Once a Spy

by Putney, Mary Jo

  “I believe it will make me feel strong,” she said slowly. “Strong and free. If you will permit?”

  “Of course I’ll permit,” he said, his voice thick.

  He released her hand, and she continued her exploration of his lower body. He really was a splendid male specimen. His breath was quickening and she found that he was almost fully aroused when she grasped him. He gave a suffocated cry and his whole body became rigid. She was pleased to discover that she felt no fear or revulsion because this intimacy was her choice and this was Simon, the best man she’d ever known.

  As she kneaded his yielding, heated flesh, her fingers remembered the old skills. She quickly found the rhythm of intensifying his arousal, then slowing down to prolong his pleasure. When he began shaking all over in response, she decided it was time to bring him to culmination. She did so with quick, deft fingers.

  “Suzanne!” he gasped. “Dear God, Suzanne . . . !” He crushed her against him as his body bucked uncontrollably.

  She’d brought a handkerchief to bed in the hope she’d have the courage to pleasure him. As he reached the explosion point, she pulled the handkerchief from under her pillow and captured that hot stream of potential life. He groaned her name again and again at his shattering release, holding her as if she was his lifeline.

  Slowly his tension eased and he loosened his embrace. “Thank you, mon ange, my lovely angel of the night,” he panted. “I hope you didn’t find that upsetting?”

  “Not at all, it was my pleasure.” She relaxed against him, feeling satisfied herself. She smiled into the darkness. “You realize what this means?”

  “A number of things,” he murmured. “What are you thinking?”

  “We can dispense with sandwich sleeping!”

  His deep chuckle reverberated through his chest. “Very true! Can you join me on my layer? I don’t think I have the strength to move.”

  Feeling vastly pleased with herself, she rolled from the bed and sorted through the blankets to reach him. She crawled under the covers, glad to eliminate the layers that had separated them. He cuddled her close and kissed her temple. “Sleep well, mon ange.”

  She made a purring sound and rested her hand in the center of his chest. Lulled by the rhythm of his heart, she fell into a deep sleep, wondering what the next day would bring.

  * * *

  Simon woke feeling peace so vast that it seemed a dream. Could it have been? No, Suzanne was curled up against him like a contented kitten, her arm across his chest and a faint smile on her lips.

  She stirred and stretched, again like a lithe, lovely feline. He murmured, “Our new servants will be here this week. Shall we tell them that they must never, ever enter our bedrooms unannounced?”

  “Not even if they are bearing morning hot chocolate?” she said mischievously.

  “Not even then,” he said firmly. “These moments relaxing with you are too precious.”

  They lay together in peaceful silence awhile longer. He idly stroked her back. Then, carefully, her side, before slowly moving his hand to the front of her body.

  When he spread his palm over the gentle curve of her belly, she froze. “I am not ready for that,” she said in a tight voice.

  He instantly removed his hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize when I don’t know myself what will upset me.”

  She was trying to keep her voice calm, but he could hear the stress. She had already come a long way in a short time; if she never felt comfortable with greater intimacy, he would still be a lucky man.

  He kissed her forehead. “Shall we rise for breakfast? I’m told that Madame Mercier has hired an assistant cook who bakes croissants so light they float off the plate.”

  “We must certainly sample them!” Suzanne said as she swung from the bed. “Croissants with orange marmalade would be a perfect blending of French baking and British sweets.”

  “Don’t forget the coffee,” he said. Even better than a croissant was the fact that he could admire her across the breakfast table.

  Simon and Suzanne both browsed newspapers as they enjoyed their croissants, marmalade, and coffee. In the garden outside, daffodils were exploding into bloom in the spring sunshine. Simon thought it was one of those ordinary moments that was also perfect. “I wonder how long we can prolong our honeymoon. At some point I need to start attending to my responsibilities, but I’m in no hurry.”

  “Those companies where you’re apart owner?” Suzanne asked as she took a delicate bite from her second croissant.

