by Shana Galen
The Spy Beneath the Mistletoe
A Novella
Shana Galen
Copyright © 2014 by Shana Galen
Cover Design by Kim Killion, Hot Damn Designs
This novella previously appeared in Christmas in the Duke’s Arms, a holiday anthology published in 2014.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Acknowledgments
About Shana Galen
Books by Shana Galen
To Gayle, whose enthusiasm makes me love my stories all over again.
One
The inn would be a difficult building to explode.
The thatched roof would burn easily enough, but the whitewashed fieldstone exterior looked to Eliza to have weathered a good many years and a good many winters. Colder winters than this one.
Although snow poured from the leaden sky and the windows of The Duke’s Arms glowed with the promise of a roaring fire in the hearth, she tarried in the yard. Her legs were cramped from days on the road, and she was happy to stretch them.
Her fellow passengers hobbled and stumbled past her into the cozy inn. Their cold, damp boots would soon be dry and warm. Beyond the inn, the coach road curved like a white ribbon, past hedges dotted with white and oak and maple trees, whose naked branches reached for the sky like sharp icy fingers. In the spring, the prospect would be far more pleasing. Flowers would dot the rolling green hills with spots of color, the oaks and maples would offer leafy shade, and verdant ivy would lend a swath of color to the pale walls of the inn.
The prospect today was not quite so charming. The gray sky matched her mood. Christmas was only a few days past, and a provincial inn on the Great North Road was the last place she wanted to be. Scratch that. The Barbican group’s Piccadilly office was the last place she wanted to be. Still, this inn, with its ragged holiday wreath on the door and a few browning sprigs of mistletoe hung near the window, depressed her. Not that she didn’t enjoy the Yuletide holiday. She’d spent it with her sister in London. The two of them, spinsters both, always managed to have a lovely, if quiet, Christmas and New Year.
Eliza hefted her valise and started for the inn. She could have refused the assignment. Baron’s brows had risen when she’d accepted. She’d surprised him, but was she to remain a weaponry engineer forever? She rather liked her work, and at one time she might have been content to pursue it forever. Now she wanted time away from her little workshop.
And a world away from Pierce Moneypence.
The Duke’s Arms hardly qualified as traveling the world, but it was a start. She would complete this mission quickly, return victorious to the Barbican, and Baron would recognize her talent and assign her more missions. Exciting missions in Paris or Milan or Budapest—wherever that was. Eliza stamped her numb, booted feet free of snow and pushed the door of the inn open.
The warmth from so many bodies and the blazing hearth rushed at her with a vengeance. She staggered back, momentarily overwhelmed by the scents of wet wool, tallow, and the cloved oranges left over from the holiday. Her gaze swept the room efficiently, looking for exits, threats, and allies. She was a spy and a woman traveling alone—though a plain, uninteresting woman—so she kept her head down.
A pair of tattered boots paused before her, and Eliza looked up into the face of a harried serving girl, who pushed a tangle of dark, sweaty hair from her forehead. “Welcome, missus. There’s a table there, if ye like.”
A small wooden table with two empty seats nestled in a nook. Now that her feet had begun to thaw, they itched, and she longed for the warmth of the fire. But spies weren’t interested in comfort. The back table offered a view of the entrances and exits and kept her out of the way. She squeezed past the throng of fellow travelers, eyes downcast, until she reached it. She dropped the heavy valise so it obstructed the path to the table and took a seat with her back to the wall.
No one paid her any heed. With her drab brown hair in a knot, her spectacles sliding down her nose, and rumpled but modest clothing, there was nothing much to see.
The inn was very much like any other she’d visited. This was the public room, and there would be a private area nearby for those who wished to pay for it. Simple wooden stairs led to the upper floors and the rooms for rent. The kitchen was in the back or downstairs, and her mouth watered at the smell of some sort of meaty stew.
The serving girl set down a tray with six tankards of ale one table over, which was crowded with men who spoke with the local accent.
“Do you care for refreshment, missus?”
The girl’s use of missus made Eliza feel old. She was too old to be a miss any longer, and the world seemed intent upon reminding her at every turn. Eliza’s age wasn’t this maid’s fault. She was still in the blush of youth, with her ample curves, long, dark hair pulled away from her face, and lively dark eyes. The maid’s life was far from flirtation and frolic, though. The hands on the swell of her hips were red and raw from work.
“Tea, please,” Eliza said. “And would you tell the innkeeper I need to rent a room?”
The girl nodded. “I’ll fetch my father, straightaway.”
“Might I have the tea—”
The serving girl had already whirled away, and Eliza resigned herself to waiting. The stifling heat took its toll, and she loosened her scarf and tugged at her gloves. Above her, a sprig of the ubiquitous mistletoe drew her attention. She had the urge to cut it down.
A shadow fell over the table. “What are you doing here?”
