To Catch A Fallen Spy (Brethren of the Coast Book 8) (6 page)

“Nonsense.” Beryl scanned the vicinity and then stretched upright. “And I see just the man to save you.” Waving to some hapless individual, she dragged Elaine into the dining room. After parting another couple, Mrs. Hogart nabbed a familiar conspirator. “Sir Ross Logan, we are so honored by your presence at our humble gathering, and I wonder if I might encroach on your good nature and beg a favor.”

“Mrs. Hogart.” Red-cheeked, Ross bowed, and Elaine bit her tongue against laughter. “I am at your service.”

“Would you be so kind as to escort Lady Elaine to dinner?” Without ceremony, Beryl caught Ross by the elbow. “Here is a lovely spot for two unattached revelers to form a better acquaintance.” The hostess wagged a finger. “Now I expect to be the first to hear of your engagement.”

And just like that, Beryl Hogart became Elaine’s new best friend.

“You did this on purpose.” Ross frowned, as held out a chair.

“I did no such thing.” She eased to her seat and giggled. “And you are the one who pushed me into the spotlight, when I could have easily claimed a place after everyone was settled, with none the wiser, so I hold you to blame, sir.”

“Guilty as charged.” His scowl did not fool her for a minute. “Must you look so pleased?”

“Yes.” As she draped her napkin across her lap, the servants commenced service of the first course, and the butler filled Elaine’s wine glass. “This is our first public assignation, although Mrs. Hogart engineered it, shall we toast to the occasion?”

“I suppose.” When he raised the elegant crystal stemware, he cast a charming half-smile. “To what should we drink?”

“How about us?” His smile faltered, she realized she hit a nerve, and she wished she could take back her words. Yet something in his troubled brown eyes, which harkened a comparison to Lance’s brandy, troubled her. “Ross, who hurt you?”

“Do not turn your too-insightful gaze on me, Lady Elaine, as you may not like what you see.” To her dismay, he scooted his chair from the table and stood. “And as I said, there are far better prospects within reach. You should avail yourself of them.” He bowed. “I wish you a pleasant meal, Lady Elaine.”

The couple across from her dipped their chins, in unison, and another duo shared whispers as they stared. The rudeness. While she wanted to cry, and a part of her fractured when Ross abandoned her, she adopted an air of refinement and resolved to persevere. As was her custom, she hid the truth of her reality behind a façade expected of a member of the peerage. No one would ever know of her distress.

To her left perched George de Vere, Viscount Huntingdon, and a brilliant strategy formed in her brain, as she patted his arm. “And good evening, Lord Huntingdon.”

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Well-coiffed ladies and polished gentlemen garbed in their excessive frippery strolled the great walk, during the fashionable hour, in another of society’s gross displays of indulgence, the significance of which Ross never quite understood. In his estimation, the spectacle provided nothing more than posh prey and lucrative business for the local pickpockets. From the shadow of a large hedgerow, he stood guard, as Elaine joined in the Promenade.

Although he assigned several agents to the special detail, he could not leave Elaine’s survival to chance, and all an unforeseen villain required was an opportunity to strike. While a blackguard bent on evil could expend countless effort to wreak havoc, the scoundrel needed to succeed only once.

In that instant, his lady partnered George de Vere, Viscount Huntingdon, and Ross clenched his jaw and assured himself that he was not jealous, even as he moved to a better location.

And then there was the issue of his unforgiveable slight at the Hogart’s musicale.

For the past three nights, he tossed and turned, unable to erase from his memory the hurt in her expression. What was it about her that he could not ignore? Why did she fascinate him? How did she own his thoughts, to the detriment of all else?

Of course, that was not the reason he abandoned her.

At that moment, Elaine’s shawl dropped from her shoulder, and Huntingdon provided assistance. How dare the earl take liberties with the beautiful ingénue. Despite the need for discretion, Ross skulked closer.

In some respects, he and Elaine shared much in common—and that frightened him. She possessed an unerring capacity for personal examination that rivaled his skills. In short, the petite noblewoman could read people, and her instincts bested his finest investigator. It was her uncanny insight that kept him awake, as he wondered what she saw when she looked at him. If he apprised her of the truth, would she shun him?

