The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  “True. A title does that. Now, did you truly have something to discuss?”

  “No.” Langford palmed his pocket watch and flipped open the case. He frowned at the small glass face. “But I do intend to make my escape. I’ve had enough weak punch, innuendos and pleasantries for one evening. And Grace is waiting at home.”

  “How is your countess?” With a wife such as Langford’s, he could understand the desire to hide in the countryside.

  The frown cleared and Langford grinned at Angel. “She is still tired from the birthing, but she shooed me out for an evening when she learned of my assignment.” The watch disappeared into a waistcoat pocket.

  “Ah. I wondered if you were here for business or pleasure.”

  “A little of each.” Langford’s shoulder jerked up in a halfhearted shrug. His eyes roved the room. “You?”

  “The same.” In truth, it was always business. A spy never did anything simply for pleasure.

  Angel studied the ballroom. It was an impossible crush. Guests bumped up against one another as they laughed and flirted. Diamonds winked and painted fans fluttered as women entertained suitors and friends. Footmen threaded through the crowd carrying trays of gold champagne and rose-colored punch. Surrounding it all were the subtle notes of a string quartet and the scent of candle wax.

  Such was the glittering and dazzling world of the ton. But underneath the gleaming polish of society were passions and intrigue and secrets. It was his mission to seek them out. And beyond his government assignments, beyond the political intrigues, was the enemy who had assassinated a woman four years ago. His woman. Gemma.

  Cold anger turned him from the scene. “I believe I may follow your lead and make my escape as well.” He wanted his own hearth, a brandy and his violin. The constant din of voices grated and the endlessly changing pattern of dancers was visually dizzying. He scanned the room once more. A wave of people ebbed and flowed, came together and parted.

  And he saw her. No cavalry coat. No sabre. Insteed of wearing steel of weaponry, only a gown of silver netting over white muslin. A painted fan fluttered languidly near her face. No howling battle cry now, only the sensual curving of her lips as she bent her head toward a military officer.

  Something clutched inside him as the battleground superimposed itself over the ballroom. Twirling women became French soldiers, the sound of stringed instruments became the whistle of a blade. The scent of gunpowder stung his nostrils and the pounding of artillery rang in the air. The scene swirled around the woman, though she was no longer on horseback.

  It had been two years since Waterloo. Two years since he’d seen a bright halo of hair and pitiless eyes full of retribution. He shook his head to will away those memories.

  But the woman remained. A bevy of men were gathered around her, jostling for position. The striped waistcoats of the dandies clashed with the brilliant red of soldiers’ uniforms. Then, like an echo of his memories, the Duke of Wellington himself approached the woman. She smiled warmly as he bowed over her hand.

  The bevy of suitors stepped back in deference to Wellington, leaving him as alone with the woman as two people could be in a crowded ballroom.

  “Who is that woman?” Angel spoke softly, nodding toward the woman. “The one talking to Wellington?”

  “Lilias Fairchild. Major Jeremy Fairchild’s widow. He was killed at Waterloo.” Langford raised a brow. “Did you know the major?”

  “No.” Angel watched Mrs. Fairchild’s fan tap lightly against Wellington’s arm. A sign of affection rather than flirtation. “What do you know of her?”

  “Both Grace and I found her pleasant enough, though one can sense a spine of steel beneath the attractive exterior. She’s known for being private, which has only increased the gossips’ chatter.” Langford lowered his voice. “She followed her husband on the march. They say when the major’s body was brought off the field, she was wild with grief. She took her husband’s horse and sabre and joined the battle.”

  The gossips were correct. There had been a wildness in her that day. Across the room, her hair caught the light of the candles and turned a bright yellow-gold. “I’m surprised she’s allowed into this ballroom.” A woman on the march with soldiers, one so unladylike as to fight and kill, should be ostracized by society.

  “There are some doors closed to her. But with Wellington himself championing her, society as a whole has accepted her.”

  “She should have died.” He’d assumed she had. He’d thought about her periodically over the past two years, the way one did with a striking memory. Her face was the clearest recollection he had of that day. He had never considered she would live, and was vaguely sad to think such a vibrant creature had been struck down. Seeing her alive and whole seemed to defy fate.

  “If you ask the troop she marched with, death was her intention,” Langford said softly. “The French called her La Dame de Vengeance.”

