The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  She tried to preach the truth to herself, to hold on to the happiness she had felt, but it wasn’t easy. She also wasn’t going to allow that behavior to take place under her nose. Not in her house.

  Pretending to trip, she laughed, stumbling into the alcove. Her father held the woman’s hands, and Charlotte tilted her head. “My, my, isn’t it a lovely party? The duke and duchess have certainly put on a show tonight, haven’t they?” She threaded her arm through the woman’s. “I’m parched, aren’t you? Let’s see if we can find some punch.” Though the woman resisted at first, and her father harrumphed, there was little they could do without causing a scene.

  She led the woman back to the refreshment room and left her at the punch table, accepting a cup from a footman and staring around, bewildered.

  A masculine hand drifted down Charlotte’s arm all the way to her fingers, clasping hers, and when the fingers squeezed, she looked up into the black velvet mask that surrounded gray-blue eyes.

  “My dance, Your Grace?”

  She recognized him in an instant. Without a word, he drew her to the ballroom, where a waltz was just beginning. Her father forgotten, she went into Marcus’s embrace, so much more at ease than the first time she had danced with him, so much more confident, both in herself and in him.

  He swung her to the music, and she didn’t have to concentrate on the steps. Instead she looked into his eyes, realizing in a flash that her “maybe someday” had arrived.

  She had hoped that maybe someday she would come to have more than a passing affection for the man she had married. Maybe someday she would even approach love. But love had arrived. He did not have to try to woo and win her heart, because he already had it. Somewhere between their first hand of whist and this waltz, she had given it to him freely and fully. Marcus had chosen her as his bride, had not tried to change her into something of which society would approve, had encouraged her to read and think and do unconventional things. He knew of her sister. He knew and approved of her desire to rescue women from prostitution. He knew, and he respected her.

  On top of all that, he had the ability to melt her very bones with one caress, one look … the way he was looking at her now …

  How could she not love this man? If she had filled out a checklist for God, she could not have assembled a more perfect gift of a husband. Gratitude filled her heart.

  He drew her closer, whispering in her ear, and she closed her eyes. “You look beautiful tonight. Then again, I think you always look beautiful. I’ve thought it since the first night I met you.” His voice was low and husky, brushing across her skin, calling up a memory …

  Her eyes popped open, and she stiffened. “What did you say?” The memory jangled in the back of her mind. The darkness, a concealed face, being told by a man for the first time that she was beautiful.

  It couldn’t be. It was absurd.

  Bits of information coalesced and formed into a theory. A theory she tried to thrust from her mind.

  He could throw a knife. She’d witnessed it herself in this very house.

  He was absent at odd hours.

  He kept his comings and goings secret.

  No. She didn’t believe it.

  A smile teased his lips, though his eyes narrowed behind the black velvet. “I said you are beautiful. Why are you so surprised? I’ve called you beautiful before.”

  Her footsteps faltered, and her hand went limp in his. Could it possibly be? And if it was, what did it mean?

  “Hawk.” She knew the moment she said the name aloud that it was true, and he understood that she knew.

  Her husband had been leading a duplicitous life.

  She knew. In one instant, his worlds collided.

  The light faded from her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. Then she stiffened and jerked out of his embrace. Another couple bumped into them, and he reached to steady Charlotte. She reacted as if his touch burned her.

  “Don’t.” Her fierce whisper cut the air and went straight to his chest. Turning on her heel, she walked away, threading a path through the guests.

  Marcus stood rooted to the spot for a moment. Then he headed after her. Could he remedy this? What explanation could he give that wouldn’t compromise his mission as an agent for the Crown? What could he tell her that she would believe?

  He could deny everything. He could lie to her. Tell her she was mistaken, and what had she been doing running about London in the middle of the night and putting herself in a position to need rescue by a stranger? Turn it back on her.

