Shana Galen
Authors: True Spies
Copyright © 2013 by Shana Galen
Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Dawn Adams
Cover image by Alan Ayers
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P. O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
For Tina, the most remarkable mom I know.
Elinor paced the vestibule of her London town house, her slippered steps echoing in the strained silence. She couldn’t see Bramson, but she knew the butler waited nearby. She pictured him shifting from one foot to the other and wringing his white-gloved hands. Elinor glanced at the tall case clock again and let out a disgusted sigh.
She could not believe he was doing this to her.
Again
. His promises proved meaningless, as usual. She began to tug off her elbow-length gloves. “Bramson,” she called.
“Yes, my lady.” He stepped out from the adjacent parlor, a blank look on his face. But she saw beneath the facade. She saw the sad shake of his head. The all-too-familiar pity. When had she become someone to pity? No more. Elinor couldn’t bear it another day.
She smoothed her gloves back in place. “Have Spencer bring the coach around.”
Bramson’s brow furrowed. It was the only wrinkle in his otherwise seamless appearance. She studied her butler—his clipped white hair, his black coat and breeches, the unrelieved white of his shirt and neck cloth. Her gaze drifted to the black-and-white checked marble of the vestibule and then to the mirror on the wall opposite. She wore white gloves and a black gown with jet beading. Her skin was pale, and her dark brown hair looked almost raven in the dim lighting.
She was surrounded by the staid, the sober, and the severe, and she had had enough of it. Enough! She was not dead. Not
yet
. But she looked it. No wonder Winn forgot her. And to the devil with him, anyway. The curse, though muttered internally, gave her a zing of elation.
To
the
devil
with
him!
“The coach, my lady?” Bramson asked. “Has his lordship arrived?”
The man knew very well that his lordship had
not
arrived. Every person in the household, save her, had known his lordship was not going to arrive. She was the only fool to believe him. “I shall attend the Ramsgate ball without Lord Keating, Bramson.”
Bramson’s dark eyebrows arched. “I see. Very good, my lady.” His tone indicated he thought this turn of events anything but.
Elinor glanced in the mirror again. “And, Bramson? Send Bridget to my room. I wish to change my gown.”
“Eh…” Bramson recovered himself. “Of course, my lady.”
She started up the stairs, her legs feeling ten pounds lighter. She was going to attend the ball and dance the night away. Would Mr. Trollope attend? If he did, would she have the courage to waltz with the gentleman? Allow him to put his arm around her and press her tightly to him?
“Mother?”
Elinor jumped, grasping the banister to keep her balance. It was Caroline. The girl might only be twelve in terms of age, but she was an old soul. She had the eyes of a wizened woman. “Yes, dear?” Elinor reached the landing and turned toward her bedchamber.
“Are you about to change?”
Elinor sighed. Even her daughter knew Lord Keating would forget her mother.
“Oh, good. Georgiana and I wrote the first act of a play, and we wanted to act it out for you.”
Bridget stepped into the corridor, and Elinor nodded at her. “Find something with color for me to wear tonight, Bridget. I must have something blue or—no.” Why not? “Something
red
.”
“Are you not staying home?” Caroline frowned. For a moment, Elinor wanted to reverse her decision. She loved her daughters, loved playing with them, spending time with them, watching them grow into young ladies. It was not many years ago, she lamented that she spent
all
her time with her children. It seemed her only entertainment was the juvenile stories of princesses they composed. She’d craved conversation with her peers, and an activity that did not require her to sit on the floor or dress a doll. But the girls had needed her, and it had felt good to be needed.
Now, even that was not true. Elinor did not feel needed at all. Her daughters had governesses and music teachers to oversee their studies, they had their own friends and amusements, and more than once she had offered some advice or tried to participate and felt as though she was an unnecessary appendage. Caroline and Georgiana
rolled
their
eyes
at her when they thought she wasn’t looking.
Perhaps it was time to seek her own interests and the excitement she’d always craved. She’d read so many accounts of all the bravery during the Peninsular War against Napoleon. She thought of all the daring acts of courage by soldiers and generals. She could not fight a battle, but she could do something less explicit. She could work on the fringes.
She could do something she’d only dared read about and prove she was more than a mother and Society hostess. She could act as a spy.
Excited now, Elinor started for her room. “I told you, Caro, I’m attending a ball tonight.”
Caroline looked about. “What about Father?”
