He said nothing, merely waited for her to go on.
“All I knew was that your Home Office work stood between us. Like a child, I only thought of myself and what I wanted. I wanted you to stop.”
“Understandable. Louisa, really, you don’t have to—”
She held up a hand. “Don’t interrupt me, Jardine. You know how I hate to be wrong, so let me get this over with.”
She snagged her underlip between her teeth, then released it. “I know now that your work is important and worthy of respect, that you have killed, but it wasn’t easy and never cold-blooded.”
She paused. “I know you didn’t murder that boy. I knew it in my heart at the time, but I was so furious and hurt that you continued to choose this life over me . . . Everything became hopelessly tangled.”
She raised her eyes to his. “I won’t be so selfish again. Let me share your life in any small part I can. You need to do this work, I understand that. I won’t stand in your way if only you will let me in.”
Jardine took an unsteady breath. He’d never even registered the shame he’d felt at her accusations until now, when it lifted. “It means a lot to me to hear you say that.”
He reached out and took her face in his hands. “I love you. My only thought in holding you at arm’s length all this time was to shield you from that side of my life.”
Her eyes softened, pleaded. “Don’t shield me. Love me, and let the rest fall as it may.” She took a shuddering breath and it caught on a sob. “Don’t send me away again.”
“My dear Lady Jardine.” He gathered her into his arms. “You are not going anywhere.”
He kissed her, and it was as if a world that had been careering beyond his control for eight years suddenly righted itself. He would spend the rest of his life loving Louisa, aye, and protecting her, too.
There was just one thing he needed to do first.
Twenty-six
THE notice was brief, barely a paragraph, but it could have been a hand grenade exploding in Almack’s for the stir it would create.
The Marquis of Jardine and his wife, formerly Lady Louisa Brooke, announce the resumption of their marriage. They will be at home to no one for the foreseeable future.
Louisa laughed as she walked in to Jardine’s study with the Gazette in her hand. “That will set chins wagging.”
“Yes, but we won’t be in town for some time yet.”
“They will all come here and plague us. Mama was agog.”
His impossible brows twitched together. “She’s not coming here, is she?”
“No, she’s staying in Paris for a month or two yet, never fear.”
Louisa rested her hip on his desk and gazed out with bottomless satisfaction at the park beyond the long windows. She belonged here, with Jardine, at Claybourne Abbey.
At last, at last, she was home.
Jardine had been sifting through files and papers as she came in. Louisa turned to him. “Anything yet?”
“The evidence is mounting.” He sat back and pushed his hands through his hair. He’d allowed his black locks to grow a little longer, the way she liked. At the moment, they were irresistibly disheveled, and the need to run her own fingers through their thick softness gripped her.
Would she ever grow tired of touching him?
Jardine met her gaze, and his eyes darkened with answering heat. He pushed his work aside.
“Come here,” he said softly.
And she went.
ONLY a select few were invited to attend the Marquis of Jardine’s study in his Mayfair house one cold autumn day.
Max, Duke of Lyle, had traveled up from his country estate, quarreling with his heavily pregnant wife all the way. Kate had refused to miss whatever treachery was afoot. Louisa knew her friend would dance with joy to see Faulkner get his comeuppance. She hoped all would go to plan.
Harriet Burton was there, looking pale and composed. She wore a high-necked gown, presumably to cover the scarring that marked her décolletage.
Louisa sat with her, talking quietly. She’d placed Harriet in the care of a competent nurse and no longer feared for her health. But while her physical recovery was complete, Harriet’s heart and mind were different matters.
“Tell me again how Radleigh looked when you shot him,” Harriet whispered, with relish.
Louisa pretended not to hear.
Jardine conferred in low murmurs with Lord Nicholas Morrow. Nick had become some sort of aide-de-camp to him recently, ferrying documents and files back and forth.
