A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3)

by Laura Trentham

  * * * * *

  Bryn had been ambushed.

  Maxwell had set the trap, and Mrs. Soames had sprung it. And now she found herself a dressmaker’s doll in the drawing room, arms out while Mrs. Wilson pinned a set of sleeves onto a forest-green dress.

  Maxwell performed a perfunctory knock and cracked the drawing room door open. “May I enter?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s decent enough,” Mrs. Wilson said through a mouthful of pin.

  Maxwell closed the door behind him and paced around her as if surveying a battlefield, his hands behind his back, a solemn expression on his face. “Is your client behaving?”

  “Aye, sir. Although she’s been trying to convince me she needs less, just as you predicted. Also, she’s fighting me on the colors. Insists on brown or gray.” Mrs. Wilson removed the pins and blew a piece of hair off her forehead.

  “I’m standing right here, and my ears are in perfect working order.” Bryn couldn’t keep the tartness from her voice, even as she realized Maxwell was doing something nice and necessary, considering breeches were her only other option.

  Nevertheless, she didn’t like the idea of being indebted to him. A riding habit, a ball gown, five warm winter woolen dresses, and five summer frocks were being commissioned. She would end up with more clothes than she had left behind at the manor house. Just how much money did the man have? What would happen if her courses came? What would she do out on the streets in a ball gown?

  Maxwell wandered over to the fabric samples laid across the back of the settee.

  “Two serviceable gowns are sufficient, Drake.” The thought of how much the dresses would cost made heat rush through her. She took slow, deep breaths.

  “I’ll not have you dressing like a servant.” The delicate fabric was incongruous against the blunt roughness of his hands.

  They were big hands, the backs tanned. She couldn’t see the calluses on his fingers, but the memory of them brushing against her skin heated her in other more intimate ways. The night had been lonely and cold. Had he felt her absence as keenly as she’d felt his?

  A silky midnight-blue fabric pooled to the floor like a waterfall. He draped it over her shoulder, covering the green wool. The fabric caressed her neck, cool and silky. It was sensuous and not at all practical. “This one, Mrs. Wilson.”

  Mrs. Wilson cocked her head. “You have a good eye, Mr. Drake. A blue cools the heat of her unusual coloring. Quite a stunning choice for the ball gown.”

  He pushed her hair over her shoulder, his fingertips glancing over her collarbone. Was the touch accidental or intentional? “Stunning, indeed.”

  Shivers erupted. Stunning? Maxwell stood close enough for his scent to envelop her. It was the same soap she’d used in the bath, but on him it was earthier and drew her like a cinder girl to the hearth.

  He whirled away with such suddenness she flinched. Moving with an economy that spoke of impatience, he pulled a dark blue broadcloth and instructed Mrs. Wilson to make a riding habit and a silvery gray that was a far sight from the drab color she was used to for another day dress.

  “And this green? The color is lovely on her. Don’t you agree, Mr. Drake?” Mrs. Wilson tucked and rustled the green dress around her. Maxwell’s slow perusal down her body brought to mind a sheep auction.

  “The neckline is too high. Can you notch a vee in the front?”

  Mrs. Wilson nodded. “Would you be wanting her to wear stays?”

  Bryn only managed a huffing protest.

  “With her lithesome figure, she hardly needs them in her everyday gowns, but I want the ball gown cut low. Not scandalous, but Miss McCann’s assets”—Maxwell waved his hand in the air—“should be highlighted, don’t you agree?”

  “Aye, her bosom is very fine. She’ll be a pleasure to dress, sir.”

  Bryn covered her bosom with a hand, her tongue thick in her mouth. She’d never been so flustered in her life. They were discussing her as if she were livestock.

  With the ghost of a bow, Maxwell quit the room, leaving behind a thick fog of silence. A ticking clock on the mantle was like the hammer to an anvil. Bryn closed her eyes. Did Mrs. Wilson think Bryn was Maxwell’s mistress? And wasn’t she, of a sort? Explaining their complicated situation would only make matters worse.

  “Goodness, lass, he’s quite taken with you.” No condemnation, only curiosity threaded her voice.

  Bryn looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Wilson, who was pinning the back of the dress, a smile on her face. “What? No. What makes you say so?”

