Shana Galen (21 page)

Similar tracks led to the other rooms, but they were not as numerous or as recent.

That first room was the one she wanted. She was sure of it.

She padded along the dusty floor until she stood before the closed door. Her heart pounded in her ears, the sound like that of the mail coach thundering down on her.

Dear
God, please let the door be unlocked
.

Her hand shook as she reached for the handle, rattling the tarnished metal when she touched it. Gingerly, she pushed it down. It would not move.

She let out a shaky breath and closed her eyes. Now she would see if Winn’s work had paid off. She reached into her skirts, found the pocket hidden within, and extracted a key. The metal clattered against the door as she fit the key into the lock. Wonder of wonders, it fit! She turned it, hearing the scrape of metal on metal and a click. She felt the lock give, but the door did not swing open.

With another look at the stairs behind her, Elinor set down her lamp and wedged a shoulder against the door and shoved, feeling her face grow hot from the exertion. With a scrape of metal on wood, the door eased inward. A bead of perspiration ran down her temple, but she ignored it, and turning her back on the door, dug in her heels and heaved.

She flew backward, falling into the dark room. She grimaced at the noise she had made and prayed her room really was the one directly below this one. Crawling back toward the hallway, she lifted her lamp, pocketed the key again, and turned in a half-circle to study her surroundings.

Besides the low sloped ceiling, the room where she stood was little different from those she had seen below, though this one had a desk and a man’s coat thrown over the bed. The desk’s surface was obscured by stacks of papers, and Elinor felt her heart leap with excitement. There had to be something here!

She dashed to the desk, setting her lamp on top of a stack of papers she hoped would not tumble over from the additional weight. Her back prickled as she thumbed through the papers in the middle of the desk. What if she were discovered? What if Madam Limoge, or worse, Foncé, walked in and found her?

That wasn’t going to happen, she chided herself, frowning at a list of numbers that meant nothing to her. She was going to be in and out in just a few moments. As soon as she found something relating to the prince…

More papers with numbers, more papers with numbers… Elinor shuffled them aside until she spotted something with words. French words. She closed her eyes in frustration. Now was no time to have to rely on the accuracy of her French translation. Perhaps she should simply scoop the lot of the documents into her arms and hope she managed to grab something useful.

Elinor looked down at her gown and shook her head. The bodice was cut so low she would not have been able to hide a ticket to the theater, much less two or three of the papers littering this desk. Her pocket was large enough only to fit the key. She had no choice but to go through the pile. She puzzled over the first document in French, eventually deciphering it to be a list of members of the Maîtriser group and their current salaries. That information might have been useful to the Barbican group, but it was not what she needed at the moment.

Her first priority had to be the prince.

She shuffled another paper to the top and scanned it for words she could quickly translate. It was something about a shipping venture, and she set it aside. Her foot tapped impatiently as she realized this was taking far longer than it should have. Yes, she still had hours before Winn would come after her, but Madame Limoge would expect her to make an appearance in the drawing room shortly. How long did Elinor have before Chastity was missed?

She lifted another paper and tried to concentrate on the words. She had to focus and put the rest of her worries aside. This was no different than helping Lady Hollingshead with her garden party. Then the servants and the tasks had been scattered and disorganized. All Elinor had done was lend some order and focus to the preparations.

That was the key here as well. She would go through these documents in an orderly fashion, concentrating on each one briefly. Very briefly.

She studied the one she held again, scanning the French for familiar words. Instead, a word in English caught her attention.

Regent.

Elinor caught her breath. She’d done it! She’d really found what the Barbican group needed!

And then she heard footsteps on the stairs.

***

Winn paced back and forth in the shadows behind the brothel. He stared so hard at the building he thought perhaps he would burn through it with his eyes. What the devil was going on inside? Had Elinor been found out? Was she, even now, being forced to seduce some man who had his hands all over her? Was she hiding in a corner and praying he would come and save her? He hated this defenseless feeling. It reminded him too much of what he’d felt when he’d heard those shots and could not go back for Crow.

Winn stopped pacing. He would not make the same mistake again.

He stared at the house again, noted the numerous garments strung along a clothesline in the back, and started forward.

