The King's Code (The Lady Spies Series #3): A Regency Historical Romance (3 page)

“Lord Harrington.” Seamus nodded.

“How did you know?” Daniel’s auburn brows furrowed.

Seamus shrugged, “I heard someone mention the gentleman’s name. It’s not important, go on with the tale.”

“There is no more to tell. They were seen by Lord and Lady Winslow and the lady’s most ardent admirer, Lord Robert Barksdale. Lady Juliet has been in seclusion at her cousin’s town home ever since the regrettable incident.”

“Hmm.” Seamus sipped his champagne, his mind turning from the curious cousins to his duty for the evening. “So, may I dance the next set with your wife and then flee to my own home?”

“Aye.” Daniel smiled, adding, “Unless you want to stay and select your next paramour.”

“Not bloody likely,” Seamus said, resolute. “I’ve decided it is far cheaper for me to hire a harlot than to woo another lady.”

“I give that declaration all of a week. You’ve always enjoyed quality, Seamus.” Daniel met his eye, grinning.

“Well, I see your wife is finished with our little brother. So, I’ll just go have a spin while you circle the seventh ring of hell, which is surely where you’re headed.” Seamus slapped his brother on the back so hard that he was sure his hand would hurt the entire time he danced with the blackguard’s wife. But it was damn well worth the pain. “Good evening, Daniel.”

~

Falcon
paced his office, walking a wooden plank as if it were a rope strung fifty feet off the floor. And at times his work did seem a tightrope, an intricate show of balance. Knowing which steps would propel Britain toward victory and which of his decisions would prove fatal to the country and the war.

He had agents carefully dispersed throughout Europe gathering information, and it was his job merely to interpret their findings. The problem for him came when the puzzle was incomplete, when he knew there was a vital piece of information missing, which rendered any speculation or recommendations he might provide Wellesley . . . useless.

This was the case with the most recent of French codes.

For the most part, the French were careless and their codes elementary in nature. It had taken his cryptographers no time at all to intercept and decode their messages, thus allowing him to provide Wellesley with valuable information in a timely manner. Yet, while each code had its own style and flavor, this new anomaly was proving elusive.

The writer of the E code, Falcon feared, was not your typical French cryptographer. This code, he was sure, was concealing a level of complexity that his men had yet to crack. But how did one crack an anomaly?

By deviating from the normal patterns of cryptography
.

A knock at his office door interrupted Falcon’s tortuous deliberations, and he returned to the dignity of his desk before looking up and saying, “Yes.”

His secretary entered the room with a deferential bow.

“Lady Juliet Pervill wishes an audience, my lord.”

“Send her in,” Falcon said, remembering clearly the intriguing young woman.

The lady had proved exceedingly helpful some months ago in identifying a French assassin working in London. He had been struck then by her composure as she described in detail the horrific scene she had stumbled upon.

The girl had instantly understood the significance of what she had seen, had known instinctively that the murders were not the work of footpads, and had come to the only person to whom her information would be useful.

Him.

The lady walked into his office, interrupting his recollection, her pale yellow morning gown and elfin stature giving her the appearance of a schoolgirl.

Just as he remembered her.

Falcon rose to his feet, saying with a polite bow that would not aggravate his back, “Good afternoon, Lady Juliet.”

“Good afternoon.” The girl smiled nervously, which immediately piqued his already honed interest.

He indicated a sturdy wooden chair facing his well-worn oak desk and then asked, “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.” The lady sat, her blue satin slippers scarcely touching the floor as Falcon nodded for his assistant to leave them in privacy.

The door clicked closed and he seated himself in his leather chair, taking a moment to reassess the woman. Light brown hair, shimmering with health and an intelligent face dusted with faded freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were an unusually vibrant blue and she had an overwhelming air of competence that seemed to come as naturally to her as breathing.

“How might I be of assistance?” Falcon asked, sure that her visit had in some way to do with the unfortunate episode surrounding the girl one week ago.

