Checkmate, My Lord

by Tracey Devlyn

  He couldn’t remember the last time he had gone against his better judgment, or the last time a woman had compelled him to lose control. Both situations would normally cause him to pause, to step away and not look back. Maintaining control kept those around him safe.

  But he couldn’t turn away. His attraction to the widow was tangible and invigorating. Could he do it? Could he pretend to live a normal life in Showbury? For a few short days?

  He had to try. For a period of time, he wanted to submerse himself in raw, unadulterated pleasure. Then, and only then, would he go back to his cold, passionless existence. If he did not seize this rare opportunity, he would regret it always. And he was damned tired of regrets. He would deal with the guilt later.

  “Should I apologize?” he asked.

  She sent him a sad smile. “No more so than I, my lord.”

  “Good,” he said. “Because I’m not sure I could have managed any real sincerity.”

  “You do not mince words, do you?”

  “On the contrary,” he said. “I have done so on many occasions, but with you I do not think it necessary. Or was I wrong?”

  “No.”

  Her quiet confirmation seared his blood. “I have need of your services, after all.”

  “E-excuse me?”

  “Thanks to Mr. Blake, my tenants have become rather suspicious of my commitment.”

  “In time, they will see the truth of the matter.”

  “I agree,” he said. “With your help.”

  “Rest assured,” she said, “I will do what I can to spread the word of your steward’s perfidy. A casual word in Mrs. Walker’s ear should set things into motion.”

  “If you are willing, I should like more from you than a whispered word to Showbury’s most dedicated gossip.”

  Pink crept into her cheeks, and her lips thinned. “I’m not sure what else I can offer, my lord. You were not interested in my knowledge of the local craftsmen.”

  He slid the letters into an inner pocket of his coat. Using the back of his forefinger, he caressed the line of her jaw. “That was not a lack of interest you witnessed.”

  The color in her cheeks deepened, and her uneven breaths peppered his wrist. “What was it, then?”

  “Pride.” A sin in which he had an overabundance.

  “Pride?”

  He removed his hand. “Yes.” The admission was not an easy one, nor was his motive for revealing his secret. “I did not think I needed your help. However, my tenants have shown me the error in my logic.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Everyone I spoke to yesterday was rather content to continue working with you.”

  She frowned. “You must be mistaken.”

  “I am not.” He canted his head to the side. “I’m interested in learning why you think so, though.”

  “It’s of no importance.” She waved his comment aside. “You would have me act as your steward?”

  “Only until I hire a replacement,” he said. “If you are willing, I could use your help in creating a schedule of repairs.”

  Her eyes brightened at the suggestion, and Sebastian was struck again by her conventional beauty. Beauty that became less common every time he spoke to her.

  “Of course,” she said. “But what of Grayson?”

  “He has offered his assistance, should you need it.”

  “You do not wish him to take on the responsibility?”

  “No,” he said. “I already gave Grayson the short list of repairs you provided. He’s content to assist rather than direct.”

  She considered him for a moment. “You appear quite capable of organizing the tenants’ complaints yourself.”

  “Capable, yes. Willing, no.” His callous answer caused her eyes to narrow. “I have other issues requiring my attention while in Showbury.”

  Her gaze dulled, and Sebastian wondered at its source.

  “When might you begin preparing a schedule?” he asked.

  “I’ll start on it tonight.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said. “The less time I spend on the schedule, the faster the repairs can commence.”

  Again, her thoughtfulness had a warming effect on his starving emotions. Gratitude manifested into a ball of heat; heat spiraled into desire. Of its own accord, his voice dropped. “Are you an early riser, Mrs. Ashcroft?”

  Her feminine instincts could not miss the latent need underlining his words. Instead of retreating, she met his challenge. Her gaze dipped to his lips. “Generally, my lord.”

  An image of her lithe body, aching for release and tangled in his sheets, flashed before his eyes, sharp and clear. His cock hardened, pulsed with near painful intensity.

  A whoop of girlish laughter outside penetrated the intimate confines of the library. Familiar reality iced his heated blood. His spine straightened. “I’ll send my carriage around to collect you at nine, then. You can show me what you have over breakfast.”

  Her perceptive gaze flicked to the window, to where her daughter chased something too small to be seen from this distance. Sebastian watched the widow’s cautious enthusiasm for her new project leech away. The upturned crinkles around her eyes fell into joyless slants and her lips thinned into a line of resignation.

  “No need to bother your staff, sir. As I mentioned before, my horse knows the way, as do my feet.”

  “Very well.” He bowed a farewell. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Ashcroft? I really must be going.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She guided him through the house, out the front door, and then stopped to await his approaching carriage. A heavy silence hovered between them as they watched his restless team of horses advance. The black geldings tossed back their sleek heads and dug their massive hooves into the ground until his driver Miggs drew them to a halt a short distance away.

  Sebastian had an unnerving need to throw back his own head to release the tension thrumming through his body.