  “Those, plus the estate. They have good managers but I need to pay attention, visit the premises, meet the people who do the work. I owe it to them, and attention is useful for maintaining productivity.”

  A maid entered with a silver salver that held a letter for Simon. As she withdrew, Simon broke open the letter. “The world might be catching up with us,” he said after he scanned the brief note. “This is from Kirkland and he wants us to call this morning if that’s convenient. Both of us.”

  “I imagine he wonders if we heard anything interesting last night.”

  “Very likely.” But Simon’s spying intuition was twitching. There might be more than that to Kirkland’s request.

  * * *

  Kirkland greeted them amiably and welcomed them into his study, where he rang for tea and coffee. When they’d arrived and been served, Simon said, “I’m sorry to have no great revelations from the émigrés. I talked to most of the men and they all seemed to think that it’s just a matter of time till Napoleon escapes from Elba. When that might happen and what would come next”—Simon shrugged—“no one knows. We learned that Morlaix is a swine who shouldn’t be allowed near any female, but I didn’t see or sense anything suggesting the group contained a dangerous spy.”

  “Thank you for looking them over. Even if there is a serious spy among the men you met, events are moving so quickly that it might not matter,” Kirkland said flatly. “But émigrés are not the primary reason I asked you to call. You had asked if I might be able to find out more about the fate of your cousin, Lucas Mandeville.”

  Simon found that he suddenly could not breathe. “And?”

  “The good news is that he didn’t die when the French sank his ship. He was taken prisoner by the French and sent first to Verdun, then quickly moved to a prison depot. After that the trail becomes murky.”

  “How murky?”

  “From what I’ve been able to piece together, he escaped by breaking his parole,” Kirkland said bluntly.

  The shock was almost physical. “No! That’s not possible!” Simon exclaimed. “Lucas was always the soul of honor.”

  Suzanne’s warm hand clasped his, anchoring him to reality. “As I understand it,” she said in a soft voice, “officers are paroled and allowed some freedom of movement in their community by giving their word of honor that they will not escape?”

  “Yes.” Kirkland’s gaze was steady.

  “So breaking parole is considered an unpardonable offense against a man’s honor.”

  Kirkland nodded. “Mothers tell their sons that it’s better to die than behave dishonorably. For many people, honor is their lifeblood. Giving their word not to escape and then doing so is considered contemptible. A sin beyond forgiveness.”

  Suzanne’s grip tightened on Simon’s hand. “I understand honor,” she said compassionately. “But I also understand how a man or woman can be pushed to the breaking point, so that they will do anything to survive. Killing an innocent or someone who is helpless—to me, that is true dishonor. To feel oneself being driven mad by captivity and being willing to do anything short of that to escape . . .” She shrugged. “I do not find that unforgivable. Would you rather your cousin was dead?”

  Her words started Simon’s mind again. Suzanne knew captivity in a way he never would, and she had a compassionate heart. “No, of course I don’t wish him dead. It’s just that this news is a shock. Lucas was always the one with unshakable integrity and honor. I was
the one who became the spy, a trade most gentlemen despise as dishonorable.”

  “Dishonorable but essential,” Kirkland said. “I’ve lived in these same troubled waters because someone must do this work. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, but I believe they were for the greater good.”

  “I’ve done the same.” Simon drew a deep breath. “But shame could explain why Lucas never attempted to return to his family or draw on his money.”

  “He may have died while trying to get home,” Kirkland said quietly.

  “That’s his most likely fate.” Simon sighed. “I don’t suppose anything could be done with the sighting of the monk in Brussels.”

  “There isn’t enough information. Someone in Brussels with a picture of your cousin might learn something, but at this distance, it’s impossible.” Kirkland smiled a little. “I was rather tartly informed that the man was unlikely to be a monk. They live cloistered lives of contemplation in sequestered communities. He was more likely a friar. They live and work in the wider world. I don’t know if that’s much help.”

