by Eva Devon
“I was glad to die, just to keep you safe. So that you could continue doing what you do best, for the good of England. Clarence would have been, too. Because he loved his country. And he loved you.”
Andrew framed her face with his hands, his eyes intense. “As I do.”
Her heart tripped. Had Andrew just said—
“Well.” His smile tipped in a half grin. “He loved you differently than I do, but that’s not what matters. What matters is—” Andrew dipped his mouth to hers for a kiss that melted her toes. He waited until she’d opened her eyes again to finish his thought. “—I love you, Claire. And I want you to be my wife.”
Tears sprang to her eyes once more. Goodness, when had she become such a watering pot?
Andrew was asking her to be his wife.
Did it matter anymore that his proposal was six years late? They’d been so young then. They both were and were not the same people anymore. Would the Andrew of today make the same choice?
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “If I could go back in time, I would never have walked away from you. I’m so sorry.”
Claire touched his cheek. “I, too, wish that it were different, but I won’t waste another minute of my life with regrets. I love you, too.”
She turned her face to kiss his palm. Then she smiled against it. “As Clarence said, life is too precarious to live it without the one you love by your side.”
As she spoke her brother’s words aloud, any last vestiges of anger at him dissolved. Regardless of all that had happened in the past, she knew Clarence had loved her. That’s what she would choose to remember.
And that’s how she would move into the future.
“I would be honored to be your wife.”
She lifted her lips for a kiss. This was how she would choose to remember Andrew on the long nights she was alone, waiting for him to return from war. This feeling of security wrapped in the strength of his arms, the sizzle of heat wherever their skin met. As they made love in the dawning hours of the morning, Claire did her best to savor every touch, every sigh, every moan of pleasure. And she tried not to think of the coming day, and how it would take him away from her for God knew how long.
But as they lay in one another’s arms after, she couldn’t put off the question any longer.
“When do you leave for France?”
Andrew opened his eyes, and she tried to memorize the sleepy, sated look in them and how the green softened when he was well satisfied, too. “I don’t.”
“What?” She scrambled to a seated position, uncaring of her state of dishabille. “But you said you were to rejoin Wellington as soon as Uncle Jarvis’s murder was solved. Who will be taking word to him so that Napoleon’s and San Carlos’s couriers can be cut off?”
Andrew laughed, and rose up on one elbow. “Let’s start with the easier question. Four teams were already dispatched in the night. One to Toulouse to meet Wellington with the news and set up a net to try to catch the couriers before they leave France. One to Catalonia to spy on General Copon, who you said is to aid one of the couriers through the Peninsula when he arrives. A third to track General Palifax, who we guess took a more northerly route with his copy of the treaty. And the fourth directly to Madrid to try to head the situation off diplomatically.”
Claire blinked. “That was…quick. And thorough.”
“The War Department is taking this bit of intelligence very seriously. Which leads me to your first question.” Andrew pushed up into a seated position across from her, and she did her very best not to let her eyes drift down the expanse of his muscled chest.
“More than ever, the War Department is recognizing how valuable Abchurch, and the work the code breakers do there, is to the war effort. They’ve asked me to stay on and I’ve agreed. On one condition.”
Relief bubbled up inside Claire. Andrew was staying in England. “What condition?”
He reached out and touched her face. “That when you’re ready, you join me.”
“Join you?” she asked. Damn it, she must stop doing that, she reminded herself. “I can’t continue on as Clarence,” she said. “I’ll need to lay him to rest properly. It’s only fair to him and to others who loved him to know that he is gone and to be able to say goodbye.”
Andrew was shaking his head. “Not as Clarence, love. As yourself.”
“Myself?” Oops. Well, it would help if Andrew started making proper sense instead of making such questionable statements. “A woman would never be allowed at Abchurch.”
“You will be. You see, I told my superiors all about how invaluable your work was at Vitoria, and Greeves vouched for your skills in several other matters, as well. I insisted that if they wanted the best man for the job, they should have her.”
Claire sat there, speechless in any language.
Then she said, “You’re not going to hover over me all the time, are you, like some overprotective husband?”
He huffed. “I’ll try my best not to. I confess, it will be incredibly hard for me. But you’ve proven to be quite adept at protecting yourself.”
Happiness filled her. She wasn’t going to be alone, after all. She would have family, love, and purpose.
And best of all?
“At least I’ll never have to tie a cravat knot again.”
A wicked grin flashed over Andrew’s face and one eyebrow shot up. “Don’t speak too soon, dearling,” he said. “I have a few knots I’d like to show you…although they require a poster bed as well as a cravat or two.”
A thrill shot through her as she tried to imagine what he meant.
A few hours later, she knew precisely.
And Claire decided cravats weren’t so bad after all.
Epilogue
Claire and Andrew married by special license on the morning of Christmas Eve, and announced their surprise marriage at the Danburys’ annual Christmas Eve ball. They thought it only fitting, given everything.
The only sadness to their day was when well-wishers asked after Clarence, having noticed he was not present to celebrate his sister’s nuptials. Claire could not answer, but Andrew told people the story they’d agreed upon: that Clarence had fallen ill shortly after the ceremony, but hadn’t wanted them to spend their wedding night fussing over him.