  “Thank you again for seeing to my daughter’s welfare,” she said. “Sophie will be retelling the tale of her rescue to the servants for days. I would not have been as successful in keeping her secret.” She glanced up at him, revealing a feminine vulnerability few men could ignore.

  As it happened, he was one of the few.

  He hadn’t earned a reputation as a cold bastard for no reason. The brutal slaying of his mentor over a decade ago served as a constant reminder of how one’s enemies will use every tool at their disposal to get what they want. Even murdering a man’s wife. And torturing a spymaster’s ward.

  “Excuse me, my lord?” A footman appeared at his side, holding out Sebastian’s hat and gloves. He welcomed the distraction and accepted the servant’s offering.

  He needed to establish a few boundaries for their new partnership, though. The last thing he wanted was her daughter skipping around Bellamere Park, getting into God knew what and reminding him of everything he had set aside for the welfare of his country.

  “Mrs. Ashcroft, it’s been a long time since I had a child in the house. I find that I work best in a less spirited atmosphere.”

  Her chin lifted a notch. “I hadn’t considered bringing my daughter along, my lord, but I thank you for the warning.”

  Her chiding retort bit into his conscience. Before he did something ridiculous like apologize or kiss her again, he tipped his hat in her direction. “Good day, madam.”

  She produced an abbreviated curtsy. “My lord.”

  Sebastian settled against the carriage bench, calling upon his notorious control not to acknowledge the intriguing widow as he rumbled by. No matter what occurred between Catherine and him, he could not allow sentiment to enter the picture.

  Because emotion was a weakness, and weakness killed loved ones.

  Nine


  August 13

  Sebastian stood at the window of the sunny breakfast room, holding a steaming cup of coffee while awaiting Catherine’s arrival. Yesterday’s kiss fired through his mind at unexpected intervals, tying his stomach into an uncomfortable mass of need.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried once again to block out the succulent aromas of sausage, bacon, and poached eggs coming from the sideboard. He tried not to recall their texture and taste, their slow glide down his throat. Because if he did, all would be lost. A floodgate would open and last night’s indulgence would push to the fore. The coffee helped a little. When the scent of food threatened to overwhelm him, he would bury his nose in the pungent steam of his morning brew.

  After forcing himself to eat a late evening meal, he had closeted himself off in the study until the wee hours of the morning. In that time, he’d added only one more name to his list of agents. His progress was slow, painful. No matter how much he reasoned this was the right course of action, each consonant and vowel ripped through him like a stab of betrayal.

  Adding each agent’s code name and current location would come next, although the thought of having such damaging information in one place nauseated him all over again. But the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to see a visual map of everyone’s whereabouts. He might be missing a potential ally or an opportunity to redirect his enemy’s efforts.

  If nothing else, he could transfer everything he knew to paper, study it, and then burn the record, rather than hand it over to Reeves. The strategy steadied his stomach, somewhat. Having an alternative plan—an escape route, of sorts—removed some of the pressure he’d been carrying around since receiving Reeves’s demand.

  A low rumbling disturbance near the entry hall caught his attention.

  “Lord Somerton can finish his damned breakfast while I speak my mind,” a man said. “Stand aside, Grayson, or I shall have to…” The intruder’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, no doubt promising all sorts of retribution.

  Sebastian’s former ward, Viscount Danforth, was a master of collecting secrets—of the personal variety. Even poor Grayson would not be immune to Ethan deBeau’s machinations.

  Taking his seat at the table, Sebastian snapped open a copy of the Times and waited for the oncoming storm. He didn’t have long to wait.

  Within seconds, heavy footsteps pounded down the corridor, and then a tall, disheveled rascal entered the breakfast room. “Somerton.”

  “Danforth.” Sebastian continued scanning the newspaper, waiting. Ethan’s restless energy reminded him of a warship’s 32-pounder long gun, with its dark, cavernous muzzle staring out a square gun port, primed and ready for ignition.

  “What brings you to Bellamere? I thought you were tracking down your mystery savior.”

  “Trail went cold,” Danforth grumbled, making himself a plate from the sideboard.

  “Your savior is going to great pains to avoid discovery.” He paused. “I wonder why.”

  He felt, more than saw, Danforth’s aggrieved glance. “When I find the hooded bastard, I’ll be sure to pose your question.” His plate clattered against the table. “How are you doing?”

  Sebastian raised a brow. “Well enough. And you?”

  “I spent four and a half hours in Superintendent Reeves’s office, answering questions about our last mission.” Danforth leveled his gaze on Sebastian. “He was inordinately interested in your role.”

  Sebastian settled back in his chair, projecting a calm he did not feel. “We discussed this in London. I’m here so the Foreign Office can conduct a thorough investigation into the matter without my interference.” He rubbed his fingertips over the newspaper. “Latymer’s scheming ran deep in the organization. Reeves is no doubt wondering why I did not detect the man’s treachery. I certainly would in his shoes.” The question of why he hadn’t discerned Latymer’s double spying had weighed on his thoughts since the day they discovered Danforth’s sister, Cora—also known as the Raven—in the man’s cellar.