  “Lucas always loved the stories about Robin Hood. He was particularly fond of Friar Tuck,” Simon said thoughtfully. Seeing Suzanne’s furrowed brow, he said, “Robin Hood and his merry men lived in the forest and robbed the rich to help the poor. It’s one of England’s favorite legends. There might even be a grain of truth in the stories. I’ll tell you more about them later.” His gaze shifted. “If I go to Brussels, might I be useful to you there?”

  “Quite possibly,” Kirkland said, looking interested.

  “Then I suppose I’ll be going to Brussels.”

  “No, mon chéri.” Suzanne’s green-eyed gaze was direct and implacable. “We are going to Brussels.”

  Chapter 16

  Simon’s brow furrowed. “I’m reluctant to take you to the Continent when things are so unsettled.”

  “Brussels is a very long way from Elba,” Suzanne said reasonably. “If the Corsican Monster escapes, we’ll have plenty of warning. I’d like to visit Brussels. I hear it’s become very fashionable since Napoleon abdicated.”

  Kirkland nodded. “A number of Britons have taken up residence there. Information and rumors swirl through the city.”

  “And you’d like to hear about such things?” Simon said dryly.

  “Of course,” Kirkland said, his expression bland.

  Suzanne kept her gaze on her husband as she said quietly, “My old home, Château Chambron, is in northern France, not that far from Brussels. I feel a responsibility to visit and see what condition the estate is in. Has it been abandoned? Did a Bonapartist claim it? I should find out. There may be people there who remember me. There might be some who need aid.”

  Simon gave a nod of understanding. “I’d like to know also. We are both connected to the estate. It’s even possible that I’m the new comte. We should visit.”

  Kirkland said, “I have a house in Brussels that is currently unoccupied except by a handful of my people. They know the city and the country well. You can stay as long as you wish.”

  Suzanne’s brows rose. “Do you have convenient houses staffed with agents in all major cities?”

  “Only those that might prove useful to our work,” Kirkland said seriously. “Many people on the Continent have risked their lives to bring down the emperor. Sometimes sanctuaries are needed.”

  Suzanne had a swift mental image of a vast spiderweb of spies and informants across the Continent, all sending information to England. So many threads held in Kirkland’s hands. He had quietly worked behind the scenes of great events, as had Simon.

  She had merely spent those years as a captive in a luxurious prison. She had a sudden fierce desire to witness great events at firsthand, perhaps even participate in them. She wanted to go beyond personal survival to acting for the greater good.

  Yes, they should go to Brussels.

  * * *

  After finalizing arrangements about the Brussels house with Kirkland, Simon and Suzanne returned home. As they drove, Simon said, “I’ll have several copies made of the sketch of Lucas when he was in the navy. I can show them to people in Brussels.”

  Suzanne frowned thoughtfully. “The pictures you have are old. Could you also have a sketch made of what we think he looks like now? Thinner, older, tonsured, wearing a friar’s robe?”

  “That’s a very good idea. I’ll have it done.”

  When they reached their house, they found their new servants had arrived. Simon had met Jenny Dunne briefly at the wedding, and she looked neat and attractive as she bobbed a curtsy. “Madame Duval. Colonel Duval.”

  “Jenny, it’s so lovely to have you back again!” Suzanne said warmly. “I hope your visit home was a happy one.”

  “It was good to see my family and friends again, ma’am.” Jenny’s face brightened at Suzanne’s welcome. The women were already friendly, and they should work together well. Simon and his proposed new valet were strangers, however, and Edgar Jackson’s scarred face looked surly and defensive.

  Jenny said with a note of anxiety in her voice, “Colonel Duval, this is my friend Edgar Jackson. As I said, he was a batman to an officer.”

  Besides savage facial scarring that just missed his eye, Jackson’s left arm and hand had been damaged. He looked like a dog who had been kicked too often. This should be interesting. “I’m guessing it was Sergeant Jackson,” Simon observed.

  “Yes, sir,” he said in a voice that gave nothing away.

