by Shana Galen
“Of course,” he called up. “Talk later. Concentrate now.”
Bonde did not think chitchat much of a distraction. Having someone shoot a pistol in one’s general direction or dump a pot of hot water down the side of a building, those were credible distractions. But, she reminded herself, Butterfly was still learning. Bonde descended the next few feet in silence, listening instead to the sounds of the orchestra playing at the ball taking place inside the Grosvenor Square mansion. The low rumble of voices and the clink of champagne glasses rose above the music at times, as did the tittering laugh of some woman or other. She decided that for all the exertion of the climb down, she much preferred it here than inside.
“What is taking so long?”
Bonde knew that voice and sighed. She glanced at Butterfly above her. The other spy was still proceeding slowly but surely. Bonde could have drunk a glass of ratafia by now if she’d not moved slowly to make certain Butterfly did not need her. And now here was her uncle, expressing his usual impatience.
“We are trying to concentrate, Uncle,” she called down.
“Everyone is asking for you,” he answered. “Your aunt, in particular.”
That news was rather worrisome. What could her aunt possibly want with her? She’d worn the gown her aunt had chosen, allowed her hair to be styled by her aunt’s lady’s maid, and promised to dance with no fewer than six eligible gentlemen, none of them more than once, of course. What else did her aunt require?
Her actual appearance, she supposed. Bonde glanced up at Butterfly again and noted the woman seemed to have her footing now. She did not have far to go, and there was a window ledge under her, which made the last few feet child’s play. Bonde crawled, spiderlike, down the rest of the building and jumped neatly beside Baron and her uncle.
“What the devil was that?” Baron asked. “Are you part ape?”
Bonde smiled. “I assume you meant that as a compliment. Some ladies might take offense.”
Baron raised a brow. He was handsome with those green eyes and that unruly brown hair. Not that she cared whether men were handsome or not. She had never been swayed by appearances. She knew well how often they might deceive.
“Some ladies do not descend walls as though they are part monkey.”
“Hmm.” Bonde inspected her gloves for any traces of dirt. “Another questionable compliment.”
“He excels at those,” Butterfly added from her perch above the window.
“Will you concentrate?” Baron barked and moved underneath his wife. Bonde glanced at her uncle. The idea of two married spies working together was still a novelty to her. But then, she insisted upon working alone.
“He’s a bit overprotective,” her uncle murmured. “That’s why I called you in. I didn’t feel he was challenging her to reach her full potential.”
“She’s good,” Bonde acknowledged. “She has natural instincts.”
“I’m pleased you agree.”
Baron caught his wife around the waist and set her down, rather than making her descend the last few feet. She looked spent and relieved. Bonde would have flayed him for such presumption. If she started something, she finished it.
Butterfly all but skipped over to them, smiling from ear to ear. “I did it. I really did it!”
“Of course you did,” Bonde said. The alternative had been to splat on the stone paving on which they now stood.
“You performed beautifully,” Baron said.
“Not as beautifully as Bonde. I don’t think she has a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her gown.” Butterfly looked down at her own wrinkled gown and her ruined gloves. “You made it appear so completely effortless.”
“That is why she is the best,” her uncle said.
“You were certainly correct on that account, Lord Melbourne,” Butterfly agreed.
“Excuse me,” Baron said, frowning, “but I do think a man should be able to rely on his wife championing him, even if no one else does so.”
“Oh, poor Winn,” Butterfly said, patting his arm. “I was mistaken. You are the best. Now, please take me home.”
Bonde felt a sharp jab of surprise. “Oh, but won’t you be attending the ball?” Was everyone but her allowed to escape?
“I’m far too fatigued,” Butterfly said. “Not to mention, we promised our girls we would be home to tuck them into bed.”
She had forgotten they had children. “Oh, I see.” As she watched, the spies became less and less Baron and Butterfly, and more and more Lord and Lady Keating.
“Come then.” Her uncle took her arm. “I dare not keep Lady Melbourne waiting any longer.” He escorted her around the side of the house and into the garden, where several couples were strolling. Spring was in full bloom, and the flowers looked lovely in the moonlight. Not that Bonde had taken any time to look at the flowers, but she imagined if she ever did have time, they would look lovely. Her uncle led her up the steps of the house to the open doors of the ballroom. The cool night air wafted inside, rustling the curtains and relieving a bit of the stifling heat caused by the crush of people.
It took Bonde several moments to adjust to the sounds and the lights and the mass of bodies, but before the first gentleman bowed and said, “Good evening, Miss Bonde,” she had become Miss Jane Bonde again and had left Bonde, the spy, outside.
She smiled, her lips curving prettily, and tossed her blond curls back over her shoulder. “Mister Asprey. How good to see you again.”
