To Love a Spy

by Aileen Fish

  Nodding, she lifted her gown, displaying her foot. He carefully removed the shoe she was wearing, and gently slipped on the one in his hand. His smile widened as he stood, slipping his arms around her waist.

  “It looks like the shoe fits.”

  “It does,” she said breathless. “Where…where did you find it? I thought I’d lost it.”

  He gave her a mischievous grin. “Your cousin helped me. I asked her to get it.”

  “You did? When?”

  “Yesterday. I’ve been so busy with getting the paperwork ready for ownership of the railroad, that I haven’t had time to come see you.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’ve missed you terribly, and I was hoping you have missed me as well?”

  Sighing, she licked her dry lips. “I haven’t thought of anything but you since arriving here two weeks ago.”

  He stared into her eyes as his expression turned serious. “Nicole, will you ever forgive me for being a stubborn mule’s backend? I was so very wrong to blame you for lying to me. I was wrong not to forgive you and tell you how much I love you.”

  “Y—you love me?”

  “With all my heart and soul. I started falling in love with you at General Babcock’s masked ball, and as I got to know you, I fell harder. Even when the truth came out and I really got to know you, I couldn’t help but love you more. I was stubborn and wanted to blame you for breaking my heart, yet at the same time, I felt as if I would die if I couldn’t have you in my life.” He reached up and wiped the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “R—really?”

  Chuckling, he nodded. “Yes, really. I’ve wanted to come see you so badly, but I couldn’t find the time. Not only that, I wanted to do this the right way.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “The right way? Do you mean as Prince Charming?”

  “But of course. Who else could pull this off correctly?” He winked. “But although Prince Charming was able to give you the shoe back, Ashton Lee wants to ask you another question.”

  “What is that?”

  “I want to know if you love me enough to be my wife.”

  Happiness exploded in her chest and spread through every inch of her body. “Oh, Ashton.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I love you so much. Of course I’ll marry you!”

  His mouth captured hers in a heated and very pleasurable kiss. Although she’d experienced this sensation every time they were intimate, at this moment, she knew why. They were indeed meant to be together. Their hearts would beat as one from now until all eternity.

  And just like the fairytale of Cinderella and Prince Charming… Nicole and Ashton would live happily ever after.

  Readers

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  Author's Bio

  Marie Higgins is a best-selling, multi-published author of Christian and sweet romance novels; from refined bad-boy heroes who make your heart melt to the feisty heroines who somehow manage to love them regardless of their faults. She’s been with a Christian publisher since 2010. Between those and her others, she’s published 30 heartwarming, on-the-edge-of-your-seat stories and broadened her readership by writing mystery/suspense, humor, time-travel, paranormal, along with her love for historical romances. Her readers have dubbed her "Queen of Tease", because of all her twists and turns and unexpected endings.

  Visit her website / blog to discover more about her – http://mariehiggins84302.blogspot.com

  Find her on Facebook – facebook.com/marie.higgins.7543

  And Twitter - @MarieHigginsXOX

  Blood for Ink

  L. L. Muir

  Copyright © 2012 by:

  Lesli Muir Lytle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Cover Design by Kelli Ann Morgan

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  Dedication

  To Marlin—

  my Thor

  and the inspiration

  for every step I take.

  *

  Just me and you.

  Chapter 1

  The Capital Journal, January 31, Saturday edition, Fiction section

  A rumor currently circulates among the gentry in The Grand City that the white-blond Viscount F had a visitor one recent morning, or rather, visitors, as the woman who claimed to be his wife brought with her a pair of identical offspring closely resembling the viscount himself. Piercing blue eyes and straight white hair adorned both cherubs whose mother was blessed with the dark hair of her Spanish ancestors.

  Not believing the woman, or his own eyes it seems, Viscount F shooed the little family from his noble steps and into the halls of a certain hotel where they have taken up residence until a higher authority might be able to hear their tale.

  It was also rumored the mistress of Viscount F has moved out of his grasp as she deemed it unwise to associate with a man who possesses untrustworthy…eyes.

  It remains to be seen whether or not the current fiancée of this poor-sighted creature is also saved from his company.—The Scarlet Plumiere

  “Well, Stanley, you cannot very well sue the paper for libel when they did print this in the fiction section.” Ramsey Birmingham, Earl of Northwick, kept a straight face but only just. His friend, Stanley Winters, Viscount Forsgreen, was not the first to be chastised by the red-penned writer. That he was being so dramatic about it, so early on a Saturday morning, was an invitation for torment.

  “But North! I tell you there was no woman. No wife. No children with my blue eyes and white hair.”

  “White hair, even. Not blond.” Presley Talbot, Marquess of Harcourt and the worst tease among them, prodded poor Stanley from behind, then walked around the man and offered him a much needed drink.

  Stan raised the glass, then paused. “It is early.”

  “Drink!” Harcourt slapped him on the back, nearly spilling the shot of courage.

  Stanley needed no more prompting and emptied the glass, then stared into its empty depths. “Yes, white hair. There are no such creatures, I assure you. I have only been to Spain two years ago and... Oh, dear.”

