The Spy Beneath the Mistletoe

by Shana Galen

  “Shall we go for a walk in the morning and discuss suspects?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, surprised her voice sounded even.

  He bowed, and she realized he was leaving. She wanted to shout, No. She wanted to keep him there. She clasped her hands tightly to restrain herself as he silently opened her door, peeked out, and then disappeared without a word.

  Eliza slumped into her chair by the fire, heaving in a great breath and still unable to fill her lungs. This was the drawback to working with Pierce Moneypence. Everything had been perfectly fine—lovely, in fact—until he’d proposed marriage. She hadn’t minded a proposal of marriage. She’d never had one before, and as a spinster, she’d rather thought she never would.

  But a woman wanted a marriage proposal for the right reasons. She wanted a man to propose because he couldn’t live without her. Because he was desperately, madly, and unreasonably in love with her. Pierce had proposed because, after bedding her, he thought it was the right thing to do, not to mention a wife might further his career. There was nothing romantic about a proposal of that sort. A proposal of that sort was the antithesis of romance.

  Still...books describing wicked acts. What sorts of wicked acts? And heaven forgive her, but she wanted Pierce to demonstrate.

  Three

  He waited in front of The Duke’s Arms for Eliza to fetch her pelisse and muff so they might stroll. Thankfully, the snow had stopped. The ground beyond the inn was pristine white and sparkling in the morning sunshine. It was a perfect day for a walk. In fact, he nodded cordially to a woman walking past the inn, a pretty dun rabbit in her arms. The woman and her bunny seemed to be enjoying the sunshine.

  He’d almost forgotten what sunshine looked and felt like. The winter, especially in London, had been so dreary. The door to the inn opened, and there stood Eliza. He forgot all about the beauty of the sun on the new-fallen snow. She was breathtaking.

  Her pelisse was cranberry in color, and the vibrant shade did wonders for her complexion. Her cheeks were pink and her lips ruby. He was not used to seeing her out of the dim lamplight available in the bowels of the Barbican headquarters. In those gloomy corridors, everyone took on a sallow, sickly pallor. But here Eliza looked young and fresh and pretty. Her mass of brown hair had been pulled back by a ribbon that matched her hair and flowed down her back in a riot of curls. He hadn’t realized her hair was quite so long or how young she would look without it pinned up. He couldn’t remember ever having seen it unpinned, not even when he’d shared her bed.

  She was a small woman, petite and slender. He knew her body—not as well as he might have liked—but well enough to be able to trace its curves even within the covering of the pelisse. She had shapely legs, small, pert breasts, and a tiny waist.

  She pushed her spectacles onto her nose, a gesture he recognized as a nervous habit. The spectacles were necessary because she could not see long distances. When she was reading or at home, she often removed them. He liked her better with them on, though. They gave her face definition and enlarged her light brown eyes so he could see the flecks of hazel in them.

  “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Just a few moments. The weather is perfect. Shall we walk, Miss Qwillen?” He used her surname in the event anyone was listening.

  “Certainly.”

  “Did you sleep well?” He nodded to one of the locals tending to a horse in the yard.

  “I did. And you?”

  He cut her a look. “Very well,” he lied. The stable had been cold and drafty, just as Pierce had expected. The cold had cooled his ardor. The noises the horses made had woven themselves into his dreams—nightmares of stallions chasing him down in order to chomp on his fingers. He shuddered.

  They walked in silence for several moments, until they were well away from the inn and then, as though of one mind, turned toward the road away from the little village of Hopewell-on-Lyft. The road traveled through a wooded area cut in half by the River Lyft. The woods worked to the advantage of the New Sheriff of Nottingham. They would not walk as far as the woods, but the relative isolation of the path was preferable.

  “I took the liberty of inquiring as to the arrival of the next coach,” Eliza said.

  “And?”

  “Just before noon,” she answered. “That will give us time to make a list of suspects and to observe who is and is not present should the highwayman make another attempt.”