Eliza caught her breath and schooled her features, sliding her hand under the table to reach unobtrusively for the dagger in her boot. Slowly, she lowered her gaze from the mistletoe.
“What are you doing here?” she sputtered.
She barely recognized the skittish clerk he’d been when she’d last seen him in London. He had the same lean form, the same rigid posture, the same stiff neckcloth, but his usually soft brown eyes were hard.
Moneypence folded his arms. He probably thought it made him look gruff and foreboding. He probably thought it made him look intimidating. And he would have been right. That and the day’s worth of stubble added a touch of the ruffian.
What would that stubble feel like under her fingertips...or against her lips?
Banish that thought. She’d never touch Pierce Moneypence again.
Moneypence used the toe of a scuffed boot to push her valise aside. “We can’t talk here. Would you step outside with me for a moment, Miss Qwillen?” He held out a hand sporting more calluses than any clerk’s should and beckoned her impatiently.
Miss Qwillen. All that had happened between them, and he still called her Miss Qwillen.
“I most certainly will not,” she said, annoyed at him for no reason she could put a finger on. She had the urge to pull down the mistletoe and throw it at him. “I have just come in from the cold.” She gestured to the window, which framed an ominous-looking sky. “It’s snowing.”
“But you agree we must s
peak privately?”
Moneypence would be here only because of the mission. But why would Baron send both of them? And why not tell her he’d already sent Moneypence? “I agree. Perhaps—” She was prevented from suggesting an alternate meeting place when a large, red-faced man in his middle years approached.
“Welcome to The Duke’s Arms, missus. I’m Wattles. Mrs. Wattles and I own this fine establishment. Mrs. Wattles does all the cooking, and she is the finest cook in the county.” He caressed his expansive girth. “Pretty as the day we married too and doesn’t look a day older. My daughter Peg tells me you want a room.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wattles,” Eliza said, rising and giving a perfunctory curtsey. “I am Miss Qwillen.” With a glance at Moneypence, she dredged up the story she’d invented. “My sister is traveling to London from Scotland. She’s never been to Town before, and I promised to meet her here and travel the last leg of the trip with her. I am not certain when she will arrive. She might be another day or two, depending on the weather north of here.”
Wattles squeezed a towel, wringing it this way and that. “I’m afraid, Miss Qwillen, that I’ve let the last room.”
Eliza hadn’t considered this possibility. With the holidays upon them, many travelers were on the roads. In any other case, she might have simply inquired at another inn, but she’d studied a road guide before leaving home. This was the only inn for miles. Above her, the mistletoe swung merrily. She needed a pistol. “I see.”
“If only you’d arrived a little earlier,” Wattles said, darting a look at Moneypence. “This man took possession of my last available room.”
Moneypence grinned. If she’d had that pistol she could have rid herself of the mistletoe and Moneypence’s smirk.
“That is unfortunate,” she said. “What’s more, I have no option but to stay here and wait for my sister. If you will pardon the reference to Mary and Joseph, is there a stable where I might spend the night?”
Wattles’s hands ceased torturing the towel, and he pulled his stained apron over a prodigious belly. “I can’t allow you to sleep in the stable, missus!”
“I assure you, Mr. Wattles, I will be fine.”
She was slim and small, but she was no milksop miss. Mr. Wattles began to wring the towel between his hands again. “Begging your pardon, Miss Qwillen, but I can’t allow it. The grooms bed there. I’m sure they’re good fellows, but it wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Of course he was correct. She couldn’t sleep in the stable with a half-dozen men. Just then the driver of the mail coach pulled the inn door open, and a burst of cold air fanned her overheated face. “Last call for the mail coach. Last call!” He announced the next stop, but Eliza didn’t listen. She wasn’t going to the next village.
She was looking at Moneypence.
And then Mr. Wattles looked at him too. Wattles took a bit longer than Eliza would have liked, but he finally released the twisted towel and said, “Of course, if this gentleman were willing to give up his room, that would solve your problem.”
It would indeed. The mail coach passengers were filing out, and the inn felt suddenly empty. A half-dozen men still occupied the seats around the room, but a hush had descended. Or perhaps Eliza simply imagined it because Moneypence was looking at her with daggers in his deep-brown eyes. “It would be my pleasure to give up my room to this lady,” Moneypence said. He did not sound as though he were filled with pleasure.
“Of course, there’s no charge to sleep in the stable,” the innkeeper assured him. He wrung his towel again. “For a small fee, I can provide blankets and other essentials.”
Moneypence’s expression turned even more poisonous, if that were possible. “A small fee. Of course. I’ll collect my things, and Miss Qwillen may have possession of the room in order to refresh herself.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” she said with a smile.
“Please do not mention it, Miss Qwillen.”
Oh, she wouldn’t. Easier that way to ignore the fact that a traitorous part of herself was glad he was here.