  No. He couldn’t lie. He wouldn’t. Try as he had to keep the truth concealed, to keep his life neatly separated, if one of his carefully constructed walls had come down, he wouldn’t try to rebuild it with falsehoods.

  She hurried down the stairs, her dress trailing on the treads, and he knew where she was headed.

  His sanctum.

  Hers now too, it appeared. He caught up with her just as she was closing the door, and he pressed his hand flat on the panel to prevent it.

  “Leave me alone.” She shoved, but he was too strong, and she gave a cry of exasperation, backing away. “You lied to me.” With an angry jerk, she wrenched the ties holding her mask, loosening several of her pinned curls in the process. Flinging the green-and-gold mask at him, she whirled away, clenching her hands at her waist and staring at the bookshelves.

  He caught the mask as it whacked him in the chest. “I didn’t, you know. I never actually lied to you.”

  “Don’t parse words with me. There is such a thing as a lie of omission. You concealed your identity that night in St. Giles. And you’ve been doing the same ever since. You knew who I was, and you never said a word.” Her voice was thick with tears, and each word hit him like a hammer blow. Charlotte never cried. “But you’ve been leading a double life the entire time, skulking out of the house to do who knows what. Just like my father—” Her voice broke, and she swiped angrily at her cheeks before moving to stare out the window into the dark night. Faint gaslight from the pole on the corner illuminated her face.

  Marcus took a deep breath, calming his racing heart. “Charlotte, are you going to allow me to explain?”

  “What possible explanation could there be? You don a disguise and leave the house for hours at a time, disappearing without ever saying where you’re going or when you’ll be back. Like my father, you behave as if a wife has no right to know what goes on in her husband’s life. My mother warned me to expect this. That all men strayed, keeping secrets, putting their wives in a box of ignorance and expecting them to be content. But I thought you were different. Honorable. What a fool I was.”

  A straight shot of a gall couldn’t have been more bitter than her words.

  He tossed her mask on the desk as he rounded it. Standing beside her, he cupped her shoulders, gently turning her to face him. Slowly he pulled the ribbon holding his own mask in place. “Are you finished?”

  She glared up at him, lashes wet, eyes blazing in the faint light. “What else is there for me to say? I should have known better. God doesn’t give someone like me good gifts. I thought I had finally received His best when I married you, but it’s all been a lie. You are not who you say you are, and I am left the last one to know.”

  “Stop it.” He gripped her shoulders. “You’ve had your say, and now I’m going to have mine. You’re right. I did keep the truth from you, but not through some sinister attempt to hide a mistress or a penchant for chicanery. I have been and always will be faithful to the vows I spoke.” He wanted to hug her, to apologize for the hurt he’d caused, to kiss away the anguish in her eyes, but he must get the words out first.

  He drew her to the desk chair, seated her, and knelt before her, taking her limp hands into his. He had never imagined himself kneeling in contrition before a woman, but he was contrite. Not at what he had concealed but that she had been hurt by the revelation.

  Now, where to begin?

  “You were clever to tumble to it. I am Marcus, the Duke of Haverly,
and I am also the man you met that night in St. Giles, Hawk. But I don’t don that persona in order to conceal a mistress.” He squeezed her fingers, but she didn’t return the gesture.

  “Why should I believe you? You’ve been lying to me for weeks.” The anguish in her voice was like a punch to the heart. “I … I cared about you.” The words ripped from her throat, and the worst was, she used past tense. Did that mean she had cared once and no longer did?

  “Charlotte, the truth is, I am an agent for the Crown, a spy, if you will.” He’d never said the words aloud in this house, and even now, he whispered. “Hawk is my code name, and I was in that tavern in St. Giles that night to meet with an informant.”

  She lifted her chin, giving him an “is that the best you can come up with?” look.

  He leaned close, praying she would understand and believe him. “I’ve been employed by the War Department and the Intelligence Service since I was a first-year student at Oxford.” How much should he tell her? How much was safe for her to know? How much could he say and not betray the oath he’d taken along with the job of agent?

