself to rescue the fair maiden, until he cynically recalled that there were no maidens here.

He saw candlelight brighten the window of the front parlor and then double as a housemaid scurried about to prepare the room. She even pulled the draperies closed tightly against the night, covering the window completely from view.

Marcus smiled. "Why, thank you. I don't mind if I do," he murmured.

Wasn't it convenient that he'd unlatched that very window when he'd stood there earlier pondering the gray afternoon?

Now, with it properly concealed, he could wedge it open a crack and listen quite easily from outside. He quickly descended from the hillside—keeping within the cover of the ancient tree trunks—and made his way from the shadow of the trees across the dark lawn to the planting bed beneath the front parlor window. A push of a finger was all it took to open the window enough to hear the conversation within.

Two voices, one deep with a lazy cadence that was unmistakably Elliot, one fight with that succulent pronunciation that sent unwanted tingling up Marcus's spine.

Elliot certainly seemed surprised about something. "Me, my lady? But I thought Blythe-Goodman—"

Lady Barrowby cut off Elliot's astonished voice. "I hardly know the man," she said briskly. "Now, I know you have a realistic grasp of the situation."

Damn, he'd missed something important.

"Of course." Elliot's surprise was no longer apparent. He did seem the sort to bounce back quickly. "I can provide you with a valuable service. You will provide me with compensation."

Marcus blinked. Service? Compensation? Elliot had no skills to offer that he could think of, other than his charm.

Lady Barrowby laughed softly. Marcus's nape hairs rose in reaction.

"No, Mr. Elliot, you do not understand," she said. "I do not wish a merely temporary solution to my problem. I would like to make it permanent."

There was a moment of silence. Marcus burned to know what was to be permanent.
Bloody hell, answer her, Elliot
!

"I know you are not interested in false protestations of love, my lady," Elliot said slowly, "but at this moment I do believe you are my favorite woman in the world."

Marcus heard that soft laugh again, like cream on his tongue.

"Mr. Elliot, if you agree to this, I. had better remain your favorite woman in the world, till death do part us."

"That will not be a hardship… Julia."

No
. Marcus couldn't believe it.

Till death do part us?

Julia?

She was going to wed that useless, pretty boy? That mooching, shallow, debt-ridden tea leaf—

All right, perhaps "tea leaf " was going a bit far, but for pity's sake, Elliot was a blot on England's masculine population! He was a lazy, overdressed, undermotivated, frivolous gnat! Julia was far too intelligent and lovely to waste herself on such a person of little consequence—

Julia?

Marcus realized he was standing ankle deep in the soft soil of Barrowby's flower bed, cursing soundlessly under his breath, absolutely enraged at the idea of his target wedding another man—er,
a
man.

If he was worried about anyone's welfare, it ought to be Elliot's. After all, Elliot had no previous—dead!—spouses under his belt.

Then again, if he was going to worry about anything, he ought to be worried about how he was going to accomplish his mission and save the Royal Four from contamination now that Lady Barrowby had neatly foiled his plan to ingratiate himself.

There were no more voices coming from the parlor. In his moment of fury, Lady Barrowby and Elliot must have made their good-byes.

Damn.

Without a second to spare, Marcus threw himself to the ground behind the naked thorny trunks of the rosebushes, just as the front door opened to emit Elliot. Marcus watched from his concealment as Elliot coolly strode down the stately entrance stairs of Barrowby to wait for his horse in the drive.

As soon as the door behind him closed and cut off the golden triangle of light, Elliot threw back his head, threw out his arms, and hoarsely whispered, "Thank you!" to the heavens.

Then he performed a brief, elated jig on the gravel drive.

He's a poor winner, Marcus thought sourly.

And you're a poor loser.

Which was absurd, for he'd lost nothing. This was a minor setback, that was all. Lady Barrowby could wed a thousand dandies and it wouldn't stop Marcus from accomplishing his mission.

He wasn't jealous. He was… merely disappointed. For the sake of his mission, of course.

Ridiculous, that's what it was. Simply ridiculous.

Elliot?

Elliot rode his weary mount slowly back to Middlebarrow, basking in the moment.