The Lady Who Came in from the Cold (15 page)

Flora would have said something similar.

“A wise woman, your mama,” Helena said, nodding.

“I’ll be the first to admit that holding out an olive branch is not my favorite activity, but when I’ve done it,” Marianne said in philosophical tones, “it invariably works.”

Given the disaster of the evening thus far, talking couldn’t make things worse.

Penny heaved a sigh. “I’ll go speak to him.”

With impeccable timing, a footman walked past, and she snagged a flute of champagne from his tray. She swallowed first the bubbles and then her pride. After that, she went to look for her husband.

~~~

A quarter hour later, Penny approached the small balcony off the north end of the ballroom. The area was deserted as steaming new refreshments had just been brought out, luring the partygoers to the buffet tables. Marcus had not been amongst them. In fact, Penny had looked for him in all the obvious places, and he was nowhere to be found. As the servants hadn’t recalled seeing him go upstairs, the balcony was the next likely place to search.

The thick burgundy drapes were drawn, the doors left open behind them. A cool draft shivered over Penny’s skin. She pulled back one of the curtains… and her heart shot into her throat.

Marcus, standing in the cold moonlight.

He wasn’t alone.

The scene ripped into Penny like a bayonet. Cora Ashley, in Marcus’ arms, her mouth plastered to his. A jagged sound tore from Penny’s throat. Marcus jerked, his head spinning in her direction, his gaze crashing into hers.

He pushed Cora away. “Penny—”

She didn’t hear the rest. Insides splintering, she ran away—as fast and far as she could.

Chapter Sixteen

The next evening, Marcus made his way out of his club. He was drunk but not drunk enough. Guilt and self-recrimination swirled uneasily with the alcohol he’d imbibed as he waited for the footman to fetch his coat and hat.

Devil take it, what have I done?

He’d acted like a damned ass was what he’d done. He should never have agreed to meet bloody Cora Ashley on the balcony. When she’d begged him for a few minutes of his time, given him a teary-eyed Cheltenham Tragedy about her unhappy marriage, he ought to have told her to find another shoulder to cry on. But he hadn’t. Why not?

Because he’d been so twisted up with jealousy and anger over Penny’s past that he’d abandoned all good sense. Wallowing in righteous self-pity, he’d actually thought misery might make good company, and, as a result, he’d walked straight into an ambush. He hadn’t set foot onto the balcony two minutes before Cora threw herself at him. The memory made his gut recoil. He’d shoved her away immediately—but not soon enough.

Penny had arrived at that moment, witnessing everything. That shattered look on her face… His chest tightened, the knot so tight and painful he could hardly breathe.

He was a bastard through and through.

The footman arrived with his outerwear, and Marcus donned it, exiting into the wintry night. Snow was lightly falling, fat flakes that melted on his woolen greatcoat. He headed for his carriage just up the street, his thoughts whirling.

How am I going to fix this?
He’d bungled things up so badly that he didn’t even know where to begin. Last night, after the guests had left, he’d tried to talk to Penny, but she’d barred the door between them. The quiet, deadly steel in her voice as she told him to leave her be had been like nothing he’d ever heard from her—not in twelve years of marriage.

His head pounding with self-hatred, with too much champagne, he’d stumbled away, passing out in his bed. When he’d come to in the morning, he’d gone straight to Penny’s chamber… only to find her already out. She hadn’t left word where she was going or when she’d be back. He’d questioned her maid up and down until the woman looked on the verge of tears.

He’d waited all day at home for Penny to return but when dusk came, there was still no sign of her. Seeing the concern on his son’s faces—probably because he’d worn a path into the Aubusson with his pacing—he’d read them a bedtime story and then took off himself to the club for a drink, unable to bear the agony of waiting any longer.

Of knowing how much he’d hurt Penny, the woman he loved more than his next breath, his cherished wife… whom he now realized he’d been punishing mercilessly. She might have betrayed him—but he’d more than returned the favor with his treatment of her. His throat thickened at the thought of her heartbroken, weeping alone somewhere; her pain was more than he could bear. He could only hope that he’d find her at home so that he could beg her forgiveness and ask her to truly start afresh with him.