On her own account, Louisa would be glad to leave all that subterfuge and danger behind. She was no Harriet Burton, and the small life that might even now grow in her womb deserved every protection she could give. The faint, wistful yearning for complete contentment was one she resolutely pushed aside. Not even for a child could she demand that Jardine turn his back on his duty.
The butler ushered two more men into the room. Sir Henry Frampton, Secretary to the Home Secretary, and Faulkner.
Louisa rose and forced herself to be civil as they exchanged greetings. “Won’t you sit down, gentlemen?”
“What’s all this about?” Faulkner bristled with impatience. “You told me you wanted to see me alone, Jardine.”
There was a pause before Jardine answered. He nodded to Nick, who took a seat at his right hand. Then he said, “As to that, there’ve been . . . developments. I’m sure Sir Henry will forgive the liberty, but I’ve invited various interested parties here to witness what I’m about to say.”
He placed his fingertips on the desk, on either side of the files in front of him. “The work we do in secret is sometimes dangerous, often dirty, but most of the time, it involves sheer, intellectual drudgery: painstakingly piecing the puzzle together, sifting through information until we find a vital fragment of intelligence that fits with something else.”
From the corner of her eye, Louisa saw Faulkner’s hand clench.
With his gaze fixed on Faulkner, Jardine lifted a thick file and let it fall back on the desk. “Reports from operatives, dossiers on important figures, and expert assessments on everything from the possibility of foreign invasion to civil unrest within the country.”
He flicked a glance at the head of operations. “You know all about civil unrest in this country, don’t you, Faulkner?”
“Get to the point, will you?” Faulkner barked.
Jardine stared at the man for a moment, then shook his head. “How you will wish you hadn’t rushed upon your fate. My point? Ah yes. My point is that above all else, the single most important quality I bring to the service is the kind of brain that retains facts and makes connections.”
He tapped the file with a fingertip. “When you drew Lady Louisa into your scheme to retrieve a certain document from one Duncan Radleigh, I was stunned. But your explanation for her involvement seemed plausible enough.” He gave a short laugh. “I admit, I was a dupe. You wove an elaborate scheme to bring the two of us to Smith. Handed us to him on a platter, didn’t you? Did Radleigh go along with your plan or was he, also, a dupe?”
Faulkner rose. “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this. You’re mad, Jardine! What’s more, you’re divulging secret intelligence to civilians. I’ll have your head on a platter for this.”
Jardine’s face darkened. “Sit down. The only reason you are still alive is that I have respect for the office you so tenuously hold.”
Sir Henry’s shrewd eyes narrowed. He leaned forward in his chair. “What is this, Jardine?”
Jardine walked around his desk and handed Sir Henry the file. “This is all the evidence you need to arrest and convict Mr. Faulkner here for treason and corruption of the highest order.”
Louisa, watching Faulkner quite openly now, saw that he’d lost a little of his bluster. His sangfroid didn’t waver, however. He sat grimly silent, turning his heavy gold signet ring around his finger.
Sir Henry bent his gaze to the pages in front of him and read. The quiet stretched, punct
uated only by the occasional crinkle of a turning page.
Louisa’s nerves drew taut. Her heart pounded. She could only imagine how Faulkner, in his guilt, must feel.
Finally, Sir Henry sat back, pale and grim. “This is appalling. This file alone could bring down the government. Collusion with a known head of organized crime over decades . . . Betraying your colleagues to keep your nefarious activities quiet. It beggars belief!”
He glared at Faulkner under shaggy brows. “For an intelligent man, you’ve dug yourself a very deep hole.”
Faulkner rumbled. “I don’t know what is in that file, but I can assure you, sir, it’s a pack of lies. Fabricated by an embittered, washed-up operative who should get out of the game before he embarrasses more than himself with these trumped-up charges.”
Jardine stared at Faulkner for a long moment. Then he said, “I thought you’d say something like that.” He nodded to Nick, who now lounged at the doorway. “Bring him in.”