***

Elinor dropped the paper and turned just in time to see a short, fat man climb the last step and move into the corridor outside the room. His already dark eyes went even darker when his brow came down menacingly. “Who the bloody hell are you?” he asked. His accent was French, heavily French, and Elinor knew she had found her man.

Not that she’d wanted to find Foncé’s lieutenant. In fact, she would have been quite happy never to lay eyes on the man. He was coming toward her, his expression menacing, and even though her reflexes were telling her to run, she tossed her hair back, stuck out her chest, and smiled.

Foncé’s man slowed.

“
Je
suis
Chastity.” She gave a little curtsy that was more of a bow designed to give him a clear view of her breasts spilling out of the low-cut gown. “And that’s all the French I know. You are French?” She giggled. She had not giggled in… possibly ever, but she’d heard her daughters giggle often enough.

“What are you doing here?”

Elinor shrugged. “I’m new. I must have taken a wrong turn.” She turned in a full circle, as though she had lost her way and had no notion of the way out. “Unless, that is, you want me to stay.” She smiled coyly, but when his brow rose with interest, she wondered if perhaps she would not have been better off making a quick exit. Then her gaze strayed to the paper she’d dropped on the floor—the one mentioning the regent. She had to take it with her. She hadn’t even had a chance to read it. If she left without it, all of this would have been for nothing.

Elinor stepped closer to the paper, and consequently, closer to Foncé’s lieutenant. He reached out a hand, beckoning her. “Do you want to stay?”

Elinor thought of the paper just inches from her foot and nodded.

“Then convince me you can be entertaining.”

Elinor let out a slow breath and took Lefèbvre’s hand.

***

“And there are those who mock my sense of style.”

Winn spun around and would have punched Blue if the other agent had not stepped to the side. “Stop sneaking up on me.”

“Pay better attention, and I will not be able to sneak up on you. Tell me this is not what I think it is.”

Winn looked down at the ill-fitting gown he wore. He had tried several before landing on one that fit. It was sturdy and plain, which told him it probably belonged to one of the servants rather than one of the prostitutes. It didn’t look half-bad, in his opinion. “I need shoes,” he said to Blue. “The boots ruin the effect.”

“The stubble ruins the effect. You are not going inside.”

“I am. No one will notice me. No one ever notices servants.”

“They’ll notice one who looks like you. Baron, you look like an ape stuffed into women’s garb. This will not work.”

Winn bent and shook out a dark mantle. “I admit disguises are not my forte, but if I pull up the hood to cover my short hair and keep my head down…”

Blue shook his head.

“I’m going.”

“And if I attempt to stop you?”

“Are you stronger than you look?”

Blue sighed. “Melbourne will have my head for this.”

Winn ignored him and turned around. “I cannot fasten this thing. Do you see how it is accomplished?”

“I will see what I can do.”

Winn felt the other man fumble with the fabric, and then he went still.

“Do you realize you have what appears to be a bite mark on your shoulder?”

“What?”

Blue touched it. “Here.”

Winn had a flash of Elinor sinking her teeth into his flesh as she’d climaxed. “It’s nothing.”

“Of course not.” Blue’s voice sounded choked—almost as though he were laughing.

Winn felt the other agent tug at the dress again, and then the material pulled tightly against his ribs.

“Suck in your stomach,” Blue said.

Winn did so.

“More.”

“I can’t,” Winn gasped. “That’s as far as it will go.”

“You make an awful woman.” Blue grunted, and the fabric pulled tighter yet. Winn could not breathe, but finally he felt the gown close in the back.

“Do not move, and you shall be fine.”

“Excellent,” Winn gasped. He struggled to pull the mantle over his shoulder, and Blue assisted him. “Now I know why my wife despairs when her lady’s maid has the evening off.”

“Yes, I…” Blue gripped Winn’s shoulder and shoved him into the shadow of a small, struggling tree. Winn ducked down, feeling the gown’s material rip at the seams, but he made no sound as he watched three men stroll into the yard.

Foncé and two of his men.

Blue and Winn exchanged glances and sank farther out of sight. As Winn watched, Foncé went through the door of the brothel, leaving one man to guard the back door and keep watch.

Winn was trapped.