  “What man takes such an interest in his lady’s clothes if he isn’t? And the way he looked at you. I needed a fan. He’ll want to marry with haste.”

  “Marry?”

  “You’re betrothed, are you not?” Mrs. Wilson raised an eyebrow.

  “He’s— We’re—” Bryn blew out an exasperated sigh. What could she do but agree? “We are betrothed.”

  Pins in her mouth, Mrs. Wilson hummed as if the secrets of the universe had been revealed. As the dressmaker continued to poke and prod and measure, Bryn wished she could acquire some of that knowledge to help with her confusion.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The hum of voices and a clatter outside the front door pulled Maxwell from his ledgers and out of his study. Had Armstrong or Craddock or MacShane found them? Not bothering with his jacket, he waited in the shadows for Henry to open the door, the muscles along his shoulders bunching.

  Fabric rustled. Holding a book to her chest and pale-faced, Bryn rocked on her feet at the entrance to the drawing room, looking ready to bolt. She was wearing the green gown the seamstress had modified.

  The color highlighted her creamy complexion and complemented her hair. The soft wool molded to her body. Lush curves had been hiding under the baggy, brown monstrosity she’d worn for days on end while they traveled. As if he needed reminding. The memory tormented him nightly in his dreams.

  Their gazes met across the entry. He wanted to tell her how lovely she looked. Wanted to assure her of her safety. Whether she carried his babe or not, he’d protect her. With his life, if necessary.

  Henry opened the door. The bubble of tension popped. It was neither Dugan nor Craddock nor his brother, Albert. Three strangers, two older gentlemen and a matronly lady, stood on the stoop, arguing.

  “For all that’s holy, Edie, we’re not in London, I’m sure he—” The opening of the door cut off whatever else the gentleman was going to say. “Ah, there you see? It wasn’t too early to call.”

  The man who led the way into the modest entryway was used to power and deference. Although his hair was thinning and gray and he appeared to be well into his fifth decade, he exuded a vitality that was somehow familiar. A peer, certainly, but something else tickled Maxwell’s memory.

  “You must be Maxwell Drake. My daughter-in-law raved about you in her letter. Best man of affairs in all of Britain. Smart, dependable, and imminently honorable. Let me apologize for the early hour and the lack of calling cards. I find the older I grow, the less time I have to waste on trivialities.” He handed off his hat and cane to Henry.

  At the mention of a daughter-in-law, Maxwell’s memory notched into place. The man had the energetic air of his daughter, Lady Lily Masterson. “Lord Windor. I had the pleasure of meeting both your daughter and son last year.”

  “Sharp on the uptake. Good. I don’t have time to waste on idiots either.” The earl rubbed his hands together with a smile.

  “David, really.” The other gentleman moved forward with a shake of his head. By the lines of his face, he was close to Lord Windor’s age, although his hair was still thick, the dark shot through with white. “I’m Lionel Masterson, Mr. Drake. The earl’s daughter, Lily, is married to my son, Gray. And this is Mrs. Edith Winslow, a family friend. As Lady Minerva regards you as a brother, we’re all family of sorts.”

  A brother? Maxwell supposed he’d been as close to Lady Minerva as anyone in his life, besides his mother.

  Mr. Masterson the elder
had kind gray eyes and an overall aura of unruffled competence. Maxwell nodded, his shoulders relaxing as he turned to Mrs. Winslow. The effect of the bright tangerine gown Mrs. Winslow wore was like the summer sun finding its way inside. Even more than her appearance, her good humor and energy gave the impression of a handsome woman. She offered her hand, and he performed the social niceties by rote.

  “A cup of tea or, better yet, coffee wouldn’t be remiss, Drake.” The earl moved farther into the house, apparently intending to make himself at home.

  Henry lay everything on a side table in the entry. “I’ll let Mrs. Soames know there are visitors, sir.”

  Maxwell nodded and gestured their guests into the drawing room. He half expected to find Bryn had scampered away to a hiding spot, but she had been caught by the earl and backed into the side of an armchair.

  “And who might you be, young lady?”

  “Brynmore McCann, my lord, of Cragian, Dumfries.” Bryn managed a credible curtsy.

  “Quite a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lovely Miss McCann.” The earl took her bare hand, bowed, and pressed a kiss on the back.