The earl bent and whispered in Elaine’s ear, and that seemingly harmless act drove Ross beyond the limits of his self-control, and he relocated to the concealment of a large oak, whereupon her answering giggle brought him the last few steps to the rotation.

“Sir Ross, what a nice surprise.” To his chagrin, her smile conveyed his presence was no surprise. “Will you join us?”

“Of course, old man, and I will not take no for an answer.” The earl smacked Ross on the back. “It would be our honor.”

“If I am not intruding on a personal conversation.” As a nervous suitor, Ross kicked a pebble. Given Elaine was not his lady, because he had no claim on her, he could not explain his resentment of Huntingdon’s familiar manner. “I loathe interrupting anything of significance.”

“Oh, you could never impinge on our discourse, as it was neither unique nor controversial.” The earl chuckled. “We discuss marriage.”

“I beg your pardon?” Something in the universe fractured, as Ross halted in his tracks. He had no right to inquire, no reason to voice a complaint, yet everything inside him railed against the prospect. “Perhaps I should—”

A telltale clap, crisp and sharp, snared his attention, and he moved swift and sure when the lead ball cut the bark of a nearby tree. Grasping Elaine by the arms, he shielded her with his body, just as another two rounds sliced through the air. Ahead, the Brethren came alert, even as society, so focused on their hollow ritual, remained ignorant of the danger. Then a fourth shot grazed his shoulder.

Agents materialized, as if from nowhere, surrounding the party.

“Are you all right, Sir Ross?” Barrett inquired in a whisper, as he scanned the immediate area.

“Oh, no.” To her credit, Elaine did not scream, though her beautiful blue eyes filled with fear as she tugged at his sleeve. “You are bleeding.”

“Easy, cousin, as there is no need to raise the alarm.” Lance peered to either side. “Everyone stay calm, and let us adjourn to Raynesford House.” To Huntingdon, the marquess said, “Fetch Dr. Handley.”

“At once.” The earl dipped his chin and rushed toward the street.

When passersby noted the unrest, Ross cleared his throat. “Are you unwell, Lady Elaine? Is it your ankle, again?”

“What?” In a flash, Elaine sobered. “Er—yes, Sir Ross. Thank you, for your support and assistance, as I seem to have aggravated an old injury.” Leaning against him, she slipped an arm about his waist. “Can you help me to the Raynesford carriage?”

“Of course.” To blend into the background, they set a slow pace. And while on the outside Ross maintained his composure, on the inside he seethed, as someone tried to kill the gentlest creature he had ever known, and he pledged to defend her.

After a brief but tense ride to Grosvenor Square, the coachman drew rein before Raynesford House. Built in the Palladian style, with urn-topped rails and a Corinthian columned portico, the mansion presented a grand gem among London’s more fashionable residences, which never failed to intimidate Ross, because it served as an undeniable reminder that he belonged not in Elaine’s sphere.

Yet he could not part from her.

“Show Sir Ross to a guest room.” Lord Raynesford doffed his hat and gloves, which he passed to Banks, a stodgy character with an inscrutable expression that defied Ross’s best attempts to glean the butler’s thoughts or emotions. “And we anticipate Dr. Handley’s arrival at any minute. Ensure the staff is at his disposal.”

“Yes, my lord.” Banks bowed. “Sir Ross, if you will follow me.”

“Elaine, I will speak with you in my study.” Lance arched a brow. “Now.”

“Not until I tend Sir Ross.” When the marquess made to protest, she whirled about and faced her ill-tempered relation. “He saved my life, and it is the least I can do.”

“Go with Lord Raynesford.” Ross gave her a gentle nudge. “Unless you know how to stitch a wound, I should await the physician. But I would be grateful if someone could bring fresh water and clean towels, that I might clean the injury.”

“I will arrange it, Sir Ross.” Banks snapped his fingers, and a maid jumped to the fore. “Have Kingston deliver the requisite provisions to the grey room.”