Even worse, Elinor was trapped, for if Foncé saw her, he would kill her.

Lefèbvre’s hand was clammy, and Elinor tried not to show her distaste at the touch of his moist skin. He pulled her hard against him, and they were eye to eye. His breath was tinged with the scent of onions, and she attempted to hold her breath.

“S’il vous plaît. Entertain me.”

“Ah.” Elinor felt light-headed from lack of air. She was relatively certain incidents like this were what Winn had objected to when she’d begged for this mission. But she was more concerned that, at the moment, she could think of nothing she wanted to do more than cast up her accounts. “Shall I dance?” she finally managed. Perhaps if she danced, she could move away from him and catch her breath.

“
Oui
,” he said, voice husky. He released her, and she took a step back.

Only to stand completely frozen.

She had to escape. She had to dance. But how was she supposed to dance? Certainly he did not want to see her dance a quadrille or a reel. But she knew no other dances. No, that was not true. She knew the waltz. And only very recently the waltz had been considered quite scandalous. Humming a song in her head, she began to move in the steps of the waltz. She was used to having a partner, but she thought she was doing rather well on her own.

“What are you doing?” Lefèbvre said.

Elinor frowned. Was that not obvious?

“Seduce me.”

Elinor gave him a shaky smile. She had to figure some way out of this. And she had to take the letter with the mention of the prince on it as well. Could she grab it and run? Could she hit him with a blunt object? There was an ink blotter on the desk…

“Dance,” he demanded.

Elinor jumped and began to waltz again. Hitting him with the ink blotter might not be such a bad idea.

Lefèbvre removed his coat and threw it on a chair. He sprawled on the bed and propped himself on one elbow, giving her his full attention. Elinor did not like this progression of events. “Put your hands down,” he ordered.

She complied. She’d been holding them up as though grasping an imaginary man’s shoulders.

“Use them to remove your gown.”

Elinor froze in mid-dance step and stumbled.

“You are a shy one.”

“Yes.” That was it. “I am shy.”

“Take off your gown.”

“Perhaps we could talk a little first…”

“I would be happier talking to you if you wore fewer garments.”

Why had she agreed to this mission? Why had she not listened to Winn? She had no one to blame but herself. She’d created this muddle, and she would have to find a way out of it.

“Would you mind turning around?” she said.

“I would mind.”

Why did she expect him to behave as a gentleman? “Please. I promise to make it worth your while.”

He studied her a long moment. “I do not like to turn my back, but I will do so. Just this once. Be quick, and when I turn back, I want you undressed.”

“You won’t see a stitch of my clothing.” Because she was going to run at the first opportunity. She reached for her bodice, and Lefèbvre rolled to face away from her. As soon as his back was to her, she bent, snatched up the paper, and ran for the stairs.

She raced down the steps, flung open the door, and stared into the handsomely cruel face of Foncé.

***

“This is unfortunate,” Blue muttered.

“Unfortunate?” Winn grumbled. He reached back to ascertain the damage to his gown. “It’s a bloody disaster.”

“Not completely,” Blue murmured. “We wanted Foncé, and now we have him.”

“And he has my wife.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I’m not taking any chances. I’m going in.”

Blue sighed. “I knew you were going to say that. I suppose you want me to deal with our friend there.”

From their hiding place in the shadows, just a few yards from the brothel’s rear entrance, Winn studied Foncé’s man. “I could do it.”

“Quietly?”

Winn glared at Blue. “Would you like a demonstration? I can throttle you right here without saying a word.”

“Point taken.” Blue stepped back. “But I have a better idea. A plan, if you like.”

He bent his head, and Winn listened, his scowl growing.

***

“I beg your pardon!” Elinor hurried to say before she realized whom she had plowed into. And then she saw his face, and she ducked her head and attempted to skirt around him.

He deftly caught her arm and jerked her chin up. “Lady Keating. We meet again.”

“Who?” Elinor asked. “I’m Mrs. Smith.”

“You, my lady, are a very bad liar.”

Lefèbvre picked that moment to come roaring down the stairs, but when he saw Foncé, he stopped short. “I’ll send her away.”

“Oh, no,” Foncé said with a smile Elinor did not much care for. “We are well acquainted. Are we not, Lady Keating?”