  Something primal reared inside Maxwell. No matter the earl’s age, he wanted to rip him away from Bryn. Instead, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “She is lovely.” And she’s mine. The unspoken addendum hung in the air as if it had been said—loudly.

  The earl’s vivid blue eyes narrowed, but Maxwell sensed amusement, not anger. “Ho. Minerva thought that’s the way the wind blew.”

  Mrs. Winslow, laughing loudly, slapped the earl on the arm with her reticule. “David. You’re incorrigible. You must forgive us, Miss McCann, we’ve been in each other’s pockets since summer, traveling the whole of Great Britain. Lionel’s the only one who’s managed to maintain a sense of decorum.”

  “My dear Edith, you had no sense of decorum even before we began this adventure,” the earl said as they settled side by side on the settee. Mr. Masterson took one armchair and Maxwell the other. Bryn was left to perch next to the earl.

  After the arrival of the tea tray, Bryn hesitated only a moment before pouring for them all. Maxwell cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “Not that you aren’t welcome, but how did you find us?”

  The earl laughed and slapped his knee. “I love the Scots. Your forthrightness has its charms after navigating London’s treacherous waters, where innuendo and deceit is the order of the day.” The earl took a sip from his cup, his pause designed to heighten expectation. “We were apprised of your whereabouts by Minerva, of course. We’re here to help.”

  Maxwell stiffened. His natural inclination was to refuse. He had learned not to rely on anyone for help or happiness. That path led to disappointment.

  Before he could get a word out, Bryn turned and touched the man’s arm. “Lord Windor, we would be most grateful for assistance.”

  “The pleasure is ours. I’ve been going out of my mind, to be perfectly frank. If I see one more ancient, crumbling church, I’ll have to be committed. Rafe and Minerva’s letter detailing your concerns arrived in the nick of time.”

  The letter he’d sent to Minerva from Cragian had arrived faster than he’d expected. Maxwell had written hoping for level-headed advice from his former employer about his situation, not reinforcements. As if things weren’t complicated enough already. “I’m not sure—”

  “I was informed of your arrival, but Mrs. Winslow convinced me to give you time to settle in. You look quite ravishing in your new dress, by the way, Miss McCann. Green really does suit you.”

  As he recalled, the earl had been a high-ranking diplomat with the British government and had spent much of his time traveling. “Informed by whom? Diplomatic contacts?”

  The earl pursed his lips, humor dancing across his face. “Of a sort.”

  “Now that you’re retired from service, can you not be honest?” Mrs. Winslow asked before turning to Maxwell. “Lord Windor was more than a diplomat, Mr. Drake. I’m afraid his thirst for intrigue will never die.”

  The earl sat back, crossed his legs, and laid an arm across the back of Bryn’s end of the settee. “Let’s discuss strategy. We have several weapons at our disposal. Lionel can interpret the legal mumbo-jumbo of any legal documents. Mrs. Winslow has made friends with a substantial portion of Society in Edinburgh, and my name can gain us entry to any residence. Brief us on the situation.”

  Maxwell took a deep breath, looking around the room at the four people gazing back. Did he have a choice but to accept their help? Days stewing over their not insubstantial problems hadn’t produced a viable solution. “I may or may not have been bequeathed something in my father’s will. His widow claims the will is with the family’s solicitor here in Edinburgh. A Mr. Pickett.”

  “Should be simple enough to obtain as you’re a son,” Mr. Masterson said softly.

  Maxwell grit his teeth against the ingrained rise of shame. “An illegitimate one, I’m afraid. And unacknowledged at that. I haven’t been able to secure an appointment.”

  An uncomfortable wave passed through the room as if he’d detonated a cannon. No one but Bryn met his gaze. He stayed focused on the unblinking understanding he saw there.

  “I’ve seen enough of the world to not judge a man for a father’s sins, and this twist only makes things more interesting.” No embarrassment or disgust laced the earl’s voice. In fact, excitement thrummed in his face and body, his leg bouncing. “I’ve also lived long enough to understand that information is always attainable. For a price.”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid that’s only one of our problems.” He sketched out Bryn’s escape from Cragian and Armstrong, leaving out the scandalous details of why Maxwell was now acting as her protector.

