Avenging the Earl’s Lady: Book Five, Sons of the Spy Lord

by Alina K. Field

  Avenging the Earl’s Lady

  Book Five, Sons of the Spy Lord

  Alina K. Field

  Havenlock Press

  Foreword

  He’s the most irritating, inscrutable, insufferable lord in the kingdom.

  Also nosy, managing, and manipulative, and a man who’s made an art of revenge.

  She ought to know better than to encourage his attentions. But…he’s rich, and when an impossible debt from her past comes due, theft seems the only answer.

  Chapter 1

  She ought to know better than to encourage the attentions of the most meddlesome lord in the kingdom.

  Lady Jane Montfort stretched on a sofa in the small library, trying vainly to snatch a few moments of much-needed sleep. Outside, the sea crashed and pounded, the din circling this snug Yorkshire cottage and slipping in through the half open window, as relentless as the rumbling male voices floating across the parlor from the council of spies in the dining room.

  When another muffled drumming joined in, she rose and pushed the wood sash higher.

  A sharp wind rushed her, far too chilling for the late July morning. No one was visible on the lane leading to Gorse Point Cottage, but there was no mistaking the hard-pounding hooves. A rider was coming.

  She tiptoed through the parlor to the heavy wood entrance door and paused.

  “I shall have to seduce information from her myself, then?”

  The Spy Lord’s deep baritone rolled out from the meeting room, the sound slithering up her spine, at once chilling and warming, sending her nerves tapping to match the other noises.

  The Earl of Shaldon would casually try to seduce another woman for information, would he? Well, she supposed he’d been doing that all over Great Britain and the Continent since King Louis lost his head.

  And if she had a drum—one of those small military ones would do—she’d crash it down upon Shaldon’s firm-jawed, handsome head, ripping to shreds the taut leather or linen or bloody whatever else was stretched over the hoop.

  The massive front door didn’t so much as squeak when she stepped out. As she gulped in a great breath of the salty, moist air, the rider came into view, long-legged and plainly dressed. She couldn’t discern if he was a mere messenger or one more of Shaldon’s operatives galloping here at the Earl’s behest.

  Anger bubbled up in her. Except for Shaldon’s daughter, Lady Perpetua, they were all here at the Earl’s behest. But like Lady Perry, she herself was most certainly neither servant nor operative.

  No, Shaldon was a handsome, enticing, and skilled manipulator, and so here she was, caught up in his schemes and blasted temptations while she had other matters, pressing matters, personal matters, to attend to.

  She swallowed the moisture leaking down her throat. He’d kissed her mere hours ago. He’d fondled parts of her body that had been sleeping for more than two decades. Heavens, he’d all but seduced her in the stable yard, and she, an aging spinster, had been naught but a willing victim.

  More fool her.

  One of Shaldon’s men came around from the back of the house and took the reins while the rider dismounted and tossed his bag over his shoulder. Words were exchanged. The messenger shook his head and hurried to the front door.

  He doffed his cap to reveal an abundance of glorious red hair. “My lady.”

  He knew her, but she didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t one of the Shaldon House servants. She knew all of them.

  Behind her the air stirred. Warmth circled around her and pressed into her back, and she had to fight the urge to lean into it.

  “Ah, Ewan, isn’t it?” Shaldon said.

  The Spy Lord himself had crept out of the door right behind her, and she hadn’t even noticed.

  Shaldon accepted a letter from the messenger, thankfully removing his hot hand from where it had trailed dangerously close to her backside, allowing her to breathe again.

  “From my son, Gibson?” Shaldon asked.

  The boy—for though he was tall, he was a lean, freckled thing—shook his head. “Mr. Gibson has loaned me to Lord Bakeley. He said to bring you this in all haste.”

  Jane’s heart took another lurch. Shaldon’s heir, Bakeley, and his wife, Lady Sirena, were expecting their first child. Only Shaldon’s personal request that Jane travel to Yorkshire could have enticed her away from London and Lady Sirena.