  Vengeance. It seemed he and the widow Fairchild were two of a kind.

  “I know her just well enough to introduce you.” Langford’s glance turned sly.

  She wouldn’t remember him from Waterloo. One soldier meeting another on the field of battle was nothing. Not that it mattered. It had been only a moment. A fleeting breath of time that would barely be remembered. Never mind that he’d seen her wild, vengeful eyes in his dreams as often as he’d seen Gemma’s dying eyes.

  As Wellington bent to speak to Mrs. Fairchild, the woman angled her head and let her gaze wander the room. She should not have seen him. Guests danced and flirted and laughed between them, blocking her view. But like an arrow piercing fog, she trained her blue eyes unerringly on Angel.

  There was no vengeance there this time, but still they seemed to blaze. The color of them, the shape of them, ignited a visceral beat low in his belly. As did the lush curves even the most flowing gown couldn’t conceal.

  Recognition flared in the widow’s eyes. Her lips lifted on one side before she flicked her gaze back to Wellington. The duke bowed his farewell and retreated into the crush.

  “Introduce me.”

  “You’re asking for trouble with that one, my friend.” Langford laughed. “Which means it would be my pleasure to introduce you.”

  Langford pushed through the crowd. Angel followed, brushing past silks and satins and elaborate cravats. Mrs. Fairchild’s eyes tracked his movements across the floor. It was odd to be studied with such interest, even as he studied her. Flanked by soldiers and gentlemen festooned in evening wear and vying for the position closest to her, she seemed to be an island of calm.

  He narrowed his eyes. No, not calm. Confidence. There were no affectations, no feminine vapors. A woman who killed a French soldier in the thick of battle had no time for vapors.

  “Lord Langford,” she said as they approached. Her eyes flashed briefly in Angel’s direction, then back to Langford. “It is good to see you again. How are your wife and daughters?”

  “Quite well, thank you. The twins are a handful already.” Langford grinned. It wasn’t clear whether the grin was for his daughters or Angel, as he slid an amused glance in Angel’s direction. “Mrs. Fairchild, may I present the Marquess of Angelstone?”

  “Lord Angelstone.” Her voice moved over him like velvet, smooth and rich. “But we’ve met before.”

  “We have indeed, Mrs. Fairchild.” He bowed over her hand. “Though the circumstances were quite different.”

  Langford’s brow rose. The message was clear enough.

  “We met in battle.” Mrs. Fairchild tilted her head. Candlelight shadowed dramatic cheekbones and full, ripe lips. “I’m afraid names were not exchanged.”

  “My condolences on the loss of your husband,” Angel said.

  “Thank you.” Her face softened. “He was a good man.”

  “And a good solider, I’ve heard,” Langford added. “Will you be in London long, Mrs. Fa
irchild?”

  “Through the Season, I think.” She smiled, a subtle, feline turning up of her lips. “Will you dance with me, Lord Langford? So I can pretend I’m not too old for all this nonsense?”

  “For you, Mrs. Fairchild, I’ll brave the dance floor—but not tonight. I must return to my wife.”

  “A flattering escape.”

  “Indeed. Now, I see your punch glass is empty. I’d offer to get you another”—Langford looked toward the table holding the punch bowl—“but I have no desire to fight this insufferable crowd.”

  Mrs. Fairchild laughed, low and throaty. The sound sent desire spiraling through Angel.

  “Go then,” she said, shooing Langford with her closed fan. “I can obtain my own punch.”

  “Allow me.” Angel stepped in, offering his arm. Langford, the cur, grinned. Angel ignored him. “I would be honored, Mrs. Fairchild.”

  Behind them, the bevy of gentlemen suitors bristled, almost as one. A pack of wolves defending their queen. Or a gaggle of geese flapping uselessly at a predator.

  “Thank you, my lord.” She cocked her head to look up at him. A smile flirted with the corners of her lips. “I would be most grateful.”

  The gaggle hissed in disappointment.

  She set her white-gloved hand on his arm. The touch of her fingers was delicate on his sleeve. As they crossed the room, she splayed open her painted fan and waved it languorously. A lazy ripple of painted wildflowers in the wind. The scent of her skin rose into the air. Clean. Bright. And when she smiled at him once more, his body tripped straight into attraction.