Elinor glared at him.

“You know her?”

“Oh, yes,” Foncé said, gesturing toward the stairs, an indication she should precede the men. “She is the wife of one of the Barbican’s last spies. One of the few we haven’t exterminated yet. I have a feeling that oversight will be rectified tonight.”

Elinor moved to ascend the stairs again. Once in Lefèbvre’s chamber, she would be trapped, but she could see no other alternative.

“I trust she did not fool you,” Foncé said, climbing the stairs behind her.

“Of course not.”

“Good.” Foncé ripped the paper with the information about the prince out of her hand. “We would not want sensitive documents to fall into the enemy’s possession.”

It was at that moment Elinor realized she might be able to postpone the inevitable. She reached the top of the stairs and tried to remember how Caroline always managed to goad Georgiana into a quarrel. “I really didn’t see anything,” she told Foncé. “I was here only a few moments before your lieutenant arrived. I merely glanced at these papers.”

Lefèbvre’s face turned dark. “You read these papers?”

“I only peeked,” she said. “They were in plain view.”

Foncé rounded on his lieutenant. “I have told you, time and again, to burn our correspondence or lock it in a drawer.”

“I do.”

Foncé gestured to the stack of papers littering the desk. “Then what is this?”

“I was not concerned. None of the girls here can read.”

They were fighting each other now, and Elinor scooted to the right, closer to the stairwell. She would have to slip past Foncé, but if she could wait until he was absorbed enough in the argument and not looking her way…

Foncé pointed to her. “
She
can read.” He held aloft the paper she’d stolen. “And she read this. You know what that means, do you not?”

Elinor froze. Perhaps her plan was not working as well as she’d hoped. Perhaps it worked well only with silly young girls.

Lefèbvre cracked his knuckles. “It means she must die.”

***

“Oh, my,” Winn said in an unnaturally high voice that made his throat tickle. He held back a cough. “You are a handsome man.”

Foncé’s guard turned quickly, raising a pistol.

Winn wanted to knock it out of the man’s hand, but if it went off, it would alert those inside to their presence. So Winn held up his hands and said, “Oh! Don’t hurt me.”

“Who are you?” the guard demanded. Behind him, Winn could see a shadow creeping closer. It was Blue. Just a few more moments of this idiocy.

Winn fluttered his lashes. “Chambermaid. You frightened me.” He attempted to look scared.

“Were you scared? Come here then.” The guard opened his arms. “I’ll make it all better.”

Winn cocked a brow. Was the man sincere?

“Come here now,” the man said. “I like a woman with a little substance to her.”

Winn grimaced. It must have been darker than he’d thought. But if the guard wanted substance, who was Winn to deny him? With a shrug, he stepped into the guard’s embrace. Winn tenderly wrapped his arms around the man, then lifted him and slammed him against the side of the building. “I might have a bit more substance than you were expecting,” he said in his own voice and punched the man in the stomach.

Blue caught the guard when he stumbled backward, and Winn saluted. “Told you I could handle it.”

“Baron, you scare me sometimes.”

He scared himself. “Just watch my back.” And he stepped into the brothel.

As he’d expected, the back entrance opened into a small anteroom, which was dark and empty at this time of the night. A door in the corner led down to the kitchens and the servants’ stairs, and another door opened into what was probably the dining or drawing room. Winn could hear the voices of men and women rising and falling. He doubted Foncé or Elinor were chatting over wine. In fact, Elinor had been instructed to look for Lefèbvre’s private chambers. That meant she was upstairs.

Winn looked at the door to the public rooms again. He was never going to gain entrance to those rooms looking like this. He could remove the gown, solicit a woman for the hour, then tie her up and search for Elinor…

The idea had appeal. Except there was that other man who’d come with Foncé. What if he was in the drawing room? Chances were, he would recognize Winn.

That left Winn only one option. He sighed and started for the door housing the stairs down to the kitchens.

