Sweetest Little Sin (38 page)

He reached out and took her face in his hands. “I love you. My only thought in holding you at arm’s length all this time was to shield you from that side of my life.”

Her eyes softened, pleaded. “Don’t shield me. Love me, and let the rest fall as it may.” She took a shuddering breath and it caught on a sob. “Don’t send me away again.”

“My dear Lady Jardine.” He gathered her into his arms. “
You
are not going anywhere.”

He kissed her, and it was as if a world that had been careering beyond his control for eight years suddenly righted itself. He would spend the rest of his life loving Louisa, aye, and protecting her, too.

There was just one thing he needed to do first.

THE notice was brief, barely a paragraph, but it could have been a hand grenade exploding in Almack’s for the stir it would create.

Louisa laughed as she walked in to Jardine’s study with the
Gazette
in her hand. “That will set chins wagging.”

“Yes, but we won’t be in town for some time yet.”

“They will all come here and plague us. Mama was agog.”

His impossible brows twitched together. “
She’s
not coming here, is she?”

“No, she’s staying in Paris for a month or two yet, never fear.”

Louisa rested her hip on his desk and gazed out with bottomless satisfaction at the park beyond the long windows. She belonged here, with Jardine, at Claybourne Abbey.

At last, at last, she was home.

Jardine had been sifting through files and papers as she came in. Louisa turned to him. “Anything yet?”

“The evidence is mounting.” He sat back and pushed his hands through his hair. He’d allowed his black locks to grow a little longer, the way she liked. At the moment, they were irresistibly disheveled, and the need to run her own fingers through their thick softness gripped her.

Would she ever grow tired of touching him?

Jardine met her gaze, and his eyes darkened with answering heat. He pushed his work aside.

“Come here,” he said softly.

And she went.

ONLY a select few were invited to attend the Marquis of Jardine’s study in his Mayfair house one cold autumn day.

Max, Duke of Lyle, had traveled up from his country estate, quarreling with his heavily pregnant wife all the way. Kate had refused to miss whatever treachery was afoot. Louisa knew her friend would dance with joy to see Faulkner get his comeuppance. She hoped all would go to plan.

Harriet Burton was there, looking pale and composed. She wore a high-necked gown, presumably to cover the scarring that marked her décolletage.

Louisa sat with her, talking quietly. She’d placed Harriet in the care of a competent nurse and no longer feared for her health. But while her physical recovery was complete, Harriet’s heart and mind were different matters.

“Tell me again how Radleigh looked when you shot him,” Harriet whispered, with relish.

Louisa pretended not to hear.

Jardine conferred in low murmurs with Lord Nicholas Morrow. Nick had become some sort of aide-de-camp to him recently, ferrying documents and files back and forth.

On her own account, Louisa would be glad to leave all that subterfuge and danger behind. She was no Harriet Burton, and the small life that might even now grow in her womb deserved every protection she could give. The faint, wistful yearning for complete contentment was one she resolutely pushed aside. Not even for a child could she demand that Jardine turn his back on his duty.

The butler ushered two more men into the room. Sir Henry Frampton, Secretary to the Home Secretary, and Faulkner.

Louisa rose and forced herself to be civil as they exchanged greetings. “Won’t you sit down, gentlemen?”

“What’s all this about?” Faulkner bristled with impatience. “You told me you wanted to see me alone, Jardine.”

There was a pause before Jardine answered. He nodded to Nick, who took a seat at his right hand. Then he said, “As to that, there’ve been . . . developments. I’m sure Sir Henry will forgive the liberty, but I’ve invited various interested parties here to witness what I’m about to say.”

He placed his fingertips on the desk, on either side of the files in front of him. “The work we do in secret is sometimes dangerous, often dirty, but most of the time, it involves sheer, intellectual drudgery: painstakingly piecing the puzzle together, sifting through information until we find a vital fragment of intelligence that fits with something else.”

From the corner of her eye, Louisa saw Faulkner’s hand clench.

With his gaze fixed on Faulkner, Jardine lifted a thick file and let it fall back on the desk. “Reports from operatives, dossiers on important figures, and expert assessments on everything from the possibility of foreign invasion to civil unrest within the country.”

He flicked a glance at the head of operations. “You know all about civil unrest in this country, don’t you, Faulkner?”

“Get to the point, will you?” Faulkner barked.

Jardine stared at the man for a moment, then shook his head. “How you will wish you hadn’t rushed upon your fate. My point? Ah yes. My point is that above all else, the single most important quality I bring to the service is the kind of brain that retains facts and makes connections.”

He tapped the file with a fingertip. “When you drew Lady Louisa into your scheme to retrieve a certain document from one Duncan Radleigh, I was stunned. But your explanation for her involvement seemed plausible enough.” He gave a short laugh. “I admit, I was a dupe. You wove an elaborate scheme to bring the two of us to Smith. Handed us to him on a platter, didn’t you? Did Radleigh go along with your plan or was he, also, a dupe?”