Lady Juliet fidgeted in her chair, obviously attempting to decide which path to take as they proceeded down the road of conversation.

“Were you aware, my lord, that I have received honorary recognition from Oxford University?”

Falcon shook his head. “I was not aware that women were bestowed recognition, honorary or otherwise,” he said, impressed and wondering how this was pertinent to their conversation.

“They’re not,” she confirmed. “The assumption was made that J. Pervill was male and—”

“And . . . you did nothing to clarify that assumption.” The girl inclined her head, neither confirming nor denying his assertion. He continued, asking, “For what was your honorary recognition bestowed?”

“Mathematics. Well, more specifically, I won recognition for my theses in differential calculus.”

“Theses?”

“Yes, I’ve written three,” she explained. “Although the suppositions of these papers were, to some degree, interrelated.”

“I see.” Falcon stared at the small woman, who looked as though she should be shopping, not formulating mathematical theory.

“I . . .” She bent her head to search her reticule and then lifted it, holding out a letter. “I’ve brought a letter of recommendation from mathematics professor Quinby of Oxford.”

Falcon read the astounding two-page letter and glanced at the brilliant woman seated before him. “This is a marriage proposal.”

Embarrassed, the girl cleared her throat and stroked the back of her upswept hair.

“Well, yes. Professor Quinby came to my home to meet J. Pervill and saw that I was . . . not—”

“Male?” Falcon chuckled.

“Quite. However, if you read further, you will see that the reason for Professor Quinby’s proposal was his . . .” The girl turned her head so that she could read the letter to recall the correct phrasing. “‘Undying admiration of my immense mathematical mind.’ See it is right there.” The lady’s delicate gloved finger darted out to point toward the bottom of the correspondence.

“Yes.” Falcon nodded, to keep from laughing. “I might be old but I can read, my lady.”

“Of course you can read, my lord,” she said, blushing. “You would not have risen to the position that you hold at the Foreign Office otherwise.”

“Ah.” Falcon leaned forward, intrigued. “And what position is that?”

“Well, I am not sure precisely, but from our previous conversation, you appear responsible for dealing with any number of serious matters.”

“Yet, you have not come to me this afternoon to discuss my position within the Foreign Office.”

“No, indeed not, my lord.” She looked at her lap. “You no doubt have heard of my . . . situation. Perhaps more accurately described as my ruination?”

Falcon nodded regretfully. “I have, yes.”

He had also heard why the girl claimed to have been accosted, and from what information he had obtained about her wastrel of a father, Falcon had no doubt that Lady Juliet’s assertions were true.

Unfortunately, the
ton
was not so reasonable.

“Well.” The girl lifted her chin. “If I am to be condemned to a life of isolation, I thought I should rather do something with my time than spend the remaining years of my life wasting away in the countryside writing mathematical theory for Professor Quinby.”

“That is far more useful a life than the pursuits of polite society.”

The lady looked him directly in the eye.

“I want my skills to mean something, to be used for something other than having my ideas procured by men to further their intellectual ambitions. I want to work for you, my lord, for Britain.”

Falcon sat back, the implications of her offer sending him slightly off balance. “Ladies of polite society do not work for the Foreign Office.”

“Well, that is rather the point, is it not? I am no longer recognized as a lady of polite society. I am an outcast whose behavior is beneath the notice of the
ton
. And,” the young woman stressed, “you do not strike me as the sort of gentleman with whom social stricture holds an ounce of weight.”

“And what does hold weight for a man such as myself?” Falcon raised a brow, curious to hear her reasoning.

“Getting results.” She held his eye. “Choosing the person best capable of accomplishing the assigned task. Whether that person be noble or common. Male or . . . female.”

“And how do I know you are more capable than the men I already have working for me, Lady Juliet?”

“You don’t,” The woman shook her head and shrugged. “But as I shall work without compensation and with utmost discretion . . . you have very little to lose.”