Shortly after the New Year, Lord and Lady Sedgewick regretfully announced the passing of her brother, Sir Clarence Barton, and entered a period of mourning.
The code breakers of Abchurch were shocked when they met Claire as herself, though Greeves insisted he’d always known something was fishy with the entire situation. Despite Claire’s concerns, the men took to working with her rather well.
The Treaty of Valencay, as Napoleon’s bid to usurp Spain’s allegiance for himself came to be called, did reach Madrid. However, with the advance warning and the efforts of many, Spain refused to ratify it—after, of course, King Ferdinand was returned safely to them.
For her extraordinary service to the Crown, Claire was made an honorary Knight Companion in the Most Honourable Order of the Bath. While no one talked about precisely why she deserved such an honor, everyone agreed that she did. Even Finchy.
To celebrate, her husband had four new cravats made for her. She delighted in showing him her hard-earned knot-tying skills that very evening.
And he delighted in her, as well as the two sets of twins they later had, for the rest of his life.
The End
About Heather Snow
Heather Snow is an award winning historical romance author with a degree in Chemistry who discovered she much preferred creating chemistry on the page, rather than in the lab. Her books have been published in six languages around the world, and have won numerous awards including: The Golden Quill, the National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award, The Write Touch Readers Award and the Book Buyers Best Top Pick. She lives in the Midwest with her husband, two rambunctious boys, three insanely huge dogs and one very put upon cat.
For more information about Heather’
s books, visit:
heathersnowbooks.com/veiled-seduction-series
A LIAR UNDER THE MISTLETOE
Celeste Bradley
Fearless Amie Jackham doesn't attend balls to dance, she's there for the thrill of robbing the lockboxes of the unscrupulous.
With the notorious Vixen still at large, Liar's Club spy Lord Elliot Hughes is taking the opportunity to clean out a few lockboxes for the good of Crown and Country—and leaving the Vixen's trademark lacy handkerchief behind.
Thief and spy were bound to meet eventually—and when they do, sparks fly in this sexy chase caper that runs through the snowy streets and glittering ballrooms of London's Christmas season!
Prologue
“Your Voice of Society declares that there is no need to clutch your reticules so tightly, my Lady Readers! The Vixen of Vauxhall strikes only at the strongboxes of the moneyed and miserly. Does Sir K— contribute to the orphanage not three blocks from his grand doorway? Does Lord P— pay his servants, or anyone else, in good time? Nay, your Voice of Society declares some fellows highly deserving of opening their treasure troves to find nothing but a lacy handkerchief left behind. Carry on, Dear Vixen, carry on!”
Chapter 1
December, 1814 — London
Elliott dodged another drunken couple leaving the dance floor, and sent the apologetic gentleman on his way with a grin and a comradely slap on the back. Elliot didn't know him or the so-called lady with him, but he had long ago discovered that a tolerant geniality made him simultaneously well liked and forgettable.
He continued casually strolling the outskirts of the ballroom, a slightly inebriated fellow at loose ends. It's only me wandering about, just another useless offshoot of a noble family, beneath any special notice. He was as much background color as one of the potted palms.
Precisely the way he wanted it.
He had timed his arrival well, appearing somewhat late and well after the dreary receiving line where he would be forced to greet his host, yet early enough that the guests were still in and out quite actively and no one had actually asked for his invitation. Good thing, for he had no such thing on his person.
He doubted anyone at Lord Beardsley’s bawdy event would stick so closely to the niceties anyway. What a strange way to celebrate Christmas! It was almost as though the very notion of a reverential holiday spurred certain members of Society to renewed debauchery.
Tonight, rum punch ran freely and Elliot was certain he caught the scent of opium smoke now and again. It was a decadent display, full of brightly colored ladybirds with high hems and low necklines who attended to the needs of their high-ranking protectors with bawdy energy. All gathering about a great, festooned evergreen tree that reached easily to the next story.
Just like my schoolboy Christmas holidays...except, of course, not at all.
Elliott prided himself that he fit right in, youngest son of the youngest son of the Earl of Breckenridge, with a mountain of lordly uncles and cousins, all quite healthy, mind you, between him and any sort of future. As Lord Elliott Hughes, too highborn for real work, too late-born for any chance at advancement, he disappeared into the crowd of young men with more rank than sense, more time than brains and nothing to do with themselves but to overindulge.
“Marry well,” his father had advised before he passed away with as little fanfare as he'd lived. “Find an heiress who wants to be a lady.”
Elliott's mother hadn't had anything useful to add, as she died when he was born.
It wasn't very good advice. He wasn't inclined to marry some status-hungry steel-monger's daughter. A feminine shriek of gleeful shock and horror rose up from behind a potted palm in Elliot's path. He veered well around it.
Certainly none of the women here this evening were bride material.
So he carried on. He was living the life everyone expected of him, drinking and dancing and spending the allowance doled out by his dutiful but indifferent uncle, the current earl. A ball here, a horse-race there, a card game or two in between.