He looked as if he would detain her, but she could not speak to him longer or he might ask her to dance, and her toes would not tolerate another mashing.
“My aunt awaits,” she said as she glided away. As a consolation, she tossed him a charming smile. He almost stumbled.
“Jane, darling!” Her aunt clutched her arm and dragged her aside. “Where have you been?”
Jane looked at her uncle for assistance, for she was not certain what he had told his wife as an excuse. But her uncle had suddenly disappeared. He was quite good at disappearing, especially when his wife was nearby. “Aunt, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“It is not I you have kept waiting, but someone very special.” As she spoke, Lady Melbourne propelled Jane through the crowds and toward the supper room. Jane did not argue, which would have been pointless at any rate. The supper room would be quieter than the ballroom, and her head was already pounding from the noise of too many voices. Oh, but she hated these affairs. Why could she not turn thirty already and be declared officially on the shelf? At four and twenty, she was unsuitable and elderly, but not yet completely unmarriageable.
More was the pity.
How would she survive six more years of Seasons? She had several sources of hope. One: that her aunt and uncle would run out of discretionary funds and have to forego all social activities. But though Lady Melbourne spent quite extravagantly, Jane’s last peek into her uncle’s account books revealed he still had enormous funds at his disposal. Since her uncle was a former operative, Jane had suspicions as to where those funds might have originated.
Her second hope was that a crisis requiring her intervention would interrupt her participation in the endless round of balls, musicales, and routs. This was by far the more likely scenario. It had been six months since any new information about Foncé had been reported and four since another agent from the Barbican group had apprehended the assassin for the Maîtriser group, Foncé’s criminal organization. But though Jane had questioned this Reaper on many occasions before his untimely death, he had proved less than talkative.
Still, Foncé would not lick his wounds forever…
If he would just make another appearance in London or Europe or anywhere. Here, in the supper room, would have been preferable at the moment. No good could come of anything or anyone her aunt believed was special. Heaven forbid any person receive the designation of very special.
; As soon as they stepped into the supper room, the noise from the ball dimmed. Jane’s head throbbed in relief. What she would not give for a night of quiet and a good book on ancient weapons or deadly poisons. Out of habit, Jane scanned the room, taking quick note of her surroundings. Several tables had been laid with delicacies of every sort—cold meats and thick sauces, glossy fruits, savory breads, and sumptuous sweets. The hot dishes would be set out right before the call to supper, but Jane would have been quite happy with the cold dishes alone. She thought she’d eaten a piece of cheese at some point this afternoon, but that might have been yesterday. She’d spent the better part of the day at the Barbican’s offices, and there was never anything to eat there.
“Now, Jane,” her aunt turned to her and whispered hurriedly, looking back at the door as she did so. Who was she expecting? “I want you to be polite.”
“I am always polite.”
“Yes, but sometimes you are polite in such a way as to actually be insulting. The person to whom you are speaking might not notice, but I do.” Her aunt’s large hazel eyes fastened on Jane’s face and held. Jane did not look away. Instead, she studied her aunt’s handsome features—her glossy auburn hair, her high forehead, her pointed nose, and her firm mouth. She was barely forty, several years younger than her husband, and she had obviously been a beauty in her day. She was still a beautiful woman, intelligent as well. Jane felt a little sorry for her, because like most women of her station, there was little for her to do but sip tea, gossip, and marry off her sons and daughters.
But Lord and Lady Melbourne had no sons or daughters. That was a shame, because her aunt would have been a wonderful mother. She had taken in the broken daughter of her husband’s brother and raised her with affection and kindness. And even though Jane had been young when she’d come to live with her aunt and uncle, she had never thought of them as mother and father. There was a distance between them, a formality.
Lady Melbourne peered at the door again, and Jane followed her gaze. “Who is it I am to meet?”
“A Mr. Dominic Griffyn. His mother is the Marchioness of Edgeberry.”
Edgeberry… Jane had an image of a passel of attractive young men, all with blond hair and brown eyes. They might have been her brothers for all the resemblance they shared.
“I see, and what makes Mr. Griffyn so…” She trailed off as a footman carrying a silver tray with champagne glasses approached.
“Champagne?” he inquired, smiling at her.
“Thank you,” Lady Melbourne said, taking a glass.
“Miss?” the footman asked, offering her the tray. Her aunt gave her a stern look, but Jane ignored her. She did not care for champagne, and if she was going to have to meet this Mr. Griffyn, she feared she needed fortification.
“Would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of ratafia?”
“Of course.” The footman nodded. “I would be more than happy to fetch you ratafia—or…or anything at all, miss.” He gave her a long, meaningful look, and Jane supposed the anything at all might include more than refreshment.