  “I’m sure the ladies have much to talk about. Why don’t you come to my study so we can get to know each other,” Simon said. “Were you on the Peninsula?”

  “Yes, sir. And the Low Countries campaign before that.”

  Simon led his potential valet to his small office at the back of the house. “Did you pick up any of the languages of the country where you were serving?”

  “A bit of Flemish and French, a bit more Spanish.”

  A clever man, and the languages could prove useful. When they entered the office, Simon gestured to a chair and sat down on another. “Time for a man-to-man talk to see if we’ll suit. First of all, what would you prefer to be called? Sergeant? Jackson? Some other name or nickname?”

  The other man blinked. “Jackson, sir. What do you prefer?”

  Simon considered. “Colonel Duval, I suppose. More important than names is the question of whether you actually want this position with me, or if you’re only here to please Miss Dunne. Be honest now. If you don’t really want to be a valet, now is the time to say so. If you prefer a different kind of work, perhaps I can help you find a position that will suit you better.”

  Surprise, wariness, and doubt showed in Jackson’s expression. After a long moment, he said, “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Of course. Frankness is essential now.”

  “Your question does not have a simple answer, sir.” Jackson frowned, the scar on his face twisting to make him look very dangerous. “Of course I want to please Jenny. She’s the best thing in my life. But I’m not sure if I want to be a valet, and I’m pretty sure I can’t do all the work.” He extended his left hand, which was gnarled with scars. The tips of two fingers were missing. “I haven’t the strength to do everything needed, and I haven’t the nimbleness in my fingers.” He clenched his hand, which couldn’t close fully. “Can’t shoot, either.”

  “I would hope shooting will be unnecessary.” Simon considered. Jackson was well spoken and had lost the soft West Country accent that his Jenny still had. He was obviously intelligent, which was something Simon preferred in the people around him. He was also angry at the world, which could be a problem.

  But he’d served his country and deserved a chance, and the fact that they were both soldiers should help them understand each other. “Most of the duties of a valet should be within your capabilities and another servant could be detailed to help you when necessary. But let’s go back to the question of whether you want be a valet. As a batman, did you resent taking orders fr
om men less intelligent than you?”

  A succession of expressions flickered over Jackson’s face, ending with a hint of amusement. “Yes, I did. But I don’t think you’d be one of those.”

  “Since I worked mostly in military intelligence, I hope that’s true,” Simon said dryly. “I was never a Hyde Park soldier, nor do I wish to cut a fashionable swath through London society, so I don’t need a valet who has secret recipes for boot polish.”

  “I can polish boots as needed,” Jackson said, his amusement fading. “And a man like me needs to work to survive.”

  Simon studied the other man intently, looking to confirm his intuition about him. Jackson shifted in his chair. “You’ve got a stare that can flay a man alive.” He began clenching his left hand over his right rhythmically.

  “I’ve been told that before. Very useful when commanding troops or when questioning the enemy. Or testing a man’s nerves.” He glanced at Jackson’s hand. “You’re practicing with your left hand to help it work better?”

  Jackson flushed and dropped his left arm. “Any reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “No, you’re wise. A friend of mine had a similar injury and he worked it the same way you’re doing. He wrote recently and said his hand has improved greatly.”

  “Good to know.” Jackson resumed the hand-clenching exercise.

  Simon was impressed by the other man’s determination since he knew that exercising a damaged limb hurt. “I think that you have a great deal of ability, more than you’ve had a chance to use. Would you be interested in a position that would be part valet but include other duties? I might eventually hire a private secretary, but I don’t need one now. If you’re willing, you could try your hand at that kind of work.”

  Jackson’s brows furrowed. “How do you know I can read and write?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “No, sir. I learned from another sergeant who was keen to earn an extra bit of money. What would my duties include beyond polishing boots?” Jackson asked, cautiously interested.

  “Some correspondence and organizational work. A good batman carries wider responsibilities than caring for clothing and he needs good judgment, so I think you’re already well on your way.”