He was prepared to let bygones be bygones and prayed that she felt the same.

Though the snow had stopped, the walk was slippery beneath his boots as he neared his carriage. The groom hopped down, hat pulled low and collar high against the falling snow, and opened the door for him.

“Cold night, eh, Harvey…” Marcus began.

He trailed off as he looked fully at the groom. Froze. It wasn’t Harvey. Same mustache and brown hair but different eyes, glittering and long-lashed… At that instant, white powder clouded Marcus’ vision. It filled his nose, his lungs, and, choking, he tumbled headlong into darkness.

Chapter Seventeen

1817

“What do you mean you’re quitting? You can’t quit,” Octavian spat. “
Spies
don’t quit.”

“This one does.” Pandora placed her palms on the spymaster’s desk. Leaning forward, she looked him in the eyes. “I’m done, Octavian.”

His beetled brows drew together—an expression that she’d learned meant a battle ahead. But it didn’t matter. For the first time in her entire existence, she had something truly worth fighting for.

Octavian sat forward in his chair. “What about the others? Marius, Trajan, Cicero, and Tiberius are already on their way to the Spectre’s lair in Normandy. They’ll need your help to capture the villain once and for all: you cannot let your colleagues down. ”

After all these years, did he really think that he could guilt her into doing his bidding?

“We all joined this spy ring of our own volition. What the others choose to do is not my concern.” She straightened from the desk but didn’t break eye contact. “The only control I have is over my own destiny, and I choose to walk a different path.”

Octavian shot to his feet, his wiry frame vibrating with suppressed hostility. He jabbed his index finger accusingly at her. “
You
do not get to choose.
I
made you, Pompeia. If I hadn’t rescued you from the gutter, you’d be there still. Powerless. Broken. Have you forgotten what I did for you—how I gave you the weapons and will to survive?”

The dark alleyway swamped her. Sickly cologne mingling with sweat, weight pressing her down, vermin scuttling through the piles of rubbish. The flood of helpless terror: a lifetime of being careful, yet she’d fallen into a trap. No one to blame but herself. No one to help. No one to care. Her basket of blooms scattered and crushed over cobblestone, her screams muffled by leather, pain tearing into her…

When it was over, she lay there, curled on her side. A cool white wall sprung up in her mind, blocking out the fading footsteps. Her face smeared with wetness, her body numb, she reached toward a fallen violet, one that hadn’t been trampled, her fingertips brushing petals that had somehow survived…

“I gave you power.” Octavian’s pale blue eyes pierced her through the fading memory. “Taught you how to avenge your honor and mete out justice. You
owe
me.”

His words sliced but with the dullness of a blade much used. Her skin crawled but didn’t break. Instead of blood, bitterness welled.

“I’ve repaid your
kindness
a hundred times over. I owe you nothing. I don’t even owe you the courtesy of my resignation—but I’m giving it to you anyway.” And because loyalty was difficult to die, even between spies, she said in low tones, “Call off the mission. Send word to Marius and the others. They’ll need time to regroup and recalibrate their plan seeing as I won’t be there.”

“I’m not calling anything off,” Octavian snarled, his fist pounding the desk.

His obstinacy shouldn’t have surprised her. It had taken years, but she’d finally realized the truth: Octavian didn’t care about her. He never had. Any pride or approval he’d expressed over the years had been that of a master praising a well-trained beast. The spymaster was ruled by ambition, by his obsessive need to hunt down enemy spies, and everything and everyone else—including the agents he’d trained­—were just pawns in the game.

A game she refused to play any longer.

“Their blood’s on your hands, then.” She turned to leave.

“You think I don’t know what this is about? You think I don’t know about your little escapades at Toulouse and Quatre Bras?”

She froze, her heart thumping.

Octavian wasn’t done. “You think I don’t know about your pathetic attachment to Lieutenant- Colonel Marcus Harrington?”

Schooling her features, she faced the spymaster once more. “It’s none of your business.”

“It’s my business when some damned army man takes away my best spy.” His pale eyes narrowed, Octavian said, “Never thought you for a fool, girl.”

“I’m not a fool,” she said, her hands clenching at her sides.

