The June Bride Conspiracy (The Spy Matchmaker Book 2)

by Regina Scott

  “Is it Daremier?” Davis asked quietly.

  Allister started. “The Skull? Certainly not. Why would you ask?”

  Davis shook his head. “Why would I ask about a master French spy who’s been a thorn in your side for years? I’m certain no one but me has noticed your retirement coincides with him besting you. You seem to want to leave the field defeated, old man.”

  The term should have been said with affection, but Allister heard the edge to it. “I’m only a year your senior. I don’t recall thirty being considered aged.”

  Davis leaned back. “No, indeed. Yet you persist in retiring. Shall I warm the fire for you? Would you like the covers turned back for your afternoon nap?”

  “The sarcasm is unamusing,” Allister informed him. “Need I remind you that I can still beat you with either sword or pistol?”

  Davis’ eyes lighted, and he leaned forward eagerly. “No reminder necessary. You are the best. And you could prove that if you’d only come back to Lord Hastings’s cadre.”

  Allister shook his head, but, before he could refuse again, the temporary man-of-all-work he had hired coughed in the doorway. A sturdy fellow with a long face and hooded eyes, he had struck Allister as the type who would do his job and ask no questions.

  “Yes, Patterson?” Allister asked.

  “There’s a lady to see you, sir,” he replied, keeping his eyes humbly downcast. Only the severe set to his wide mouth told of his disapproval at this state of affairs.

  Davis reached out to clap Allister on the shoulder. “You old fraud! And I was worried you’d collapsed into propriety. Who is she, old chap? And does she have a friend?”

  “I don’t dally with lightskirts,” Allister informed him icily. He returned his gaze to his servant. “Does this lady have a name, Patterson?”

  “A Miss Joanna Lindby,” the man answered with no more enthusiasm.

  Allister leapt to his feet, pulse roaring in his ears. “Joanna? Something must be wrong.”

  Davis rose and put a hand on his arm as if to keep him from running to her side. “Easy lad. She probably just wants to confirm the flowers for the wedding or some such frippery. Tell the lady to come in, Patterson.”

  Allister managed a shaky laugh as his manservant hurried from the room. Why had he reacted that way? He’d been cooler two years ago when Lord Hastings had informed him that Davis had been shot. Besides, his friend was no doubt right. If something had happened to Joanna, it would have been her mother who would have contacted him, and probably by note. Ladies did not generally visit gentlemen in their rooms. The fact that Joanna felt comfortable enough to approach him in residence should reassure him that they were becoming closer.

  One look at her face as she entered the room with her maid behind her had the opposite effect. Davis was wrong. Something had happened. Her lovely face was flushed, her jaw set, and her eyes sparked fire above her satin pelisse.

  He met her just inside the door. “Joanna, what is it?”

  She raised a haughty eyebrow. “You didn’t expect me to ask for an explanation? Do you think so little of me?”

  He frowned. “An explanation for what?”

  “Perhaps I should go,” Davis muttered, picking up his top hat from the side table between the two chairs as the maid shifted from foot to foot in equal uncertainty.

  “Forgive my manners,” Allister apologized to Davis and Joanna both. “Miss Joanna Lindby, may I present my friend, Mr. Davis Laughton.”

  Davis bowed. “Your servant, madam.”

  Joanna offered no more than a nod. “Good day, sir.”

  His friend swallowed. “Yes, well, as I said. I should go.”

  “Don’t leave on my account,” she clipped out. “This should only take a moment.” She faced Allister again, and he could only marvel at the fire in her. He had thought her passionate but had never suspected she could be so intense. He was not a little surprised to find it intrigued him.

  “I only want to know why,” she said. “Why did you break off our engagement?”

  Allister stared at her. “Break off our engagement? Why would you think I’d do that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she snapped. “Perhaps because of this?” She flung a note at him, and he caught it against the chest of his white lawn shirt. Instinct told him not to take his eyes off her, but he had to know what had so incensed her. He scanned the contents of the note, and his blood ran cold.