  “I can hardly think the man would be so foolish as to strike again so soon. The coachman will certainly be ready for him with a blunderbuss, if not a more deadly weapon.”

  “Be that as it may,” she said, stiffening, “it does no harm to be prepared.”

  He could not argue. He really had very little to say to this woman who seemed so cold and efficient. He’d liked her much better last night, when he’d met her in her room. She’d been warm and more like the Eliza he’d known before. He’d easily been able to picture taking her to bed. Last night he had been certain his revelations about the books in the Dungeon had aroused her. Now he was not so confident.

  “Shall we discuss suspects?” he asked.

  “By all means. I have Mr. Langrick and Mr. Barber in the clear column. I saw them in front of the inn when Mr. Dowell announced the highwayman’s attack last night. Likewise, Mr. Wilson is a local, and his aunt, the widow Mrs. Penter, seems far too invalid to be a suspect.”

  “I agree about Langrick and Barber, but I am not willing to clear Wilson quite yet. Did you see him yesterday when Dowell arrived?”

  Her pace slowed. “I cannot remember.”

  “Neither can I. Dowell is a suspect.”

  “Of course. He might be attempting to deflect suspicion by acting as the messenger. Who else have you met?” she asked.

  This sort of conversation was familiar, the sort of dialogue spies conducted all the time. They fell into it easily, and he told her his list of suspects included a Mr. Freeland, who was a local, a Mr. Cardy whom he had not yet spoken to, and a Mr. Goodman, who was a guest at the inn and rarely left his rooms.

  “Wattles and Peg were also present when the last attack occurred,” Eliza said.

  “The serving girl?” He dismissed her with a flick of his wrist. “Do you really think a woman could be the highwayman?”

  She gave him a look that shot daggers. “Have you met Bonde, Butterfly, Saint?”

  Female spies, all of them. “You are, as usual, correct. Put Peg on the list for form’s sake. While we are discussing women, add the perpetually young and pretty Mrs. Wattles. I haven’t yet seen her about.”

  “She’s probably confined to the kitchen, but we will add her just the same.”

  “Mrs. Penter must be added.”

  Eliza paused to shake her head at him. “As I said, she’s old and invalid.”

  “It could be a disguise. How long has she been in the county?”

  “A few months.” She paused under a barren oak tree, whose large branches all but swept the ground. “Interesting timing as that is when the highwayman began his attacks. But, in all honesty, I am much more interested in Cardy, Goodman, and Freeland. Goodman, in particular, concerns me. Why is he such a recluse? We should attempt to find a way to converse with him.”

  “Perhaps we divide and conquer,” Pierce suggested. “You seek out Mrs. Wattles, attend to Mrs. Penter, and keep an eye on Peg. I will investigate Goodman and the other men.”

  “Yes, sir.” She tossed him a mock salute. “Shall we convene in my room to discuss our findings tonight after dinner?”

  The branches on the oak tree must have been exceptionally interesting, because she kept her gaze locked on them.

  “Excellent plan,” Pierce agreed. “I will see you tonight.” He offered his arm. When Eliza took it, her breast brushed against his bicep. He would have known the feel of those soft mounds anywhere, so he knew it was not his imagination. But was he wrong in thinking that she’d touched him on purpose? Was it possible she wanted to be seduced?


  Pierce stalked across the dark coach yard, cursing the Sheriff for taking a holiday. If only the man—or woman—had acted, Pierce would certainly have caught the highwayman. He’d studied his targets assiduously all day and would have known if any of them had disappeared without good reason.

  He’d gathered information about recent attacks, including that of a Miss Weston. He’d also questioned a Mr. Thomas, a Mr. Quinn, and a Mr. Pembleton, area locals, as to what they knew of the Sherriff.