  She studied their hands in her lap, silent for a long time. “If that’s true, why didn’t you tell me? Didn’t you think I should know? Or did you think I couldn’t be trusted?”

  He sighed. “Surely you can understand why I didn’t talk about it. What kind of secret agent would I be if I advertised? My mother doesn’t know. My father and brother never knew, nor even suspected. No one in society knows, with the exception of my immediate supervisor. Not even Whitelock knows.”

  The hard set of her shoulders eased, and he saw her turning things over in her mind. The next few moments would be critical.

  “Were you ever going to tell me?”

  He closed his eyes, praying for understanding but determined to tell the truth. “Charlotte, my dear, for right or wrong, no. I never planned to tell you. I intended to shield you from both the knowledge and the danger that comes with knowing. You’ve heard my views. I like to keep things tidy, compartmentalized, if you will. My private life, my public life, and my secret life all should stay in their own boxes.” He eased her closer, grateful when she didn’t object. Her face was just inches away, and he longed to draw her into his arms. “I will admit, I was a fool to think that having a wife wouldn’t change anything. My boss tried to tell me. Whitelock tried to tell me. But I wouldn’t listen. I was afraid that if I let a wife get too close, it would divert my focus and possibly endanger me while I was working. I thought if I gave away my heart to a woman, it would make me weak and ineffective.”

  He wanted to stop, to not reveal too much, but he needed her to understand his ratiocinations on the matter. “I saw it so many times on the battlefield. Men whose hearts were still at home, pining for a wife or fiancée. They weren’t committed and vigilant, and for many it cost them their lives. I vowed then that if I should ever marry, I would keep the parts of my life separate. I would be more disciplined.”

  This time she met his gaze, the hurt blazing in her beautiful green eyes. “You’ve succeeded. You’ve kept your heart thoroughly disciplined, haven’t you? You’ve kept me in the dark. You never intended to tell me who you really were. If I hadn’t guessed, I’d still be unaware. What is it they say? Ignorance is bliss? Perhaps it is. I was certainly blissful before I found out, thinking we were building on a firm foundation of trust.”

  The sorrow in her voice pierced him, but what else could he have done? He had sworn an oath. Telling all and sundry put not just his life but the lives of others in jeopardy. And he had a job to do. There was an assassin to find.

  This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to mix business and pleasure.

  She rose, forcing him to scoot back as she put the desk between them.

  “You’ve stated your position and made mine in your life clear. You want a placeholder, someone to host your parties and protect you from undue attention, but not someone who interferes in your important business. Not someone to trust with your secrets. I understand now. And I will keep to your wishes. But you will also keep to mine. I need some time to adjust to my new circumstances. Therefore I ask that you leave me alone—day and night. Compartmentalized, just as you want.”

  His heart turned to lead, heavy in his breast. He missed her already. “For how long?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t think straight right now. Perhaps having involved my emotions and made the foolish mistake of falling in love with my husband has caused me to lose focus, like one of those soldiers of whom you spoke. All I know is that I need time. Please give my regrets to our guests. Tell them I was not feeling well and have retired for the evening.”

  She went out the door, and he let her, stunned into immobility.

  She had fallen in love with him?

  He had no time to process this possibility, because the door opened again. His pulse leapt. Had she come back?

  Sir Noel entered, closing the door behind him. Marcus tried not to let his disappointment show.

  “Sorry to crash in uninvited to the party, but this can’t wait.” He was already digging for his pipe, pacing before the cold fireplace. He still wore his cloak and hat, and Marcus dragged his mind away from his wife and tried to focus. Clearly something momentous was afoot.

  “We’re close, Marcus. So very close.” He clamped hard on the bit of his pipe. “You’ll need your cloak. Partridge sent word that he’s found your missing informant. He’s watching the man’s hiding place now to see he doesn’t get away, but he sent a cabbie with a note for me to bring you at once.”