  “What is it?” Davis asked at his elbow.

  “Here,” Allister said, thrusting it at him. “Read it.”

  As Davis glanced at the paper, Allister returned his gaze to his intended. “Joanna, I assure you, I didn’t send that note. I want nothing more than to be your husband.”

  Her eyes probed his as if seeking the truth. He returned her gaze steadfastly. He’d made viscounts and villains think he was telling the truth when needed. Surely now that he spoke from his heart he would be even more convincing.

  Joanna held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. “I wish I could believe that,” she murmured.

  Could she see inside him to his doubts of adequacy? He had to convince them both. Allister caught her hands. “Believe it, for it is the truth. I would never hurt you like this. If we had a disagreement, I’d like to think we could discuss it. I would never simply send a note dismissing you.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and he reached up a hand to stroke them away from her soft skin.

  She swallowed. “Oh, Allister, I’m so glad. When I saw that horrid note, all I could think was that you didn’t care.”

  He felt his jaw tighten as her pain pierced his heart. “That’s exactly what someone wanted you to think.”

  “But why?” she asked with a frown. “Who’d want to hurt us?”

  Allister exchanged glances with Davis. The grim set to his friend’s mouth told Allister that Davis had similar thoughts. Despite the fact that he should be worried about the matter, he felt the familiar tingle of excitement that always came with a mystery.

  “I have no idea,” he said to Joanna. “But I intend to find out.”

  Chapter Three

  Joanna should have felt nothing but relief. Allister still wanted to marry her. His murmured reassurances and protective caresses as he escorted her and her maid home in her carriage should have soothed her fears. When he took her in his arms and kissed away the last of her tears, she could only melt against him in bliss.

  But something was wrong. Someone was trying to pull them apart. By the way he exchanged looks with his friend, he knew more than he wanted to tell her. She had a feeling she was about to confront his supposedly dangerous past, and she wasn’t sure what to do about it.

  He was diplomacy itself, coming in to calm and reassure her mother, then inviting them both to the opera on Tuesday to make up for their difficult day. As Joanna walked him to the door, he brought her hand to his lips and pressed a fervent kiss into her palm.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” he promised.

  “Can you tell me what you suspect?” she asked. “I can’t think of anyone who would be so vindictive.”

  “I’m sure it’s no one you know,” he replied.

  “But you think it’s someone you know, don’t you?”

  He did not accept her challenge. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ll get to the bottom of this. It may take me some time, so don’t be concerned if you don’t see me as often as before.”

  The fact that he seemed rather excited about the matter did nothing to reassure her.

  She tried, however, to put the incident from her mind as she went about her wedding preparations the rest of the day. Her mother’s spirits were fully restored, and she threw herself back into the work. They had a number of critical decisions to make, chief among them who would act as her father. After a lengthy discussion, they decided to ask her uncle Milton who had always been close. They then spent the evening addressing invitations from the lengthy list her mother had compiled. It was when they fi
nished with her family and friends and prepared to do Allister’s that she felt the uneasiness return.

  “He still hasn’t given me a list,” her mother complained. “Think, dearest. He must have told you someone to invite besides his cousins in Somerset. Was he found under a cabbage leaf?”

  Joanna smiled. “Most likely not. However, he told me his parents are dead. I believe he has an uncle somewhere.”

  “Well, I’m glad I’ve at least invited his cousins the Darbys,” her mother replied. “I remember him mentioning them. Was he directly related to the old earl or the new earl? Or is it the newer earl? That family changes its mind so quickly.”

  “I’m not certain,” Joanna replied, realizing again how little she knew about her intended. “But we should add a Mr. Davis Laughton to the list. I met him today. He appears to be a particular friend of Allister’s.”

  “Davis Laughton,” her mother mused. “Where have I heard that name?”

  “Have you heard it?” Joanna asked eagerly.