  Pierce had even gained access to Mr. Goodman. He’d asked Mr. Wattles if the man might like company for tea. Wattles had inquired, and Pierce had been obliged to take tea with the gentleman. He claimed to be a solicitor for the Duke of Oxthorpe, and he was staying at the inn until he finished his business at Killhope Castle. It seemed a reasonable excuse and easy enough to verify. Being in the duke’s employ also gave Goodman a reason to leave the inn whenever he pleased. He might claim an appointment with the duke or arrange to be summoned in order to hide clandestine activities.

  Goodman wasn’t the only one possibly engaged in clandestine activities. Pierce slipped into the darkened inn, pausing to be certain all was quiet. It was after eleven, which was later than he’d wanted to visit Eliza, but he’d had to wait until the grooms grew quiet, and they had been playing vingt-et-un for several hours.

  He’d taken the servants’ stairs the night before, and he found them again, ascending quietly and carefully, as he didn’t have a lamp. The door opened into the hallway a few steps from Eliza’s room—his former room. The light under her door still glowed, and he tapped quietly.

  She opened immediately, and he stepped inside. He almost stepped directly out again. She wore her nightgown. He’d seen it before, seen the muslin wrapper she wore over it as well. It was perfectly proper, not scandalous in the least, but he could remember ruching it up to reveal those shapely thighs and the dark curls at their junction.

  He forced his gaze to rest on her face, not that thin wrapper.

  “I didn’t want to risk you being seen by the maidservant who might be about, waiting for me to call, so I already rang for her.”

  That explained her state of dress—or rather, undress. He’d been hoping she’d dressed thus to seduce him. She stepped aside, revealing the fire. He was an idiot, as usual.

  “You must be cold. Please warm yourself. I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you—”

  “Eliza.” The use of her name was enough to quell her rambling. She was nervous. Because they were alone together, and she feared passion might flare between them? Or perhaps she hoped passion might flare between them?

  He took his time warming himself by the fire, lifting the poker to stoke it for her. “I don’t have much to report. Goodman is a solicitor for the Duke of Oxthorpe. He has not been here long and will not stay after he completes his business with the duke. Freeland and Cardy have lived in the village for years. Neither man is married, and they take their meals at the inn. One of them might be the highwayman, but it seems unlikely.”

  She sat in the chair beside the fire. “I see what you mean. It would have been helpful had the Sheriff attacked today.”

  “Not a very obliging criminal.” He poked the fire again. Anything to avoid looking directly at her in the nightgown. “What did you learn?”

  She straightened her shoulders as though giving a report. “Mrs. Wattles was indeed in the kitchen and quite busy there. I fail to see how she could step away and not be missed. However unlikely, such a feat is possible. I suggest she remain on the list. Peg was likewise too busy to speak with me. Her mother and father keep her occupied, but she flirted with your Mr. Cardy. Her father made certain the two of them didn’t converse for long.”

  “Cardy must have spoken to her when I was with Goodman.” Pierce replaced the poker and wiped his brow. “And what of Mrs. Penter?”

  “You should remove your hat and scarf,” she remarked.

  He didn’t need to be asked twice to remove one of the heavy layers.

  “Mrs. Penter remained in her rooms all day. I couldn’t verify that, as the maidservant said she hadn’t called for her, but the girl also said she hadn’t seen her leave. The nephew is presumably at his home in the village.”

  Pierce laid his coat and scarf over one arm and leaned on the mantel. “This is a less-than-promising beginning.”

  “I agree, but the Sheriff will not rest long. Surely, he will strike again soon.”

  “We can only hope.”

  The fire crackled and hissed in the silence.

  “Are you eager to return to London?” she asked.

  “Not particularly.” Except for attending a church service, he’d spent Christmas Day alone. “Are you? I’m sure you want to spend the rest of the holiday with your sister.”

  “I do. I...I never asked if you have any family in Town.”

  “I don’t.” He should take his leave now. The conversation had turned strained and awkward, and the matters related to their mission had been discussed. He wanted to stay with her, prolong this encounter, fill his eyes with the sight of her with her hair down and her prim nightgown and its little bow tied at her neck. He wanted to loose that bow. “My father and mother died several years ago. I have brothers and sisters, but we aren’t close, and none of them live in London.”