“Yes, sir.” The servant curtseyed and scurried down the hall.

“But I wish to stay with you.” With tears welling in her gaze, Elaine frowned. “What if you faint?”

“I will try not to hit my head.” When his subtle joke failed to elicit even a half grin, he patted her check in a scandalous display of affection. “Do not worry, as it is just a scrape.”

With that, he nodded to Banks and strolled in the butler’s wake.

The polished balustrade, cool against his heated palm, soothing his frazzled nerves, as they ascended the stairs. The delicate scent from fresh flowers teased his nose, as they rounded a large table on the landing and navigated the largest, most impressive gallery he had ever toured. Yet his was not a social call, and the stinging gash served as a constant reminder.

“In here, Sir Ross.” Aptly named, the accommodation boasted soft-hued, matching wall coverings, drapery, and bedcovers, accentuated by deep mahogany. “Is there anything I can do to assist you? May I help you remove your damaged coat?”

“Thank you, Banks.” Ross gave the butler his back and winced as he tugged at the torn sleeve. Stripped of the garment, Ross gazed at the blood stain and ripped cloth. “I think it might be repaired.” When Banks arched a brow, Ross chuckled. “Perhaps not. Just leave it on the chair.”

“Very good, Sir Ross. I will send the doctor as soon as he arrives.” At the door, Banks paused to direct a young man. “Kingston, put the ewer of water and the towels on the washstand.”

“Yes, sir.” The footman did as Banks bade.

It was at that point Ross almost lost control. Maintaining his composure by a thread, he clenched his fists and compressed his lips. In his mind, he counted each step, praying he could outlast their presence.

“You will let us know if there is anything else you need?” Banks inquired.

“Indeed.” Ross closed his eyes and focused on the pedestrian act of breathing. At the click of the latch, he started and peered at his spoiled coat. Then he assessed his ruined shirt.

In that moment, reality hit him.

He had almost lost Elaine.

A hairsbreadth could have made a difference between life and death, and she persisted because a rare fit of jealousy brought him within reach when seconds mattered. The knowledge that chance posited her salvation only increased his distress, and the floor seemed to pitch and roll beneath his feet.

After untying his cravat, he unhooked his collar, took two steps, and dropped to his knees. Gasping for air, Ross stared at the swirled pattern on the rug and fought the tension investing his shoulders, but that was not what held him captive in some invisible prison.

Locked in the grip of palpable terror, he crawled to the bed and propped against the footboard. Fear, which unfurled in the pit of his belly and spread without mercy like a malevolent plague that infected every part of him, manifested every agent’s worst enemy. The singular emotion could undermine a spy’s confidence, leading him to question every tactic, and that left vulnerabilities, room for error, and increased risk of attack.

But what could Ross do?

In truth, he had to acknowledge he cared for Elaine more than he was willing to admit, and his attachment further imperiled her. Or did it?

“Sir Ross, are you ill?” Dr. Handley, the spectacled physician who treated the Brethren, set his familiar black bag on a table and knelt beside Ross. “I knocked but entered when you did not respond. Do you wish me to treat you here, or can you move to a chair, as it appears you require sutures?”

“Sorry, but I did not hear you.” Ross rubbed his forehead. “I am a bit muddled, but I am at your service.”

“That is understandable, given what happened.” Grasping him by the elbow, the doctor steadied Ross as he stood. “And I believe you have our positions reversed, given your heroic actions, which the earl of Huntingdon described, in detail. Would you prefer brandy to dull the pain?”

“No, as the pain reminds me that I still exist in this world.” And Ross desperately needed the distraction, as thoughts of Elaine threatened to consume him. “If it will speed the process, I can perch on the edge of the mattress.”

“Actually, the
chaise
might suit our purpose.” While Dr. Handley arranged the tools of his trade, Ross returned to the subject foremost on his mind.

How could he protect Elaine?

No matter how many agents he assigned to her, she evaded them. The situation called for drastic measures, despite his inclinations. To save Elaine, he had to surrender her, once and for all.

The lady required a husband.