  “Well, the vixen got that right at least.” Earnest Meriwether, the unfortunately named Earl of Ashmoore, chimed in from the far stacks of North’s immodest library. His given name was spot-on, as if his mother might have read the sobriety in his eyes the moment he was born, but the family name was far afield. Ash was never merry; he was deadly serious, and deadly otherwise. After everything that transpired in France, North was no longer quite as dedicated to England as he was to his sober friend; if the Earl of Ashmoore decided to turn coats, North would turn his as well rather than face his dark friend in any skirmish. No man did so and lived.

  “But Ash, I am telling you, there is no such woman.” Stanley looked at a chair, but North frowned and shook his head, as if to say the morning’s business was so serious the viscount should keep on his toes.

  Stanley’s shoulders fell. Poor man, so easily manipulated. The Scarlet Plumiere really should not have picked on such a harmless chap. North was of half a mind to hunt her down and tell her so.

  “Well, The Scarlet Plumiere has yet to accuse an innocent man, even if she is a bit inaccurate on the specificity of the crime.” Ash joined the rest, eyes fixed on an open volume of Shakespeare—the red leather set. He lowered his dark form into the seat Stanley had been eyeing.

  “He is right. Let us hear it, Stanley. What have you done?” Harcourt threw North a conspiratory wink, then hooked a leg over the corner of a table and leaned forward for the details, his interest and enthusiasm more than making up for Ash’s lack of both.

  Of course, Stanley broke.

  “I have done nothing! Nothing the rest of our lot has not done from
time to time.”

  North could not bring himself to prod the viscount further. The poor chap had asked his three closest friends to meet that morning to find a solution to his newest problem—fresh as the morning paper. They really should get ‘round to the business of helping him.

  Harcourt was in no such hurry. He folded his arms and lifted a brow.

  “Stanley, you are trying our patience. Spit out your confession, or I do not see us making much of an attempt to save your sorry hide.”

  Stan flushed from his pinned cravat to the roots of his snowy hair—a shade of red that might well have been the only color that did not become the overly-blessed viscount. He braced himself, as if for the executioner.

  “I set Ursula aside.”

  “You what?” Three baritones in unison sounded almost rehearsed.

  North shook his head. “I am sorry, old boy. You did what?”

  “He set her aside.” Harcourt slapped his knee.

  North turned to Ash. “He set her aside.”

  “Yes, blast you. I set her aside!”

  Ashmoore closed the book, laid Shakespeare on the overstuffed arm, and shook a lock of black hair from his forehead. “Pardon my slow wit, but just how does one put an Ursula aside?”

  Ash was right. Stanley Winters had enjoyed the pick of females since the four of them were in knee breeches together. Now he had the pick of all mistresses and had chosen very well. Ursula was indisputably the most sought after mistress in all of London, and it was quite possible Stan, old pal, was the first man to actually end an affair with the woman. Ursula did the shopping for a new lover. Ursula let that lover know when he was no longer welcome. But the mighty Viscount Forsgreen had set her aside.

  “I suppose he picked her up by the shoulders, turned, and set her down again.” Harcourt demonstrated with an invisible model, then dusted his hands. “Out of his way, presumably. Is that accurate, Stanley?”

  The viscount’s blush looked to be seeping into his actual hair.

  “I let her go,” he said quietly.

  “Ah. Like fishing, then? You took the hook from her mouth, so to speak, and put her back in the water.” North could not help but laugh at Harcourt’s miming skills.

  “Can she swim, do you suppose?” Ash’s usual sobriety fled. He dissolved into laughter at his own jest, as did they all—except poor Stanley.

  The viscount stood straighter, if possible. “You know perfectly well what I mean. I ended our affair. I told her she was free to do as she pleased.”

  North nodded and composed himself. “And you paid her a nice settlement, of course.”

  “Actually, she would not take it. She was not at all happy that I offered it.”

  A giggling Harcourt bent over and dove onto the couch like a man run through the gut with a saber.

  Ash rubbed a hand over his face then stiffened. “That has to be it! Ursula found The Scarlet Plumiere and had you punished. Severely punished, it appears; if night follows day, and things play out the way The Plumiere has predicted, you, my dear Viscount F, are about to be released from your engagement.”

  “But that’s why I let her go, you see? It would be poor form to keep one’s mistress while one is preparing for marriage, and honeymoon, and fatherhood, and…”

  “And death.” Having solved the mystery, Ash’s nose was back in the book.

  “Yes, that too. If Irene Goodfellow breaks it off, Mother will have me fed to the fish, and even though she is doddering, she will find a way to bear another son to replace me.”

  “It is unsettling the way that woman tosses that threat about,” North admitted. “Love her as I do, it fairly gives me nightmares thinking about it.”

  “Well, thinking about it put me off seeing Ursula,” Stan mumbled.

  “Quite so. Quite so.” North nodded, thinking. The mystery was solved, but what were they to do about it?

  “It would be best to have her put down, Stanley. For your own good,” Harcourt mumbled against a cushion. With all his antics, his gold-brown hair was coming loose from its tether.

  “Who? The Scarlet Plumiere? I cannot have a woman murdered, even if she has essentially ruined my life with her blasted article, using my very blood for her ink, as it were. Why, I cannot believe you would suggest such a thing.”