  “Friends?”

  “Difficult.”

  “Because of the work.” She pushed up from the chair, but her gaze was everywhere but on him. She took the poker and prodded the fire, though he’d already seen to it.

  “I would have to say other than my sister June, Bonde has been my only real friend. We do tend to make friends with those we see daily.”

  “Yes.” His friends tended to be the other clerks at the Barbican. “Even our lovers are among the Barbican elite. Look at Wolf and Saint, Baron and Butterfly. I had thought you and I...”

  She dropped the poker with a clatter. “Pierce, I don’t wish to discuss this again. We shared one night together, and then you felt obligated to ask for my hand in marriage.”

  “What?”

  She gave him a hard stare. “Do not deny it. You didn’t ask me because you loved me.”

  He lifted the poker and handed it to her. Stupid, that. She didn’t need it, didn’t want it. “I asked because I enjoyed your company and I desired you. I thought love might come in time. Did you love—I mean, do you—”

  “I think you should go.”

  As a child, he’d always run from bullies and conflict. He never faced the problems head-on. Would he run now? “Give me another chance,” he said, standing his ground.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Another chance.”

  He dropped his coat and scarf, and because she hadn’t said no, pulled at the bow closing the nightgown at her neck. “Let me show you what marriage to me might be like. That first time—”

  Too late, she swatted his hand away. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “Fiend seize wise,” he said, trailing a finger down the soft, exposed skin just below her neck. “Why can’t you and I, for once, be spontaneous, passionate, reckless?”

  “Reckless?” Her voice was breathy, and the color had risen in her cheeks. “Reckless was taking those books from the Dungeon.”

  “So you haven’t forgotten those. Would you like me to show you what I learned?”

  “That wouldn’t be wise.”

  “Oh, no. Definitely not.” He loosened the tie on her robe and pushed the garment off her shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Undressing you.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Yes.” He tugged at another ribbon on her nightgown.

  “All of my clothing must go?” She sounded appalled.

  He felt the pulse of lust beating in his veins. He’d never seen a woman completely naked before him.

  “All of it.”

  “I don’t—”

  The ribbon parted, exposing more of her soft skin. “You�
�re going to like this.” Dear God, he hoped she would. He hoped he could remember what he’d had in mind when he finally had her stripped naked. Her gaze never left his as he slid his finger down her lips, her chin, her neck, and into her cleavage. Another tug, and the ribbon revealed a glorious sliver of pale flesh.

  Her gown was open to mid-chest now, and he’d run out of ribbons. He’d have to pull it over her head. She hadn’t objected yet, so he smoothed his hands slowly down her belly, feeling the barest hint of the swell of her breast. The books had said he should go very, very slowly, but it was a trial because he was so eager to touch her.

  When his hands spanned her small waist, he clutched the linen in one hand and tugged upward. Her small white feet were revealed, followed by her shapely calves. He waited for her to protest, but her eyes only darkened and stayed locked on his. He saw in those brown depths a trust he hardly thought he’d earned.

  He’d earn it now.

  He tugged again, and the fabric slid over her thighs then higher to reveal the apex of those thighs, her rounded hips, the indention of her waist, and then he could not go slowly any longer, and he pulled the gown over her head. She raised her hands to cover her nakedness and then stopped herself and forced them back to her sides. He needed to reassure her, but his throat was too dry for speech.

  She was magnificent. Not magnificent in the way the courtesans he sometimes glimpsed at the theater, when he could afford to attend, were magnificent with their sparkling gowns, large bosoms, and dazzling jewels. Eliza was magnificent because she had no pretenses—no face paint, no beauty marks, no corseted breasts. Petite and exquisitely formed, her legs were long for her height and perfectly shaped. Her hips flared out slightly from her waist, and her breasts were small and pert, the aureoles dark pink and the nipples red as wine. Her shoulders were pale and bony, and he could see some of her ribs. She didn’t eat enough, didn’t take good enough care of herself.