One moment, Pierce had been perfectly situated at a cozy table in the common, where he might overhear any information relevant to the mission. The next, he was sneezing and treated to the fragrance of horse manure. How the devil had this happened?
Pierce had no fondness for horses. They bit, and they’d bitten him enough times that he must look like a ripe apple to them. Wattles had shown him an empty loose box and given him a cot on which to place the blanket for which Pierce had paid. One blanket. And a cot. He’d requested a brazier, but the innkeeper had muttered something about hay and fire and that had been that.
He set his valise on the cot and then seated himself there, testing it. It sank in the middle, almost swallowing him. He flailed about until he was sucked in, arms and legs sticking out as his backside all but touched the ground.
“Mr. Moneypence!” a female voice called. He struggled to extricate himself, but the cot refused to release its prey. “Mr. Moneypence?”
Perhaps if he didn’t answer, she would go away. Forever. But he knew she wouldn’t. She would find him in this undignified state, and he’d be mortified for the rest of his life.
“Oh, Mr. Moneypence!” She’d found him, of course.
“I do not require assistance,” he said, but his words were incoherent due to the fact that his face was buried in his knees. She tugged at his wrists, and he waved about to dislodge her grip. He moved this way and that in a gross parody of what he imagined resembled the mating dance of an ugly fish and finally managed to fall out of the cot and onto his knees on the hard stable floor.
He looked up at her, all fresh and pretty and unscathed by man-eating cots. “What do you want?” he asked, rising without grace and brushing his trousers off. They were covered with straw. For the next fortnight, he’d probably be finding straw in parts of him he didn’t want to think about even after his work here was done.
“I had hoped we might discuss this...situation.”
She sounded as though she were laughing. She’d clapped a hand over her mouth. To conceal a smile? He would throttle her. She lowered her hand and straightened. “You must leave immediately.”
Pierce brushed at the straw tickling his nose. “I was here first.”
She clasped her hands behind her back, either because she thought it would intimidate him or distract him with the way the material pulled taut over her breasts. He raised his gaze to her eyes.
“I was asked by Baron to come here. Considering he is the head of the”—she lowered her voice—“Barbican, you should be the one to leave.”
He had assumed she had come of her own accord. He’d assumed she had heard rumor of the mission and decided to investigate on her own. With the holidays nigh, agents were scarce at the moment.
He’d also hoped she had come to see him, to make amends. He was an idiot, as usual.
He surrendered to the straw itching his nose and bent to reassemble the cot. “I am also here on official business,” he said, not naming the Barbican. Really, did the woman have no sense? Even a whisper might be overheard. “Bonde ordered me to come.”
She huffed out a breath and lifted his blanket from the dusty floor. “That explains everything then.” She turned as though to leave.
“What does that mean?” he asked, blocking her retreat from the box. “Bonde has more authority than Baron.”
“So says you.” She gave the wreck of the cot a meaningful glance. “Baron is the head of the...of our organization. Not Bonde. He issues the orders.”
“Bonde is the best agent we have and the natural successor to M.” She was Lord Melbourne’s niece, after all. “Baron is in charge only temporarily.”
“Aha!” She snapped his blanket, releasing more dust into the air and making his eyes water. “You admit he is in charge. That means my mission is valid, and you should take your leave.”
“I’m not leaving,” he said. “Even if I have to sleep in the stable, I’m not leaving
.”
“Well, you’re not sleeping with me!”
“Perish the thought!” He hadn’t perished the thought. He entertained the thought all too often, and now that she was in his presence, he was having difficulty forming any other thought. “If you are intent upon staying, perhaps we might work together.”
“Absolutely not,” she said, brandishing the blanket. He snatched it from her before she set another dust storm in motion. “I would rather stick my hand in acid than work with you.”
He gaped at her, glad he had resisted the urge to straighten her bonnet. It sat crookedly on the dark curls coming loose from her knot. The angle made her look like a ship listing to port. “What did I ever do to you to deserve that response?”
She jabbed a finger painfully into his chest. “You asked me to marry you!”
He wanted to grasp the hand poking into him, perhaps break the finger or perhaps kiss it. Instead, he tried to ignore the heat flowing into him from it. “You say that as though a proposal of marriage is a bad thing.”
“It is, and you know why.”
He did not begin to comprehend her objections, but he was not foolish enough to admit as much. “I merely thought it would be a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“An arrangement. Yes, that is what I want. An arrangement.”
“I could call it something else—”
“But it wouldn’t be any different! You want a wife to further your career. You want some sort of political hostess who looks pretty and says the right things and spends her days making certain your needs are seen to.”
“I never said that.”
“So you aren’t applying for a position in the Swiss offices?”
“I am, but—”
“And you didn’t assume I would give up everything here—my work, my family, my life—to follow you?”
“Not everything.”
She pinned him with large brown eyes. “Then they need a weaponry designer in Switzerland?”