  “Do you recall a visit from a solicitor, Miss McCann?”

  “I do not. And I would have remembered. Mary and Craddock returned from Edinburgh with the contract in hand. I was made to sign without an opportunity to read it.”

  Bryn’s hand had crept to her neck in a protective manner, and Maxwell was flooded with the urge to drive his fist through a wall. Or Craddock’s face. He was only beginning to understand the strength of will Bryn had exhibited to escape.

  “If the contract was drawn up in town, perhaps they used Mr. Pickett as well,” Mr. Masterson said. “And if not, he’ll know who handled the affair. It’s a small city, after all, and people talk.”

  “Mr. Masterson, I’ve been wondering… could Dugan Armstrong force me into marriage or sue for breach of contract?” A hesitancy hitched Bryn’s voice.

  Maxwell scooted to the edge of the cushion. If Dugan attempted to take Bryn from him, Maxwell might just turn into the animal Lady MacShane had accused him of being.

  Mr. Masterson rubbed his bottom lip. “Not force, I don’t think. But he could sue. Are you inheriting a large sum of money, Miss McCann, on your majority or marriage?”

  “No.” The denial was accompanied by a rattle of her teacup. “At least I don’t think so. No one has ever intimated that I have any inheritance whatsoever.”

  “Yet their insistence the wedding continue after…” Heat bloomed in Maxwell. “Bryn’s sister was expecting something valuable out of the union. As was Armstrong. We just don’t know what.”

  “Could it be that Armstrong loves you, Miss McCann?” Mr. Masterson said softly, exchanging a telling look with the earl. “I’ve seen men driven insane with love. Even driven to kill.”

  A wistfulness twisted her smile. “What he feels for me is closer to disdain than love. I have no accomplishments to tempt a husband. Certainly nothing worth killing over.”

  A protest hovered on Maxwell’s tongue, but it would reveal too much, and he stayed silent.

  “Killing? Has something happened to make you believe our interested parties might turn violent?” The earl cast his gaze between Maxwell and Bryn.

  Maxwell detailed their flight into the woods. Instead of concern or astonishment over their possible deaths, the earl broke into a sunny smile and
rubbed his hands together. “Jolly good! This gets more and more tangled.”

  “David, really, they could have been injured or worse.” Mr. Masterson’s worry was in his frown.

  “But they weren’t. They look alive enough to me. The stakes are higher, and immediate action is required. We need to discover what’s in Lord MacShane’s will and Miss McCann’s betrothal contract. Discover who has the most to lose.”

  “Mr. Pickett isn’t likely to hand any of it over, is he?” Bryn asked.

  “No, but I’m wondering if perhaps Drake, Lionel, and I shouldn’t go to try to wheedle it out of him anyway. A bit of charm, a show of muscle, and perhaps we can obtain a reading in his office. Lionel can find the interesting bits, can’t you, old boy?”

  “Certainly.” A flash of humor lightened Mr. Masterson’s face before it tightened once more as he looked to the ceiling. “Mr. Drake, if I’m inferring your situation correctly, a chaperone would not be remiss. Even Edinburgh society will cut you if it becomes common knowledge the two of you are under the same roof without oversight.”

  “You’re absolutely correct. In fact, I was planning to advertise for someone suitable today.” Maxwell tugged at his suddenly constricting neckcloth.

  “We can offer a solution.” The earl turned to Mrs. Winslow. His sigh was deep and long-suffering. The woman was sitting straight up and still balancing her teacup on her lap, but on closer inspection, her eyes were closed. The earl lifted the cup from her lax fingers and said loudly, “Edith. Wake up, woman.”

  Mrs. Winslow’s eyes popped open. She shook herself slightly before taking the teacup from the earl and asked, as if she had not quite heard the question, “What was that now?”

  “Drake and Miss McCann need a chaperone and are wondering whom to employ.”

  Mrs. Winslow pursed her lips and stared Maxwell down. “Employ? My good sir, I chaperoned Lady Lily through her first season in London, and I’ll be more than up to the task in Edinburgh. There is no finer chaperone in all of Britain than yours truly.”

  Feeling caught in a maelstrom out of his control, Maxwell turned to Bryn. “Is that acceptable to you?”