“Is there no end to this charade?” Faulkner wondered aloud. “Really, I don’t have time for th—”
He broke off when he saw who stood, manacled, between two burly militia guards.
“Hello, Faulkner.” Elias Smith grinned.
Faulkner’s face paled to ash. Satisfied, Jardine gave the nod and the guards muscled Smith away.
“The betrayer betrayed,” said Jardine softly.
Perfect. Utterly perfect. Louisa’s fingertips lightly touched the scar on her face. Operatives dead, missions compromised, evil allowed free rein. She looked around and saw her satisfaction reflected in the faces of their guests. Almost everyone in this room had a score to settle against Faulkner.
“Now,” Harriet whispered, her small fist clenched.
Suddenly, Faulkner raised the back of his hand to his lips and sucked on his gold ring.
“Prussic acid,” murmured Harriet. “Fast acting. Very tidy. Painful, messy, but no more than he deserves, the filthy traitor.” She rose quickly, placing her hand on Louisa’s arm. “Come, Louisa. You won’t want to watch this.”
Louisa half rose, then stared in horror as Faulkner toppled from his chair, convulsing and gasping, writhing as if he were having a fit.
“Someone do something!” She started toward him. “Help him, for God’s sake!”
Max stood and brought Kate to her feet. “There’s nothing we can do, Louisa. He’ll be dead in less than a minute.” He slid an arm around his wife’s waist and together, they left the room.
The others were filing out also. Louisa stood there, helpless, as foam spilled from Faulkner’s horribly grimacing mouth. She looked to Jardine. He must have foreseen this result, surely?
Jardine was pale, his dark eyes glittering like jet. “He’s a traitor, Louisa, and you know the penalty for treason. It’s a better death than he deserves. I could have thrown him to the wolves, but I let him go in his own way.” Jardine curled his lip. “For once, he did the decent thing.”
Shuddering, she nodded. He was right. She hated it, but he was right.
Jardine gathered up his papers. “Sir Henry, if you’ll come this way, I believe we have matters to discuss.”
He looked down as Faulkner’s convulsions finally came to a halt, then glanced at his butler, who stood waiting at the door. “There you are, Emerson,” he said calmly. “Have someone clean up this mess.”
LOUISA lay in Jardine’s arms, quiet and sated—for the moment at least. The novelty, the sheer luxury of being with him every day was one she’d treasure as long as it lasted. Soon, he must resume his dangerous calling.
She splayed her hand against his bare chest, felt the reassuring beat of his heart. “When will you go back?”
He sucked in a long breath. “Tomorrow. I’m needed.” He glanced down at her obliquely. “Do you mind?”
Swallowing past a lump of apprehension in her throat, Louisa did as soldiers’ wives do everywhere and shook her head, lifted her chin, and smiled.
A gleam stole into his eyes. “You don’t want to come with me? We need people like you.”
She shivered. “No, thank you!” Her recent experience had been hair-raising enough to last a lifetime.
Hesitating, she licked her lips. “Jardine?”
“Yes, my love?” He knew how she adored hearing him call her that. His thick black lashes lowered as he drew her palm to his lips for a kiss.
She caught her breath. “Don’t you dare die.”
Jardine grinned. He stretched, his lean muscles flexing as he put an arm around her and hugged her close. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.”
She touched his chest again with her fingertips, traced a pattern among the scattering of black hair there. “Don’t joke about it, Jardine. I think if you’re going to risk your life every day, we ought to talk of it seriously, just this once.”
“But I’m not risking my life. It’s a boring desk job—”
“Oh, tell that to the cat!” Fury shot through her. “After all I’ve been through, I deserve the truth, Jardine!”
He laughed. He actually laughed, and it was the most carefree, joyous sound she’d ever heard from him.
He hauled her into his arms and flipped so that she was beneath him, pinning her to the bed with his hips.
“Jardine!”
He kissed her ear, then took the lobe between his teeth.
“Stop. No. Ohhh.” He pressed his lips, warm and soft, to her throat.