They stared at one another, eye to eye, and Falcon could not help admiring the mettle of a girl who was ruined last week and today sat before him, offering her service to the Crown.

“Very well.” Falcon sat up, his mind mulling over the possibilities. His eyes sparkled, the full extent of the lady’s potential coming to him in one brilliant flash. “You shall report to me at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

The girl broke into a bright smile, her freckled nose crinkling as she tried to contain her excitement.

“I’ll not let you down, my lord, I swear it.”

“Let us hope that you do not,” Falcon said, thinking that the lady was correct.

He had little to lose by commissioning Lady Juliet Pervill, but much for Britain to gain.

~

Seamus
McCurren dragged himself into the Foreign Office at ten o’clock, having never gone to bed.

He had spent the entire evening gaming at
Dante’s Inferno
and in the end he had still come out losing. Not much blunt, but it was vexing nonetheless. He had wandered home at sunup to be shaved and change his attire, but his external appearance was merely a palatable façade of fatigue.

“Morning, James,” he mumbled to his assistant.

“Good morning, Mister McCurren.”

The man eyed him suspiciously, prompting Seamus to inquire, “What?”

“Are you feeling well?”

“Just get me some coffee, will you?” Seamus’s brogue was extracted by his irritation. But the man’s brows were drawn together in concern and Seamus thought to ease his anxiety. “I’m just tired, James. I had a very late night last night.”

The married father of five smiled.

“I see.” What his assistant saw, he had no notion, but the man must have thought Seamus needed reviving because he dashed out the door, saying, “I shall just go and retrieve a strong cup of coffee for you.” His secretary was halfway out the door when he stopped. “Oh, you’ve just received a report and I’ve left it on your desk.”

Seamus nodded, too tired to respond, and then opened the door to his large office and settled in his comfortable desk chair. He sighed heavily as he sank into the rich leather then reached for the report, leaning his chair back and propping his feet on the corner of his desk as he read.

The report was from the Naval Office, giving a detailed account of the sinking of a British supply frigate just west of Bordeaux. However, it was not the loss of the ship that landed this report on his desk, but the manner in which the ship had been sunk.

The frigate had been ambushed, by all accounts, by three French vessels that appeared to have been lying in wait at the port city of La Rochelle. And while this information could easily be disputed as a coincidental encounter, its occurrence within two weeks of the E anomaly appearing in the
Gazette
made the attack suspect.

“Damn.”

Seamus was reading the report for a second time when James knocked on the inner-office door.

“Yes,” Seamus said, continuing to read.

However, no coffee was produced and he looked up to find Falcon standing in the doorway.

“Good morning.”

Seamus dropped the front two legs of his chair to the floor as he sat up to meet the astute eyes of his powerful employer.

“Morning,” he greeted politely, but upon seeing a woman at the old man’s side, Seamus dragged his boots off the abused desk and rose to his feet. “Good morning, madam,” he said and bowed with as much elegance as he had remaining before focusing his attention on the lady’s face.

“May I introduce you to Lady Juliet Pervill,” Falcon offered.

“That is not necessary, my lord.” The girl’s astonishingly blue eyes met his as she held out her hand in his direction, adding, “Mister McCurren introduced himself three nights ago at the Spencer ball.”

Seamus kissed the back of her hand, taking her bait. “Aye, but I’m astonished that you remember, Lady Juliet, as I recall you were rather occupied at the time.”

“Oh, no, speaking with my father never requires more than half of my mind,” the lady said.

Seamus hid his amusement behind a polite smile and offered to his unexpected guests, “Please, do have a seat.”

The lady sat in Seamus’s chair while the old man found a wooden bench tucked in the corner of the spacious office.

Falcon looked up at Seamus, who remained standing. “Lady Juliet will be assisting the Foreign Office with our inquiries and I have determined that the best use of her skills would be in this department.”