  And of course, there was the matter of Jane’s dependency, living in Shaldon’s elegant, well-appointed, well-staffed London residence. It was wise in those circumstances to go when one was sent.

  “Is all well with them?” she asked.

  The boy’s wide-eyed look was enough of an answer to that question. If Sirena was ill, Ewan didn’t know of it. Except of course, being one of Shaldon’s men, perhaps he wouldn’t tell her anyway.

  Ewan extended another letter. “My lady, I almost forgot. This one’s for you.”

  The handwriting on the thick package was Sirena’s. Dread knotted up in the pit of her stomach, flurries of worry making her hands tingle.

  “Well, then.” She nodded at both of them, dodging Shaldon’s dark scrutiny. “I thank you for bringing it.”

  The letter bore Lady Sirena’s handwriting, but the girl wouldn’t send a missive this thick with news of the ton or the latest fashions. As Sirena would say, a fairy was whispering in Jane’s ear, telling her that this letter was one more in a string of troubling messages.

  It was appalling that one young man, so carefully brought up, so well provided for, could get himself into such a costly tangle, one that she’d been unraveling at no small expense.

  She rushed in and took the stairs to the bedchamber she was sharing with Lady Perry.

  A knock brought no answer, and so, she entered. The spring green counterpane was as smooth as it had been the morning before when she’d made up the bed. No one had slept there. Lady Perry had no doubt taken advantage of the previous night’s chaos to visit the bed of her new fiancé, Fox.

  She herself had spent the night in an armchair at Shaldon’s bedside, taming her worries and her regrettable flutterings, and barely dozing between his bouts of nausea. By the time the dragoon captain’s surgeon had come to examine him at daybreak, he’d recovered enough to call his council of old fools for a meeting.

  His dosing of laudanum had worn off, and she’d escaped with not even a heated glance from his lordship.

  She sighed and settled on the edge of the bed, studying the letter. Sirena’s penmanship lacked elegance but it was clear and direct, like the girl herself.

  The seal cracked neatly and she saw that the thick parchment surrounded another letter, its wax still in place. That letter’s handwriting sent her nerves thrumming.

  She took a deep breath, set the second letter aside, and unfolded Sirena’s.

  Dearest Jane,

  I must dash this off quickly as Bakeley is at my elbow demanding all haste. Be assured that all is well with the babe and I am even deigning to take some of your advice. I’ve shortened my time in the saddle and I limit myself to a boring walk—no trotting or galloping! Bakeley accompanies me on every ride to ensure the safety of his heir.

  You’ve likely heard the good news that Captain Kingsley is found and is on his way to England.

  That was indeed wonderful news. Shaldon’s other new daughter-in-law, Graciela, would be happy that her missing father had been found.

  Though perhaps, Lord Shaldon being Lord Shaldon, he hasn’t shared the news from the letter Bakeley sent him by the same courier. (And Dear Jane, must you keep running off with my father-in-law? First Bath, now Yorkshire; tongues will b
e wagging, though not mine, I assure you.) And, by the by, Mr. Oliver Morton drew me aside at last night’s ball to inquire about your absence…

  Her hand fisted around the paper. Sirena knew Jane had been called to Bath by her cousin and his ailing wife, playing the poor relation at yet another noble establishment. Shaldon might have said he was in Bath, but if he was, he hadn’t been there to take the waters or mingle with polite society. He hadn’t been there to make her heart flutter—perhaps he had a ladybird tucked away there, a spy or a French emigre from his past.

  And Mr. Morton? Sirena’s fey senses had picked up the man’s interest, but she couldn’t know the old goat had made Jane a grabby proposal of marriage. One she’d refused.

  She smoothed the paper and read on.