“I’m going without him.”
Caroline blinked. “What about our play?”
“I’ll see it tomorrow, darling.” Elinor put a hand on her younger daughter’s arm. “You girls should go to bed.”
Caroline frowned, looking so much like her father, it cut right through Elinor. “But, Mother, we’re not babies. ’Tis not even late.”
Elinor opened her mouth to protest, then closed it and shrugged. Why not allow the girls their fun? She was tired of always being the one to enforce bedtime. Tired of each and every one of the thousands of rules children and wives were required to obey. Tonight she would forget about those rules and enjoy herself. Tonight was a new beginning. One without Winn.
“You’re right, of course,” Elinor conceded. “Stay up as late as you wish.” She gave Caro a quick kiss on the forehead and proceeded to her room. Caroline followed.
“Mother? Mother. Are you feeling well?”
Elinor laughed. “I feel perfectly well.”
Bridget held out a burgundy gown, and Elinor shook her head. “No.” It was too drab. “Let me choose.” She didn’t miss the look that passed between Caroline and Bridget. Good. Let them look. Let all of London look. She was done living as a hermit because her husband cared more for… anything and everything than he cared for his wife and family. Plenty of married women went out without their husbands. Plenty of men would rather visit their mistresses than escort their wives to the opera or a fête. Elinor almost wished Winn had a mistress. It would have made him more interesting, more human.
Once she would have waited with bated breath for him to return home. Once she would have dressed carefully, anticipating his arrival. But years of whiling away endless hours, nodding to sleep in the vestibule, wearing her best gowns for the sole benefit of the servants, had made her bitter. Winn was never going to change. She did not want to be bitter about the truth. She wanted to escape it—do something exciting and absorbing so she would not have to remember what her real life entailed.
She stepped into her dressing room and scanned the neatly folded gowns. Gray, brown, lavender, black, more gray. Good God! When had she begun dressing like an old woman? There! Her gaze caught on a rectangle of scarlet. She reached for it and tugged it loose, upending the beige gown on top of it and not caring a whit.
“Mother, what is
that
?” Caroline’s voice was full of shock and censure. Elinor shook the gown out. It was cut a bit lower than she would have liked but was still far from scandalous.
“This is what I am wearing to the ball,” she told her daughter. She carried the gown, its gauzy sleeves and silk skirts trailing like ribbons in her wake, into her chamber. “Here we are.” She presented Bridget with her back, and her maid began the task of removing the black beaded gown.
Caroline stood mutely and watched while Bridget helped Elinor don the scarlet gown carefully, so as not to muss her hair. As the maid fastened the last tape, Elinor caught the shake of Caroline’s head in the mirror. “Mother, you cannot wear that.”
Elinor almost laughed. “Why not?” She turned to Bridget. “Do I have any rouge?”
“Mother!”
“Caroline!” Elinor echoed her daughter’s outraged tone. “I am a mother, not a corpse. I do not want to look like one.”
From somewhere in the depths of Elinor’s dressing table, Bridget unearthed a pot of rouge. Elinor sat to apply it. Caroline’s wide green eyes seemed to grow even wider. “Mother,” she whispered. “I can see the top of your bosom.”
Elinor glanced down at the swells of her breasts. “Good,” she said. She studied the effect of the rouge, then tugged a few tendrils of hair loose about her face and stood. “There.”
Caroline shook her head. “What will Father think?”
Elinor shrugged. “I don’t care.” And she meant it.
***
Somewhere in London, Autumn 1815
The spy called Baron swayed on the steep roof, finding his footing as a piece of the wood structure gave way. He watched it tumble to the ground, watched it turn end over end over end until, finally, it gave a quiet thwack and splintered into ten thousand pieces. He might have paused to consider the thud his head would make if it made a similar journey. But, as a rule, he avoided the most likely scenarios and tried to be optimistic. A moment later, the sound of voices drowned out his optimism.
He glanced over his shoulder as three men climbed through the rotting door to the roof. A bald man pointed at him, and another raised a pistol. Baron teetered on the ledge and slid forward. “Not very sporting of you to shoot a man in the back,” he called over his shoulder.
“Then turn around!” one of the men called back.
Not bloody likely.
A pistol shot exploded behind him—a French flintlock holster pistol from the sound of it—and he cursed and ducked. Straddling the vee of the roof, he winced in pain. He was getting too old for this. He scooted forward, while behind him the men started after him, taking wobbly steps onto the steep roof. He welcomed their approach. He preferred a real fight to dodging pistol balls.