  “Oh, not her, man. Your mother.” Harcourt rolled onto his back and spoke to the ceiling. “Have your mother put down and enjoy the reprieve. Marry in another ten years.”

  “Put down my mo...you are mad!”

  “No. Actually, it is not a bad idea a ‘tall.” Ash closed his book again and tossed it onto the side table.

  “All right. You are both mad. I will not be having my mother put down, for God’s sake.”

  “Oh, Stanley. Do keep up.” Ash folded his hands and unexpectedly grinned. He must have had a grand idea; he did not smile easily. “I mean The Plumiere, of course, not your dear mother.”

  “You mean it? You can stand here in front of God and good whisky and say such things? Good lord, man. Perhaps I do not know you at all. Perhaps you could actually do the deed yourself!” Stanley straightened his waistcoat as if preparing to leave in a huff.

  “Oh, I would rather not do the deed myself, of course.” Ashmoore frowned and scrubbed a finger back and forth across his mouth.

  North could take it no more. He tossed up his hands. “I surrender as well, Ash. What are you thinking? You cannot be talking about having The Scarlet Plumiere murdered.”

  “Not murdered. Put down. Removed from power—or The Capital Journal at least.” Ash leaned in and lowered his voice. “The only way to control a woman these days, gentlemen, is to marry her off.”

  Harcourt rolled back onto his face and mumbled, “I’d rather plan a murder than a wedding.”

  Callister stepped into the library with a small white box tied with crimson ribbon. North nodded his butler over and reached for the package, but the old man shook his head.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, but this just arrived for Viscount Forsgreen.”

  Something yawned and stretched inside North’s breast, something that had been sleeping for two years. Usually, when it woke, he drugged it with brandy until it slept again. He was not sure, but it might have been his soul. And with some sort of premonition which he had never been known to possess, he suspected that thing within him would somehow be affected by Stanley’s box.

  He watched, as did they all, while Stanley slowly pulled a crimson tail, as if he expected a cat to jump out.

  The ribbon fell away. Nothing happened. Stanley sat the box upon the table, lifted the lid, and set it to one side. He frowned, looked at North, then reached into its depths. He pulled out a pair of spectacles...and a bubble burst in North’s chest.

  He laughed.

  Stanley did not seem to understand.

  “Who knew about this meeting, Viscount F?” Ash had to raise his voice to be heard.

  North laughed harder. Watching Stanley’s face as realization dawned, struck him as particularly amusing.

  “Untrustworthy eyes.” Harcourt’s grin widened further than the confines of his face. “I say, she is a clever minx.”

  North agreed. The Scarlet Plumiere was clever. And had he a heart, she might have just won it over with her wit alone.

  Chapter 2

  Monday evening all the most eligible bachelors currently in London, Tories and Whigs alike, gathered for the lottery on the second floor of White’s Gentlemen’s Club. Corralling such a group was the unattainable dream of every match-making momma of the ton, but this was no time to have a woman about.

  Of course the younger bachelors were excluded from entering their names; it would have been unbelievably cruel to expect the more innocent among them to participate. North and his friends had deduced that if the winner, or loser rather, were over the age of thirty, there was a better chance the chap deserved his fate in some way. Those young men who had not received invitation were in attendance of course. It would be too good a show to miss
.

  “I wish we would have been able to do this more privately,” Stanley murmured next to North. “There’s not a chance of keeping this a secret with so many witnesses.”

  “Sorry, Stanley.” Ash stood to the other side of Viscount F. “You came to us for help and this was the best we could think of on short notice and tall whiskeys. I am rather regretting it myself.”

  North was nauseous, but for a reason all his own. The suggestion of a lottery had come from his own tongue and now his friends were in jeopardy of paying the price. His mind raced for a way to stop the madness, as it had been racing all day, since he had awakened with a pain in his head and a piece of parchment in his hand. It was nothing less than a copy of the missive he’d sent to many of the gentlemen present—a call to arms.

  And the fools had come.

  He could tell them it was simply a grand joke, but judging by the sober faces before him, they were in no mood to believe it. And considering the turnout, many must view The Scarlet Plumiere as serious a threat as he had, at least while deep in his cups.

  Harcourt joined him and the others. Forsgreen and Ashmoore to his right, Harcourt to his left—The Four Kings, as they liked to call themselves—facing a mob of nervous and determined goats, waiting to see who among them would be sacrificed.

  Harcourt snorted. “Perhaps our chances will be better on this side of the table, eh?”

  Like North and every man who had received the missive, Harcourt had paused at the head of the stairs and written his name on a lot to be added to the barrel, and North feared for his odds of losing a friend today. If one of them were chosen, he would never forgive himself. If his own name were pulled from the pile, he would surely be forced to live out his years in the country, or hiding from Society altogether in a secluded cottage in Scotland. Either way, his friends would be lost to him, and that was entirely unacceptable. Not a thing in this world could drag the four apart—certainly no woman had yet managed it, nor had his weakness in France—but with one flippant suggestion of a lottery, he had placed their brotherhood in jeopardy.