  “Partridge found him?” Instantly alert, Marcus pushed the chair out of the way and rounded the desk. Coyne, the elusive informant who had missed his last several check-ins. Coyne, who was a clerk on the London Stock Exchange.

  “Yes, and we must hurry.”

  Marcus had his hand on the doorknob, when he remembered. He was in evening dress, and he had a houseful of guests. His wife had retired to her room, feeling betrayed, and they were moments from the masquerade reveal up in the ballroom.

  “Come along. There’s no time to waste.” Sir Noel nudged his shoulder from behind.

  Marcus opened the door, calling to the footman in the entryway to fetch his cloak and to take a message to his mother to step in as hostess for the rest of the night.

  As he swirled the cloak around him, he glanced up the stairs one last time. Should he run up and at least tell Charlotte where he was going? Explain his absence?

  “Come, man. What are you waiting for? This is the breakthrough we’ve been searching for. I can feel it.”

  At Sir Noel’s urging, Marcus headed out into the night. But while his mind raced ahead to the interrogation of his informant, his heart was somehow abovestairs with his wife.

  CHAPTER 14

  AS THE MORNING light drifted through the curtains, Charlotte studied the shadows under her eyes, checking her appearance one last time before heading down to the breakfast room to brave her guests one last time.

  Marcus had left the house last night and hadn’t yet returned. His valet had delivered the news to her lady’s maid when asked, the servants keeping their countenances carefully neutral, though their thoughts must be spinning. So the master had been gone all night, and the mistress didn’t know where he’d gone. The entire staff would know of the absence soon.

  Speculation would be rife. Did the rest of the guests know? Were they wondering about it even now?

  Marcus had taken off one mask and put on another, slipping out without a care to the hurt and responsibilities he’d left behind. And she was supposed to carry on as if nothing unusual was afoot. Just like her mother had for so many years when her husband was busy breaking faith with her.

  She pinched her cheeks, trying to add some color. It was early to host a breakfast after such a late night, but it was also Sunday morning, and the last event of the weeklong house party was to attend church together. How many of the guests would join her for the Palm Sunday s
ervices?

  At the last moment, she picked up the emerald locket and fastened it around her neck. The piece brought her pleasure, made her think of happy times, and gave her a bit of courage. And she needed courage to face anyone this morning, feeling as raw and bewildered and betrayed as she did.

  Not even a long, sleepless night had sorted out her feelings. All she knew was that she had fallen in love with someone who neither wanted nor needed her love. Someone who thought love weakened and even endangered him.

  Breakfast was being served in the dining room to accommodate the twenty houseguests who had stayed all week, and before she reached that opulent room, she heard voices, cutlery, and china. She squared her shoulders. As a hostess, she had failed in her duties last night by escaping to her room to nurse her heartache, and now she must front up.

  Heads turned and voices stilled as she entered, and her smile felt brittle.

  “Good morning, my dear. I hope you are feeling better?”

  Charlotte blinked. The question, so kindly framed, had come from the dowager.

  “Yes, madam. Thank you.”

  “Such a shame you took ill last night. You missed a wonderful reveal, didn’t she, Verona?” The dowager looked to Charlotte’s mother, who nodded.

  “You probably heard the laughter as we all took off our masks and realized who was which.” Mrs. Bosworth chuckled, sending a knowing look around the table. “It was one of the most enjoyable parties I’ve attended in a long time. Such a shame you had to retire early.”

  “Do sit here, Charlotte, and we’ll tell you all about it.” The dowager actually motioned to the chair next to her, her face alight. What had happened to change her so? Or was she putting on good manners for the sake of their guests?

  “Perhaps you should just have tea and toast, my dear? You wouldn’t want to upset yourself when you haven’t been feeling well.” She actually patted Charlotte’s hand and looked knowingly at Charlotte’s mother. “Mornings can be especially difficult.”