  Her mother shook her head. “No, I don’t believe so. Which does seem odd, for I know everyone, even if I can’t remember their names at a given moment.”

  Joanna nodded. For all her mother’s eccentricities, she was well-liked among the ton. An interesting person was always welcome, and her mother had never lacked for acquaintances. If Davis Laughton had lived in London for any length of time, it would have been surprising that her mother had never heard of him.

  “Perhaps he’s up from the country,” Joanna suggested.

  “Yes, of course,” her mother agreed. “In which case you must ask him when he’s returning. What’s the postage to Africa?”

  “Uncle Milton will be back from Africa next week,” Joanna assured her, once again interpreting her mother’s remark. “You can send his invitation then.”

  “And Mr. Laughton’s, I suppose,” her mother said, dropping her gaze to the writing materials once more.

  If Joanna had an opportunity to talk to Mr. Laughton again and learn his address. Allister generally didn’t make a party of their outings, seeming to prefer to keep her all to himself. She had found that regard flattering, yet was it another sign that he was secretive? Just what was Allister attempting to hide?

  –

  “That’s the lot of them, my friend,” Harold Petersborough, Marquis of Hastings, informed Allister as they sat in his spacious private suite at the War Office. “We have Lord Templeman in custody and are rounding up those connected to him. Lydia Montgomery has told us all she knows, which was precious little, and I sincerely doubt that nefarious opera dancer would be penning notes to your intended. Every other assassin, spy, or miscreant you ever went after is either in prison or dead, except one.”

  “Daremier,” Allister spat.

  “Daremier,” Lord Hastings agreed. “A slippery fellow, that one. We still haven’t learned how he manages to return to England undetected. One would think that face of his would give him away.”

  Allister glanced down at Lord Hastings’ claw-footed desk, on which lay the charcoal sketch that was all most of his lordship’s operatives had to go on. He didn’t need it. He’d seen the face too often, right before losing the fellow again. France’s top spy was called the Skull for good reason. Deep-set nearly black eyes looked out over prominent cheekbones and a hooked nose. Coupled with a bald pate and a cruel mouth, the face was one to give nightmares. It was also easily disguised. That was one of the reasons Daremier was difficult to catch. The other was that he was cunningly ruthless. Nothing and no one stood in the way of his target. If the Skull had sent the note, Joanna was in danger.

  “Do you think he’ll hurt her?” Allister asked with a mouth gone suddenly dry.

  “Your bride-to-be?” Hastings returned, stroking his walrus mustache. “Doubtful. He generally hasn’t gone for revenge. Too busy with his next operation.”

  Allister glanced at his former superior. Hastings had been a senior agent at the time he had recruited Allister and Davis ten years ago. The offer had been made in this very office, as Allister stood on the same thick blue carpet, gazing across the heavy walnut desk at the man behind it. Hastings had been trim and wiry then, an intense light burning behind his brown eyes. Now his thick short-cropped hair was a solid iron grey, as was his mustache. Lines etched his eyes. The only thing that hadn’t changed was his energy. Hastings was efficient to a fault. Allister had never had cause to question him. He felt a little guilty doing so now, but he had to know the worst of it.

  “Do we have Daremier’s location?” he pressed, unwilling to accept an easy solution to the problem of the note. He’d followed the Skull too long; there were many grudges, on both sides. “Has he been sighted in England?”

  “Not recently,” Hastings confirmed. “But that means nothing. We seldom know where the fellow is going to strike until he’s gone and struck.”

  Allister’s eyes narrowed. “True. So, instead of trying to find him, why don’t we force him to come to us?”

  “A trap?” Hastings shrugged in his well-fitted blue coat. “We’ve tried before. He wasn’t interested in those counterfeit battle plans we hid so well. Lady de Renard wouldn’t let us use the Sebastien diamonds.”

  “Ah,” Allister said, “but we have something he wants far more than Wellington’s battle plans or the biggest diamonds ever smuggled out of France.”

  Hastings frowned. “What?”

  Allister smiled tightly. “Me.”