Faulkner rose. “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this. You’re mad, Jardine! What’s more, you’re divulging secret intelligence to civilians. I’ll have your
head
on a platter for this.”

Jardine’s face darkened. “
Sit down
. The only reason you are still alive is that I have respect for the office you so tenuously hold.”

Sir Henry’s shrewd eyes narrowed. He leaned forward in his chair. “What is this, Jardine?”

Jardine walked around his desk and handed Sir Henry the file. “
This
is all the evidence you need to arrest and convict Mr. Faulkner here for treason and corruption of the highest order.”

Louisa, watching Faulkner quite openly now, saw that he’d lost a little of his bluster. His sangfroid didn’t waver, however. He sat grimly silent, turning his heavy gold signet ring around his finger.

Sir Henry bent his gaze to the pages in front of him and read. The quiet stretched, punctuated only by the occasional crinkle of a turning page.

Louisa’s nerves drew taut. Her heart pounded. She could only imagine how Faulkner, in his guilt, must feel.

Finally, Sir Henry sat back, pale and grim. “This is appalling. This file alone could bring down the government. Collusion with a known head of organized crime over
decades
. . . Betraying your colleagues to keep your nefarious activities quiet. It beggars belief!”

He glared at Faulkner under shaggy brows. “For an intelligent man, you’ve dug yourself a very deep hole.”

Faulkner rumbled. “I don’t know what is in that file, but I can assure you, sir, it’s a pack of lies. Fabricated by an embittered, washed-up operative who should get out of the game before he embarrasses more than himself with these trumped-up charges.”

Jardine stared at Faulkner for a long moment. Then he said, “I thought you’d say something like that.” He nodded to Nick, who now lounged at the doorway. “Bring him in.”

“Is there no end to this charade?” Faulkner wondered aloud. “Really, I don’t have time for th—”

He broke off when he saw who stood, manacled, between two burly militia guards.

“Hello, Faulkner.” Elias Smith grinned.

Faulkner’s face paled to ash. Satisfied, Jardine gave the nod and the guards muscled Smith away.

“The betrayer betrayed,” said Jardine softly.

Perfect. Utterly perfect. Louisa’s fingertips lightly touched the scar on her face. Operatives dead, missions compromised, evil allowed free rein. She looked around and saw her satisfaction reflected in the faces of their guests. Almost everyone in this room had a score to settle against Faulkner.

“Now,”
Harriet whispered, her small fist clenched.

Suddenly, Faulkner raised the back of his hand to his lips and sucked on his gold ring.

“Prussic acid,” murmured Harriet. “Fast acting. Very tidy. Painful, messy, but no more than he deserves, the filthy traitor.” She rose quickly, placing her hand on Louisa’s arm. “Come, Louisa. You won’t want to watch this.”

Louisa half rose, then stared in horror as Faulkner toppled from his chair, convulsing and gasping, writhing as if he were having a fit.

“Someone do something!” She started toward him. “Help him, for God’s sake!”

Max stood and brought Kate to her feet. “There’s nothing we can do, Louisa. He’ll be dead in less than a minute.” He slid an arm around his wife’s waist and together, they left the room.

The others were filing out also. Louisa stood there, helpless, as foam spilled from Faulkner’s horribly grimacing mouth. She looked to Jardine. He must have foreseen this result, surely?

Jardine was pale, his dark eyes glittering like jet. “He’s a traitor, Louisa, and you know the penalty for treason. It’s a better death than he deserves. I could have thrown him to the wolves, but I let him go in his own way.” Jardine curled his lip. “For once, he did the decent thing.”

Shuddering, she nodded. He was right. She hated it, but he was right.

Jardine gathered up his papers. “Sir Henry, if you’ll come this way, I believe we have matters to discuss.”

He looked down as Faulkner’s convulsions finally came to a halt, then glanced at his butler, who stood waiting at the door. “There you are, Emerson,” he said calmly. “Have someone clean up this mess.”

LOUISA lay in Jardine’s arms, quiet and sated—for the moment at least. The novelty, the sheer luxury of being with him every day was one she’d treasure as long as it lasted. Soon, he must resume his dangerous calling.

She splayed her hand against his bare chest, felt the reassuring beat of his heart. “When will you go back?”

He sucked in a long breath. “Tomorrow. I’m needed.” He glanced down at her obliquely. “Do you mind?”

Swallowing past a lump of apprehension in her throat, Louisa did as soldiers’ wives do everywhere and shook her head, lifted her chin, and smiled.

A gleam stole into his eyes. “You don’t want to come with me? We need people like you.”

She shivered. “No, thank you!” Her recent experience had been hair-raising enough to last a lifetime.