“You are if you think a man like that will have anything to do with you. He’s a blue blood and, what’s more, a military man through and through. You and I both know that sort look down their noses at us, sneer at our methods even when they have us to thank for keeping their high and mighty selves alive. Risk your neck for his all you want, but he’ll never thank you for it. And even if he could overlook the fact that you’re an agent,”—Octavian’s upper lip curled—“he won’t overlook the fact that you’re no genteel virgin. Men like him demand an expensive vintage, and they want to be the ones popping the cork.”

The crude words made her swallow, but she forced herself to shut out the pain.

You have a plan. Marcus need never know the truth. You’ll leave Pompeia behind—become the woman of his dreams. You’ll make him a husband and a father and give him everything he’s ever wanted.

“I thank you for your insights on gentlemen,” she said sardonically, “although, given the source, forgive me if I don’t take them to heart.”

“Damnit, Pompeia, you were born to this life.” Like the master chess player he was, Octavian switched tactics with lightning speed. “Your place is here, not in blighted Society. I want happiness for you—and I can guarantee you will not find it with that sod Harrington.”

“You think I’m
happy
here? With what I’ve done?” A harsh laugh scraped from her throat. “God, Octavian, you really have no idea, do you?”

Because he’d never given a damn about her—about anything other than his own ambition.

She turned and started walking.

Octavian’s words followed her. “Marriage and love aren’t for you, Pompeia. You’re going to lose everything if you walk out that door.”

“It’s worth the risk.”
Marcus is worth any risk.

Yanking open the door, she walked out of the study and toward her future which, God willing, would include the love of a good man.

Chapter Eighteen

November 1829

Awakening, Marcus blinked into the dark canopy above his bed. His first thought was that he had the devil of a head. His temples throbbed, and his mouth was drier than sandpaper. Remnants of some horror-ridden dream frayed the edges of his consciousness.

A nightmare.

It had been a long time since he’d had one. After the war, they’d plagued him, but they’d gradually gotten better with Penny sleeping by his side.

Penny.
It all returned to him. What he’d done to her.

His stomach lurched, and this time it had nothing to do with the ungodly amount he’d imbibed and everything to do with the look of devastation on his wife’s face. The look that would be branded upon his idiot brain until his dying day.

How could he have been such a bloody moron?

He lifted a hand to rub his face—and froze at the unexpected clinking. When he moved his arm, he heard it again. Metal against metal, like the links of a…

What the devil?

His eyes adjusting to the dimness, he saw with shock that a metal cuff circled his right wrist. Bolting upright, he yanked his arm, and shock gave way to disbelief when he discovered that a length of chain held him captive, securing him to one of the posters of his bed. Hold up, this wasn’t his bed. What in the blazes…?

Shoving aside the thick bed hangings, he stumbled to his feet. Made it two steps before the chain pulled back, stopping him from getting any farther. Heart hammering, he scanned the dim room—a bedchamber. The hearth was lit, the flames giving off enough light to see the shape of a door at the far end of the room, shuttered windows along another wall. The place was oddly familiar, like a dream or a nightmare…

Fragments exploded in his brain. Shrapnel of what he’d thought had been dreams but which now took on the shape of… memories? White powder tasting of oblivion. A jolting carriage ride, his swaying consciousness, a hand brushing across his brow.
Sleep a while longer, my love.
More powder. Darkness.

“What in the devil is going on?” he snarled.

The door opened. The concentrated light of a single taper momentarily dazzled his pupils, but no way in hell could he mistake the woman holding it. Her raven tresses tumbled wild and free over her red satin dressing robe, and her eyes, glinting violet, locked with his.

“I see you’re awake,” his wife said.

~~~

Taking advantage of her husband’s surprise, Penny set the tray down on the table between them. As she did so, the candle upon it flickered, chasing shadows over the room and Marcus’ stern features. Her pulse raced. For once, he was unkempt: his hair was disheveled, a scruff emphasizing the hollows and hard edges of his face. His shirt was untucked and open at the collar, revealing the hard-carved ridges of his chest.