He immediately regretted not having taken a moment to search the dining room for a lamp or a candle. The kitchens were dark, and he stumbled down the creaky stairs, feeling his way. The smell of animal fat, onions, and burnt bread permeated his nostrils, making them burn, and when he stepped into the kitchen, he bumped his head on a low-hanging pot. He jostled it, and it clanged softly against the others hanging nearby. It made for an eerie chorus until one pot tumbled to the floor, making a clanging sound. If anyone was down here, they knew they were not alone.

Winn moved to return the pot to its hook and knocked the tongs from the kitchen fireplace. He cursed quietly, replaced the pot then bent to retrieve the tongs. Unfortunately, the heat of the tongs had caught his skirts on fire. “Bloody hell!” How did women manage to cook anything without going up in flames?

He tore the section of skirt off and tossed it aside, where it landed on the stone floor. Winn examined his dress to ensure the fire was out but jerked his head up when he heard a popping sound. He jumped back at the small explosion, shielding his eyes. Fire raced up the wall and across the floor as the fat which had ignited it poured out of a small pail.

He waited for someone to rush in with water or sand to extinguish the fire, but no one came. This was to his advantage because no one would look too closely at him or ask questions. Of course, the disadvantage was that the house was now on fire. He had better be quick.

***

“That seems a bit harsh,” Elinor said, taking a step back. “You do not have to kill me. Really.”

Lefèbvre stepped closer, and she retreated again, only to feel the bulk of the bed’s mattress push against her calves. “I have never been a supporter of the regent. He is far too frivolous, and a terrible spendthrift! And once I met him at a ball.” She was babbling now, but she feared if she ceased speaking, Foncé would take the opportunity to issue some horrible directive. “He wears a hideous beauty mark just here. And he practically leered at every woman who passed within five feet.”

“Shut up!” Foncé roared.

“I beg your pardon! I am only trying to explain that I am no friend to the prince. If you want to kill him, go right ahead.”

Foncé’s dark look was not reassuring.

“I mean, if that is your plan. I didn’t see anything that would confirm such a plan. I am merely guessing.”

“I am going to kill you so I no longer have to listen to your voice,” Foncé said. He grabbed her and twisted her arm behind her back. “Find me something with which to secure her. If the Barbican group knows we are here, we must move.”

Elinor’s arms were jerked roughly into place, and something that felt suspiciously like a drapery cord was wound around her wrists. Tightly. She had no experience escaping bonds, but she knew she would not easily free her hands from this prison.

“Do you want me to kill her?” Lefèbvre asked. With a jolt, Elinor spun around. Lefèbvre grinned at her. What kind of man discussed murder so easily? But this was what Winn had tried to warn her about. She had thought it all adventure and excitement. Why had she not considered that things might not go as she’d hoped?

“Not yet,” Foncé answered. “Collect these papers first. I’d rather not have to work in here with a dead body fouling the air.”

Elinor inhaled sharply, and Lefèbvre cracked his knuckles. He leaned close to her, so close she could smell the onion on his breath again. “And I thought you wouldn’t entertain me.”

Elinor watched as Lefèbvre dragged a trunk from one side of the room to the desk. He began sweeping papers into it, tossing in ledgers and books as well. She closed her eyes. Now Foncé would find a new hiding place, and the Barbican group would have to begin all over again. Somehow, in her zeal to help, she’d made everything worse.

And to add to that failure, she was about to die. That thought was none too comforting either.

She watched as the men hurriedly emptied the room, knowing her time was growing shorter and shorter. And then her gaze fell on a slip of paper on the bed. It was the paper with the reference to the regent. The men had forgotten it. If she could somehow hide it from view, perhaps the Barbican group would find it later… when they found her body.

Trying to look nonchalant, she scooted toward that side of the bed. Foncé shot her a look, and she immediately flung herself down, her bottom hiding the parchment. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“By all means, make yourself comfortable. We won’t be much longer.”

“Take your time.”

He gave her a thin smile and went back to his task. Elinor watched to be certain he would not look back at her, then scooted forward and gripped the edge of the paper with her fingers. She could not manage a good grip on it with her hands tied, and it took her several attempts to finally grasp the edge.

Just as she did so, Lefèbvre looked back at her. She froze and tried to look innocent. She imagined she looked about as innocent as Georgiana after she snatched the last tea cake. Elinor would do better to imitate Caroline. That girl had a natural deviousness.