  Hastings’ frown deepened, and he eyed Allister thoughtfully. “You love her that much, do you?”

  Allister paused. Only the previous day he had been thinking his love was not deep enough for a true marriage. Even now, he could not deny that his reasons for wanting to catch the French spy had as much to do with their long history as his devotion to Joanna.

  Hastings obviously took his silence for agreement. “I’ve encouraged you to look to your future, so I can’t say I’m sorry you found a bride. It must be the romantic in me.”

  Allister chuckled. “You do tend to play matchmaker.”

  Hastings shrugged. Then he steepled his fingers, eyes narrowing. “About this plan of yours. He won’t spare you if you go in unarmed. We may catch him, but we’d certainly lose you. I can’t take that chance with your life. Let’s give the lads a few more days. We don’t even know he’s in England.”

  “Someone sent that note,” Allister reminded him. “I won’t rest until he’s uncovered and stopped.”

  Hastings cocked his head. “You’re certain it was a gentleman and someone from your past. What of a lady? Is no one crying that you’re to be wed? Jealous of your intended’s good fortune?”

  A chuckle bubbled up unbidden. “Sorry to dampen that romantic spirit, sir, but I doubt any lady has been so very distraught at the idea of losing me. Most didn’t even know I was the man involved. I was only playing a part.”

  “True,” Hastings said, straightening. “But that doesn’t mean someone isn’t jealous of your Joanna. What of a rival on the ton determined to show her up? A former suitor angry he wasn’t chosen?”

  Interesting. Had he been afield so long he’d forgotten how the aristocracy’s simmering squabbles could boil over? He’d certainly used such moments to his advantage in the past.

  “I’ll look in to the matter,” he told Hastings, rising. “Keep me informed of your investigation.”

  “Certainly, my boy,” Hastings promised, leaning back in his chair. “And if you should uncover anything of interest to the cause, I’m certain you’ll divulge it.”

  Allister inclined his head. The crafty codger was always looking for trouble. The Allies were closing in on Napoleon. France was growing desperate to find a way to change the course of the war. And Society had ever kept too many secrets that could prove the key.

  Leaving the War Office, he went straight to White’s. Some of the members would be immune to gossip. Others might be too ready to spread tales. He knew one source to be unrelentingly reliable. He approached the podium
and gazed down at the famed betting book.

  It never ceased to amaze him how many things the members of White’s chose to wager perfectly good money on. There were the usual things like the outcomes of particular boxing matches or horse races. There were bets on whether a certain member of the royal family would beget an heir within a span of time. And then there were the bets on which gentlemen might end up marrying which lady.

  He ran his finger down the page, turned it and checked the later dates as well. Not a single fellow was rumored to be about to engage himself to Joanna Lindby. He was ready to walk away when he spotted a likely entry.

  Mr. G. Safton wagers Mr. R. Whattling 50 gs that a certain elegant, dark-haired lady will remain unwed for the following two Seasons given that she is far too cold to interest any man for long. It was dated a year ago.

  Safton was a creature of the darkest nature. Lord Hastings had had him under surveillance for some time, but the fellow had never done anything that wasn’t just within the bounds of the law. And, alas, they had never been able to connect him with any type of espionage. He remained at large, luring other unsuspecting young lords into his web of deceit and debauchery. Robert Whattling was one of the newest, but likely not the last. A shame Kevin’s brother had gotten himself mixed up with the miscreant. Why hadn’t Kevin intervened? Had Hastings kept him so busy he hadn’t noticed?

  Of course, the description of the lady in question might have fit any number of women on the ton. Dark hair and elegance were not at a premium. And he certainly could not call Joanna cold, yet he had heard rumors that some men considered her reticence a sign of a cool heart.

  Still, to accost Safton without cause? Dirt had a way of rubbing off. Better to keep an eye out for Whattling. On the other hand, if Safton had inserted himself into Allister’s life, Allister was perfectly willing to see the man brought to his knees at last.