It would be enough to drive an intelligent fellow mad with his own uselessness—if that fellow hadn't come up with much better way to pass the time.
As he strolled, he glanced into one of the side rooms set apart for gentlemanly cards.
“Oh, look!” he murmured to himself. “Lord Beardsley is at the gaming tables. What a lovely time to take in that gracious view from the upper floor.” And find his lordship's study… and his lordship's strongbox!
Elliot slipped out of the ballroom as easily as he'd entered it.
No reason to remember him at all.
Lord Beardsley likely believed that his eight-foot stone wall would keep the riffraff out of his garden. Miss Amie Jackham begged to differ.
From her small rucksack she removed a simple grappling hook with a lightweight line woven of leather strips. After a glance up and down the dark and icy cobbled alleyway, she easily tossed the hook up to catch on the top of the wall. Large cylindrical stone spikes marched across the top, surely intended to be intimidating, or perhaps hinting at Lord Beardsley's self-deluded personal endowment. The spikes only aided her attempt.
Taking the line in her black-gloved grip, she ran nimbly up the vertical, hand over hand on the rope. Once on top she kicked the covering snow away and poised lightly, gripping the squat pedestal of one of the spikes between her feet as she pulled her line up after her. She tossed the line down the other side, and quickly followed it to the ground below.
Around her, the artistically placed boxwoods slumbered peacefully beneath a blanket of snow. It was the coldest winter in decades, people said. Amie had to agree. The snow was lovely, but the chill crept into her home and her bed and her bones. Also, the snow made her leave footprints.
No matter. She knew this part of the garden was invisible to the house beyond because she'd been in that house just this morning, checking the view from every window.
She smiled slightly at the memory. No one ever looked at chambermaids, particularly in a house filling up with guests.
The other maids had given her a few curious glances, but there were so many new arrivals in the house already that they hesitated to question her for fear she served someone important.
Now, confident that no one could see this dark corner of the garden from any of the tall windows of the house, Amie didn't hesitate to strip off her clothing. Off came her trousers and boyish shirt and vest, along with her grubby cap. Clad in nothing but a short chemise that came halfway down her thighs, she shivered as she pulled the last item from her rucksack and shook it out. The pale green silk gown had been cleverly folded so as not to wrinkle but Amie had to take care not to allow the hem to drag in the snow as she dressed.
The precautions paid off. Moments later she looked entirely different. The neatly folded boy's garb, arranged in order for speedy dressing later, went back into the rucksack. She concealed the waterproofed leather bag behind a tree.
The line still dangled from the grappling hook but in the shadowed corner she doubted anyone would notice it. Best to leave it there. She might not be able to leave through the front door!
She had no mirror so she could only hope that the cap had protected her intricately braided hairstyle from her vertical gymnastics. It felt fine but she was perhaps not the best judge of fashionable hairstyles.
At any rate, this is not the sort of ball where a woman's hair stayed tightly up. She paused, wondering if she ought to be a little more mussed to fit in. Never mind. Stop thinking, she told herself.
Light on your feet, quick on the pull, nothing on your mind. Just as Papa had always told her.
She was a Jackham, born of a long line of night-burglars and jewel thieves. Nerves had no place in her life.
She stepped forward confidently, trotting toward the house with her skirts daintily lifted, nothing but a guest rushing back to the fun of the party.
Up the stone steps, across the terrace, through the glass doors, just stroll inside the house as if I belon
g.
There were already many guests visible through the ballroom terrace doors, so no one took notice of her. By the time she arrived inside she was slightly flushed and panting. Nothing odd there, just another woman fresh off the rowdy dance floor. She reached a drink off a servant's tray and stepped into the crowd.
Lord Beardsley's ballroom was very grand, and lavishly decorated for the event. Evergreen garlands and draperies of golden silk festooned every surface. More silk was hung to create little alcoves where one might find a fainting couch, a decanter of whiskey, or tiny cakes of opium on a hookah tray.
Amie saw that she timed her arrival well. Any earlier, the other guests might've been more observant, social hounds that they were. Any later, the party might be growing out of control. Already she spotted a few women wearing richly decadent gowns that seemed rather the worse for wear. One creature had her bodice ripped wide open at that moment. The woman only guffawed and tossed back her glass, breasts exposed.
Amie kept her revulsion to herself. Not her sort of party at all. She might be a thief, but she was still a lady!
She continued around the ballroom, slipping unnoticed through the press of guests who laughed a little too loudly, stood a little too close, or swayed a little too loosely in the dance.
She wasn't the prettiest woman in the room, nor the plainest, nor the best dressed, nor the worst. Utterly forgettable, precisely as planned.
On the other side of the great ballroom a staircase arched up to the doorways on the next floor. That was where she needed to be.
A tricky moment. That curving stair was intentionally in full view of the party, intended for grand entrances and exits.
Amie looked around her. She wondered if she could—
“Oh, there you are!” She widened her eyes fervently, gave a loopy grin, and clasped the muscled arm of an overdressed dandy staggering past. He was a pimply, sweaty-looking fellow, but he was good and drunk, which was all she required.