His mouth moved lower, igniting fires that danced and flared beneath her skin.
“You’re trying to distract me.”
“Mm. Is it working?” He gave her nipple a generous lick and ecstasy speared through her body.
Summoning all her willpower, she reached down to clamp her hands around his upper arms and tugged. He was impossible to move.
“Come up here,” she commanded.
He swirled his tongue around her navel. “No, I rather like the view I’m getting from this angle.”
“Jardine!”
He sighed, crawling up, looming over her body like a predator. He looked into her eyes. “Sir Henry has asked me to take over Faulkner’s job. I’ve accepted.”
She frowned. “You mean it really is a desk job? No time in the field?”
“Exactly.”
The flood of relief and joy in her heart must have shown in her face, because he laughed again.
In a moment, his laughter died and the light in his eyes warmed. “You would have borne it, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t have stopped me going back.”
“The work you do is necessary,” she said. “I would have borne it. I would have been miserable, but I would have borne it for you.”
“I wish I could be so magnanimous, but let me tell you that I’d have you manacled to this bed rather than allow you to go back into the field, my lady.”
She smiled up at him. “I don’t want to go back to the field.”
“In my capacity as head of operations, I regret the loss of a damned good operative. As your husband, I can only applaud your excellent sense.”
She sighed. “All I’ve ever wanted was to make a home, a family, with you. However,” she added, twining her arms around his neck, “I will, on occasion, give you the benefit of my advice. . . .”
He smiled as she brought him down to her. “You’re a formidable woman, Lady Jardine.”
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Damsel in Disguise
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JULIA St. Clement had never tried to eat soup through a mustache before. It was dashed difficult, she found. No wonder the awful embellishment had gone out of favor with modern men. Three days now she’d hidden behind the blasted thing, and already she felt weak and malnourished from struggling to strain any decent sustenance through it. Why ever had she let Papa talk her into this dreadful disguise?
Because she’d had no other choice—that wa
s why. Papa had whacked off her long dark hair, fashioned a sorry little mustache from a lock of it, and threw a pack of clothing at her.
“Change quickly, ma chérie!” he’d ordered. “Fitzgelder will know my face, but he’s not seen you before. With this, he’ll never suspect who you are.”
And it was true. The man they both feared—for good reason—had been completely deceived. He’d not caught a glimpse of Papa, and Julia had faced Fitzgelder alone. She was properly introduced as Mr. Alexander Clemmons, and the foul little man had no reason to guess his new friend was as much a sham as the shabby facial hair. Papa had escaped. This bloody mustache, it seemed, had saved his life.
And now, God willing, it would save a few others. Hopefully, Julia’s would be one of them. Provided, of course, she didn’t succumb to starvation first.
“You’ve got soup on your whiskers,” her pretend wife, Sophie, announced with a girlish giggle.
“Of course I do,” Julia grumbled. “I’ve got soup on my chin, soup in my cravat, soup everywhere but in my mouth. Blast this disgusting mustache!”
“But you look quite dashing, you know,” Sophie said as she daintily spooned plenty of soup safely into her own mouth. “Really, it’s a pity mustaches aren’t more the style.”
“I feel wretched, and I look worse,” Julia assured her. “It’s a monstrous thing, and Papa will never hear the end of it when we finally meet up with him again.”
“If we meet up with him,” Sophie corrected, her sweet voice quavering. “The coachman has been so slow, miss. What if Mr. Fitzgelder catches us?”
“He won’t. Surely that locket you stole from him isn’t so important he’d come chasing us all the way out here.”
“I didn’t steal it!” the girl insisted for at least the dozenth time. “When he attacked me, it must have torn off in the struggle and fallen into my apron.”
“Little that will matter to him, will it? But I doubt he’ll be looking for you, Sophie. That locket is the least of Fitzgelder’s worries just now. He’s got bigger things on his mind, I’m afraid.”
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