  “That’s all well and good,” Danforth said. “But I’ve already given them an accounting of those events. To have to relive it a second time was not how I had hoped to spend yesterday afternoon.”

  “No, I suspect not,” he said. “Did you come here only to inform me of your deposition?”

  “No,” he said. “Helsford’s busy with the Littleton case. So Cora asked me to retrieve Ashcroft’s remaining letters. Did the widow hand them over?”

  “Yes, four more.”

  “All is well in that regard, I take it.”

  “She is nothing more than a wife trying to make sense of a heinous crime,” Sebastian said. “I detect no ill intent.”

  “Finally a piece of good news.”

  “Where’s Cora?”

  “With Helsford, of course.” The viscount lifted a fork full of sausage to his mouth, pausing. “After surviving their recent nightmare, I doubt Helsford’s going to allow my sister to stray more than a dozen feet from his side ever again.”

  Not that anyone could prevent Cora from doing anything she set her mind to. However, they had all underestimated her gaoler. A condition Sebastian had no desire to repeat. “A day or two more, and I would have delivered the letters myself,” Sebastian said. “There was no reason to make a special trip.”

  “That’s what I said, but my sister had other ideas.”

  “Falling into bad habits again?”

  “Cora’s been through so much,” Danforth muttered. “Directing me and Helsford around takes her mind off other things.”

  Like being tortured for a fortnight. Sebastian pushed the thought away. He had already spent hours punishing himself. Right now, he needed to focus on the restless man in front of him.

  “Helsford asked me to deliver this.” He tossed a sealed missive onto the table. “So I can’t blame my presence entirely on Cora.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Although it’s a great deal more fun making the runt take responsibility.”

  Sebastian smiled, his gaze sliding over the nondescript black seal. It was good to hear Danforth’s aggrieved tone. He knew when Ethan and Cora were forecasting doom upon one another that the world had somehow righted itself.

  No matter how hard he’d tried to keep an emotional distance between him and his two former wards, they paid no attention. They did not fear his quelling looks or stony silence, nor his sharp rebukes. That was not to say they didn’t respect him, or give him a wide berth at times. They simply kept coming around, invading his home at unexpected times—like now—and spoke to him as they would any intimate colleague. It was maddening and, if he were honest, comforting.

  “Danforth,” Sebastian said, “there is no need for you to stay. I have a few ends to tie up here over the next sennight and then I’ll be returning to London.”

  “What of the Foreign Office’s investigation?”

  “What of it?” he asked. “I’ve nothing to hide. It’s my agents’ identities I’m most concerned about, but I’m starting to question my decision on that score.”

  A stunned expression crossed Danforth’s face. “You can’t allow them access to our identities, Chief.” The viscount reverted to the form of address most of the Nexus agents used. “It would make us all vulnerable.”

  “Yes,” Sebastian agreed. “But it might be even more dangerous to have all the knowledge stored in one man’s memory.”

  Danforth’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  “That’s a naive perspective, Danforth, and you know it.”

  The younger man stared down at his plate, his hands gripping his utensils with bruising force. “Everything is changing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t bloody like it.”

  “Few of us do.”

  The viscount crammed half a piece of toast into his mouth, chewing with such vigor tha
t Sebastian was certain the man’s jaw would ache later.

  “What now, sir?”

  Sebastian toyed with the stem of his glass. “Return to London and continue to keep an eye on Reeves. Let me know if you perceive a significant shift in the superintendent’s intentions.” He dropped the sealed missive on the table. “I have the letters for Helsford, too.”

  The tension visibly eased from Danforth’s shoulders. “Consider it done, Chief.” He began stuffing his mouth full of Cook’s famous hot cakes.

  “Pardon, my lord,” Grayson said from the breakfast room doorway. “Mrs. Ashcroft has arrived.”

  Danforth slowly transferred his attention from the hot cakes to Grayson, a rogue’s grin spreading across his handsome face.

  Sebastian’s muscles stiffened at the sight, and he fought to keep his features neutral. “Behave.”

  The bastard’s smile grew brighter.

  “Grayson, show her into the study. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  The butler bowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Having breakfast with Ashcroft’s widow,” Danforth said. “No wonder you wanted me to rush back to London.” His expression turned serious. “Have you told her yet?”

  Sliding back his chair, Sebastian said, “Concentrate on Reeves and Ashcroft’s messages. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” the viscount said, rising.

  “Godspeed, Danforth.”

  Danforth’s brows rose. “At least introduce me.”

  “No.” Sebastian set off for his study, his pulse picking up speed with every step. “Go away.”

  “Come now, Chief,” Danforth said. “Not even a quick hello?”

  Sebastian grasped the study’s door handle. “There would be nothing quick about your greeting. Now, off with you.” He opened the door, saw the widow leaning against the far side of his desk, and felt a frisson of warmth settle into his chest.