  I’ve enclosed a letter just delivered by messenger, unopened, though I confess, I was sorely tempted. The messenger asked that it be forwarded to you in all haste. I do hope all is well, and if it is not, you must apply to me for assistance, as I am now wife to a wealthy viscount and forever in your debt, dear friend. Never fear, I have ways of convincing Bakeley to part with his money.

  Jane rubbed at the ache in her temple, stuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear, and read on.

  Barton and Madame send their love. They are drowning in orders, poor dears, working from dawn until midnight, and Bakeley is quite smug about the success of his investment in their enterprise.

  Do take care and come home soon. Without you and Perry, I am hopelessly lost running Shaldon House.

  With love,

  S

  * * *

  Dear Sirena, always so perceptive and so kind.

  Asking her for help was a solution, one that was totally unacceptable. Her husband, Bakeley—Shaldon’s heir—had generously invested in the partnership of Jane’s former lady’s maid and a French modiste, and with the new King’s coronation festivities in full swing, he was seeing a good return.

  There would be no return on any money given to her. She would simply be sinking to the utter, humiliating charity she had managed to avoid her entire life.

  Besides, Bakeley would want to know why she needed it.

  She weighed the sealed letter in her hand, the tap-tap-tap on her nerves growing more insistent. With her even-tempered and orderly man of business, all haste was a rarity. All haste was grounds for a whole host of fairies to plague her.

  The shakiness of the script reminded her that she should be thinking about a successor to Mr. Phillips, who worked with only a clerk as elderly as himself.

  She cracked the wax wafer and scanned the lines, her heart sinking.

  Chapter 2

  Money was needed, a great deal more than previously thought, and a great deal more than she possessed.

  My Dear Lady Jane,

  I beg your forgiveness for disturbing you yet again during this busy time, but an urgent message arrived today from Mr. Walker that I must share with you. He has no wish to importune your noble personage, but the expectations of his ward exceed what the young man’s income, and Mr. Walker’s, will allow. The young man has confessed to Mr. Walker that his debts were substantially more than previously thought, so much so that he availed himself of professional money lenders. The additional sum, beyond what you have already provided from drawing on the principle of your aunt’s bequest, has consequently grown with interest to almost one thousand pounds. To make matters worse, the debts have been sold to a certain individual who is demanding either repayment, or satisfaction.

  Her heart pounded so loudly, she pressed the letter to her breast to settle it.

  She’d known there was more debt, but not this much. She’d pondered a resolution: employment for him, an income that would cover quarterly payments to creditors. She’d even considered marriage—not for him, of course. No heiress would engage to marry a clergyman’s ward of questionable birth.

  Oliver Morton had offered for her, but he was unlikely to settle money on a new wife to pay off another man’s debts.

  She must find another way. She took a deep breath and read on.

  Mr. Walker expressed that he believes a mere deposit of funds, if they can be found, will not be enough to ensure the young man understands the gravity of the course he is on. Mr. Walker himself is not well enough to come up to town and pay a personal visit to counsel him on his latest extravagances. He believes it is time for the young man to meet his noble benefactor in person.

  My lady, I have kept your cousin, Lord Cheswick’s, identity secret all of these years, as well as yours, and I am at a loss as to how to respond to Mr. Walker or how to advise managing this debt. We have drawn down almost to nil the funds left you by Lady Mildred. For the rest, your cousin would never allow touching the principle. Might you apply to him for a solution? I fear I must tell you that payment is expected a fortnight from yesterday.

  I shall await your further instructions.

  One thousand pounds? How was such an amount of money to be found?

  But it must be found. If not, he would have to discard all honor and flee England, or fight a duel. Either choice was unthinkable.

  “Ah, Jane, there you are.” Lady Perry slipped into the room, disheveled, but with a smile that spread from ear to ear above the ugly bruise that colored her neck, courtesy of the local baronet, Sir Richard Fenwick. Lady Perry had escaped from the man a few nights before, and he was now under guard in the Gorse Point Cottage stable.