The thought of a woman running underfoot stiffened his smile, and Seamus stared at Falcon and then glanced at Lady Juliet. A knock at the door broke the awkward moment, and when James Habernathy entered the room with his coffee, Seamus could have embraced the man.

“That is a very generous offer, my lady. However, I already have a secretary. Thank you, James,” Seamus said, overly appreciative as he took his warm cup of coffee from the man’s dutiful hands.

Seamus took a long sip to prove his assistant’s usefulness. Lady Juliet raised a brow and then turned, irritated, toward Falcon.

The old man rose, saying, “You may go, Mister Habernathy.” When the door had closed, Falcon’s brandy-colored eyes met his. “I’m afraid you are misunderstanding the situation entirely, Mister McCurren. Lady Juliet will not be your subordinate. She will be your colleague.”

Seamus waited for the end of the jest, and when none came, he laughed. “Pardon me?”

“I will be moving a second desk into this office and you will be working hand in hand to decipher French communiqués intercepted in Britain.”

Seamus glanced at the woman glaring back at him and then turned to Falcon. “Perhaps, my lord, it might be more appropriate if we discuss this matter at another time.”

“This matter is not up for discussion, Mister McCurren. You have done excellent work thus far, but you need help and Lady Juliet is eminently qualified to provide you that much-needed assistance.”

“Or guidance.” The lady smiled caustically, eliciting a turn of the head from the old man as he looked directly at her.

“Or guidance”—Falcon nodded—“in untangling this latest code. Lady Juliet has been briefed and her clearance is of equal status to your own.”

It was an intellectual slap in the face and Seamus was set back on his heels. The petite woman made a great show of evaluating him from the tips of his boots to the top of his less than academically adequate head.

“Well,” she said to Falcon as if Seamus were not standing in the middle of the bloody room. “It appears as though it will take a day or two for the man to adjust. I can certainly see why his intransigence of thinking might prove ineffectual in decoding French communications.”

“Thankfully, we were fortunate enough to acquire your services, Lady Juliet,” Falcon said with a nod of respect. “I shall have your desk ready by tomorrow morning and all pertinent papers will be awaiting you.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Lady Juliet rose and the two small people walked around Seamus as if he were a lamppost. “I look forward to working with you.”

Falcon opened the door and the woman left without once glancing in Seamus’s direction. No sooner had the door closed than he voiced his protest.

“My lord, you cannot be serious?”

“Oh, but I am, my boy. Lady Juliet will be working with you as of tomorrow.”

“The lady is unqualified, not to mention impolite.”

“The woman is brilliant and you deserved every barb she gave you.” Falcon’s tone brooked no opposition. “My decision is final.”

“Then put the lady in her own office.”

“It is more beneficial for the Foreign Office if two scholarly heads are put together.” Falcon opened the door and smiled. “Besides, I don’t have another office to put the lady in. Good day, Mister McCurren.”

≈

Juliet was still fuming from her encounter with Mister McCurren by the time she returned to her uncle’s town home.

She stripped her reticule from her wrist and was mumbling to herself when Felicity glided into the entryway.

“Juliet, you have a visitor.” Her cousin’s eyes were wide with excitement, which immediately caused Juliet to narrow hers.

“Who is it? If it is Father, you can tell—”

“It’s Robert Barksdale,” Felicity said, watching her cousin’s face carefully. “He has been here for over an hour, and from the dark shadows beneath his eyes, I’d say he has not slept overly much this past week.”

“That makes two of us,” Juliet mumbled with an accompanying stab of pain. “Where is Lord Barksdale?” she asked, suddenly tired.

“We were having tea in the small drawing room.”

“Thank you, Felicity.” Juliet gave her cousin’s hand a squeeze as she met her gentle eyes.

“I will be in my sitting room if you would like to talk.”

Juliet let go of her cousin and took a deep breath before walking to the drawing room and the gentleman she had hoped to marry. She tried to vanquish the memory of shock and hurt that had been on Robert Barksdale’s face the last time she had seen him.