“This is the end, Baron!” called the bald man, who Baron now saw had a nasty gash on his cheek.
It wasn’t the end. Baron could see the end a few feet away. The roof ended, and the steep drop yawned before him.
“Give us the key, and we’ll kill you quickly,” the man with three broken teeth and long, stringy hair called.
“Tempting offer,” Baron answered, “but I’ll take my chances.” He scooted forward again and frowned at the distance between the roof and the street below. Looking back over his shoulder, Baron thought he preferred the drop.
“You’re dead one way or another,” the bald man told him. “Give us the key.”
Baron stood, carefully, so as to keep his balance. “You want the key?” He slid toward the roof’s edge. “Come and take it.” And with a final step, he tumbled off.
“What the devil?” one of the thugs called.
“I didn’t think he’d do it.”
“Now we’ll have to scrape the key out of all his blood and guts.”
“Wait a moment. Did you hear him land?”
Baron clenched his jaw and dug his fingers into the gargoyle jutting from the roof’s edge. The perfect companion, it grinned madly at him. “Lucky us,” he muttered. “One of them isn’t a complete fool.” He hooked an elbow over the gargoyle’s neck and tried to ignore the way his feet dangled freely in the cool night air.
“Go look,” one of the men—Baron thought it was the one with broken teeth—said. Baron held his breath, listening to the
step-slide-step-slide
as the man scooted closer. He lowered himself under the gargoyle’s head, using only his damp hands to hold on. Gritting his teeth, he tried not to move, tried to keep his sweat-slick hands locked tightly.
Step-slide-step-slide-step…
A shadow fell over Baron, and in one quick motion, he swung his feet, knocked the gap-toothed man on the side of the head, and sent him tumbling to the street below. The man’s scream rent the air, and then with a
smack
, all was silent. Using the momentum from the kick, Baron pushed himself back onto the roof and climbed to his feet just in time to deflect a right jab from the man who’d shot at him with the pistol. Both men lost their balance and fell hard on the roof. Baron slid down on his back, twisting in time to catch the peak. He’d begun to lever himself up, when the thug with the pistol kicked out at him. He hit the side of Baron’s head and set his ears ringing. He would have a nasty headache later, but right now he felt only fury. The man kicked again, and this time Baron caught his foot and yanked. The thug lost his grip and slid down the steep roof, clawing for purchase. He caught a pipe near the edge and sent up a thin laugh.
And then, with a creak, the pipe bent, and he slid down and down and down.
Baron rose slowly and let out a breath. The bald man was watching him. The thug took a step forward, then whirled and turned, heading back the way he’d come. Baron let out a sigh and wished he could let the man go. Instead, he started after him, making his way nimbly across the sharp roof. The rotted door slammed shut just as Baron jumped onto the level section. He raced across it, threw the door open, and charged down the stairs after the man.
The building was old, vacant, and black as a crow’s feather. Baron heard the slap-slap of the man’s rapid footfalls echo through the emptiness. He was gaining on him.
And then the footsteps ceased, and Baron went around the last winding staircase and out the door. At the last moment, he veered to the left and avoided the pistol ball that smacked into the door behind him. “Bloody hell!”
In the shadows stood the bald thug with a man dressed in a sweeping ebony greatcoat. A pistol glinted in his hand. The man looked down to prime it again, but Baron wasn’t going to stand still and wait to be shot. With a grunt of frustration, he took off running, the two pursuers all but stepping on his heels. In the distance, the clock of St. Sepulchre tolled. Even though Newgate prison now had its own bell to mark the time of imminent executions, the sound reminded Baron of a death knell. He raced through an alley and dove through a gate as the tenth bell clanged.
“Devil take it,” he swore, running toward a high wall and climbing over. One of the men grabbed his ankle, and Baron’s kick landed somewhere soft. Soft… Elinor! He jumped down, paused to find his bearings, then arrowed for Mayfair. He was late, and he was damned if he hadn’t promised Elinor he would escort her to Lord and Lady Ramsgate’s ball. She was going to kill him, he thought as he took a sharp corner, raced across a street, narrowly avoiding a collision with a carriage, then stumbling to the other side. He chanced a look over his shoulder and swore. The thugs were still following him and showed no signs of flagging.