  She beat down her racing heart and folded away the solicitor’s letter and its secrets. Shaldon had requested her presence in Yorkshire for the sole purpose of safeguarding Perry’s reputation, and what a joke that was.

  Still, mere whispers of scandal could ruin a lady’s place in society, and for Perry’s sake, she would persevere in her role as chaperone.

  “Shall I ask where you slept last night, Lady Perry? No, perhaps I’d better not, inasmuch as your father hasn’t raised a fuss.”

  Perry hurried over and hugged her. “Fox said Father will speak to him later today.”

  “Good. The sooner we get settlements arranged and the two of you married, the better.”

  The younger lady plopped down next to her, making the bed ropes creak. “Don’t worry. Fox won’t desert me.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of desertion. This business he’s involved in is dangerous.” Given the risks inherent in Shaldon’s activities, it was death she was thinking of, but she couldn’t bring herself to shatter the girl’s glow with that word. A lady must hang on to moments of happiness.

  “Painting pictures?” Perry scoffed. “I suppose he might catch the oils on fire if he works late at night with a candle close by.”

  She gritted her teeth. “It’s the business he conducts for your father that concerns me.”

  “I know.” Perry patted her hand. “I knew what you meant. I oughtn’t tease after all that has happened the last few days. But surely, with Sir Richard captured, this assignment, or whatever it is, is over, and Fox may get on with becoming the most famous artist in all of England, married to the outrageously wealthy daughter of an earl.”

  Jane studied her. Laughter sparkled in Perry’s eyes, and she glowed with the happiness of mutual love. She’d most certainly spent the night with Fox.

  Perry was wealthy, or would be, when she married. She might convince her new husband, who was not so nosy and high in the instep as Bakeley, to let her help Jane, but even if they married by Special License, she might not get access to funds soon enough.

  And Jane couldn’t importune the girl, not after everything she’d gone through the last few days.

  There was little more she could do for Perry. She should make her way back to London and the problems awaiting her there.

  “Your father will surely keep Fox out of harm’s way until after the nuptials. And in any case, no matter what might happen, your brothers will always help you. Though you did run away from one of them.”

  “I wanted to see this house that will be mine someday. And I truly did not know Fox
was here. And, I don’t believe Father plans to talk to him about settlements. I think it’s about the painting.”

  “The painting?”

  “Yes. The one we carried back last night from Sir Richard’s. Did you look at it?”

  A glimpse of it had left an impression of a dark, dismal, rather ugly work.

  “Oh, it’s dreadfully distressed, but it’s supposedly a masterpiece by a Spanish artist who worked in the new world.” Perry flung out a hand. “You don’t know the story, of course you wouldn’t. Father got hold of it who-knows-how many years ago and gave it to my mother. The Martyrdom of Saints Perpetua and Felicity. Mother loved it, it being a-thing-of-value, and her being a Felicity. Thus, she settled me with my ridiculous name…but, however Father obtained it, someone else coveted it. When Father was captured in Spain, Mother sent the painting as part of the ransom demand.”

  The hair on Jane’s neck quivered. Shaldon had been captured in Spain? The painting had been sent as a ransom to someone who coveted it?

  A fog lifted. Of course. Shaldon had spent the years since the end of the war on a quest for revenge against one old enemy or another. He must be tracking down his captors.

  “Who held your father, Perry?”

  “The Duque de San Sebastian.”

  The Duque de San Sebastian? Weeks earlier at a diplomatic ball, an unpleasant scene had played out between the Duque and Shaldon.

  Perry stood and began to pace. “Yes. And with the Duque in London, it’s a wonder Father doesn’t kill him outright. In any case, before my mother sent the painting, she had Fox copy it. And then, at the last minute, she decided to send the copy and keep the original.”

  Jane’s breath caught. Perry’s mother had died years ago, and she hadn’t known her well. The few times they’d met, the lady had been kind enough to her, a much younger girl.

  But gambling her husband’s life for a painting?

  “Does your father know?”