She had not written him after the unseemly incident, had not known what to say. However, if she were being truthful, Juliet had been hurt that Robert could believe her capable of such a thing. She had wanted him to come to her and ask for an explanation of what had happened that night in the library.

But he had not, until now.

“Good morning, Lord Barksdale,” Juliet said as the footman closed the door behind her, leaving them alone.

Robert was staring out over the park, his brown jacket cut to display his fit shoulders and elegantly ridged back. He turned at the sound of her voice and Juliet all but gasped when she saw his face. He was pale, which only emphasized the dark lines under his midnight blue eyes.

“Look that bad, do I?” Robert smiled.

“Yes, you look horrible,” Juliet said, truly concerned, and he laughed.

“My dear Juliet, your honesty is one of your best and worst attributes.”

“Let us sit down, Robert.” Juliet walked forward and he met her in the middle of the room, where they stood three feet apart and simply stared at one another.

“You look beautiful.”

“I have the benefit of face powder.” Juliet plopped on the settee and Robert joined her.

They sat in painful silence until Juliet could stand it no longer.

“It’s not true, Robert.” Tears spread across her eyes but she refused to let them fall.

Robert smiled miserably, his hand caressing the side of her cheek.

“I know,” he whispered and Juliet leaned her head against his shoulder, relief lifting her burden.

“I was so frightened, Robert.” He rubbed her back, allowing Juliet to talk as he held her in the safety of his arms. “I thought he was going to . . .” She closed her eyes, unable to form the words.

“Why didn’t you run, Juliet?”

“I did!” she said, irritated. “But you saw the man.”

“Yes.” Robert stiffened and Juliet pulled her head back and stared at him.

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Lord Barksdale pulled her against his chest and Juliet closed her eyes, comforted by his strength. They sat for a long while before Robert whispered in her ear, “I want to marry you, Juliet. I’ve wanted to marry you for quite some time.”

Juliet planted her left hand in the middle of his chest and pushed herself upright.

“Robert,” she snorted, looking at him in disbelief. “I hardly think this the time for a wedding. It would be far more prudent to wait until the gossip dies down before we marry.” His troubled eyes darkened, and if he were not a man, Juliet would have sworn he had tears in them.

“Robert?” she asked, alarmed.

He stood up and turned away from her, rubbing his forehead with his right hand.

“My father . . .” Robert turned around, staring down at her as she sat waiting in utter confusion on the settee. “The earl will not permit it.”

Juliet laughed once and then again. “What . . . what do you mean, he will not—”

“My father will not permit me to marry you, Juliet.”

His declaration caused her to sit back against the plush cushions of the settee; her left hand covering her abdomen and her right covering her gapping mouth.

“Father has threatened to disinherit me if I marry a woman of questionable reputation. He even went so far as to have legal papers drawn.”

“How efficient of the earl.”

“That is not entirely fair, Juliet. Father has a valid point. I mean, you were seen half dressed with a gentleman who is not your husband.” She was stunned by the underlying bitterness in Robert’s voice. “Any children we would produce would be tainted and therefore tarnish the title.”

“Soiled goods?” Her face was setting as quickly as her heart.

Robert ran his fingers through his brown curls, throwing his hands toward the floor.

“Do you think I want this, Juliet?”

“I don’t know what you want, Robert.” She rose, hurt and angry.

Juliet took one step in the direction of the door before Robert stopped her by gently grasping her upper arm.

“Please, wait,” he asked, knowing better than to demand.

He guided her to the settee and then bent to one knee as he held her right hand. Juliet’s heart thumped in her chest as they stared eye to eye. She searched his face, thinking this could not be happening; it had taken a horrible scandal to bring the man to one knee.

“I am in love with you, Juliet Pervill. I have been absolutely mad about you for two years.” Juliet grinned, her heart melting as she stared into his vulnerable eyes. “I am on my knees.” He grasped both of her hands. “Asking, no begging you.” Juliet started to cry, elated. “To become my mistress.”