“Cherry, please.”
“My pleasure.” He began to walk away.
“Shaken, not stirred.”
“Certainly, miss. I’ll see to it personally.”
He moved swiftly to carry out the request, and Lady Melbourne hissed, “Can you not sip champagne?”
“I prefer ratafia.”
“You are too particular.”
“He did not seem to mind.”
“Because he could not stop staring at you. But enamored footmen aside, you are too particular.”
Oh, dear God. Jane hoped this would not be another discussion about marriage, and then she narrowed her eyes. “Aunt, what makes this Mr. Griffyn so special?”
Her aunt looked away, and Jane’s heart began to pound. “You do not intend for me to marry this man, do you? I have not even met him.”
“I had hoped to discuss this matter after you met him.”
Jane shook her head. Had the orchestra moved closer? All of a sudden, everything was once again too bright and too loud.
“What matter?”
“Jane…”
Jane grabbed her aunt’s gloved arm. “What matter?”
Her aunt frowned. “Very well.” She lowered her voice so that none of the servants or guests passing by might hear. “Your uncle and I have decided. You and Mr. Griffyn will marry.”
Jane released her aunt as if she had been burned. “No.”
“The issue has been decided on both sides, Jane,” her aunt said with a stubborn lift of her chin.
“No.” Jane looked about. She would find her uncle. He could not have possibly agreed to this. “Lord Melbourne—”
“—agrees completely. In fact, Mr. Griffyn was his choice.”
But why? Jane did not understand. She was an agent, not a wife. Hadn’t her uncle always been pleased with her performance? Why would he want to marry her off and relegate her to a life of utter insignificance? She still had Foncé and the Maîtriser group to defeat. How could she do that if she had a husband demanding she be home to remove his slippers every evening?
“I won’t do it,” Jane said flatly. “I am sorry to disobey you and my uncle in anything, my lady, but I will not, under any circumstances, marry Mr. Griffyn.”
Her aunt’s eyes widened into enormous saucers, and there was a long silence. Too long. At some point, the orchestra had finished the reel they’d been playing. Finally, the sound of a man clearing his throat echoed in the quiet supper room. Jane whirled about.
“Shall I return at a more opportune time?” the man standing behind her drawled. Jane gaped at him as warmth unrelated to the stifling ballroom crept from her belly to her cheeks. He was tall, much taller than the average man, and at least a head taller than she. He had broad shoulders, not as broad as Baron’s, but broad enough that he filled out his dark green coat quite nicely. His hips were slim, his breeches snug, and his legs muscled.
She glanced back up and looked into his face. He was smiling, looking somewhat amused. She imagined her perusal of him was what caused the smile. She had completely forgotten herself, and now she was about to do so again. He had the most cocky, arrogant smile she had ever witnessed on the most sensual lips she had ever seen on a man. He had obviously not shaved, as he had a dark shadow of stubble on his strong jaw and sculpted cheeks. She knew many women who would have killed for his cheekbones. His eyes were impossibly dark, the eyes of a man one might expect to encounter in a Gypsy camp. His eyebrows were two dark slashes above thick eyelashes, and his hair, straight and windblown, fell carelessly over his forehead. The style was too long, brushing his shoulders, and not at all fashionable, but she could not help thinking it suited him perfectly. It made his already dark, sensual features look even more exotic.
“Mr. Griffyn!” her aunt all but screeched.
Jane shook her head. This could not be Mr. Griffyn. For if it was Mr. Griffyn, she had just completely embarrassed herself and her aunt.
But more importantly, if this was Mr. Griffyn, she was in trouble.
Three
“Lady Melbourne,” Dominic said through his clenched jaw. The poor woman was shaking with agitation. He turned his gaze to the girl. “You must be Miss Bonde.”
“I must apologize for my earlier statement. I meant no offense.”
“No offense taken. I have heard of you as well.”
She shook her head. “But—”
“And I must say, the accounts have been exaggerated.”
The lovely flush on her face darkened, and her clear blue eyes turned from expressive to stone. He’d wounded her, as was his intent, but he did not feel any triumph. He wished the accounts had been exaggerated, but if anything, his brother had been modest. The girl standing before him was absolutely breathtaking. She was classically beautiful, the English ideal
with her blond hair, her blue eyes, and her porcelain skin.
He knew the type. He couldn’t count the times he’d seen derision in a pair of blue eyes. The beauties of the ton had shown him time and again that he was not worthy of them. This girl was no different.
Except this girl had something else, something more. There was a voluptuousness, a sensuality to this girl that tugged at him. He couldn’t look away from her. He couldn’t walk away from her. He wanted to rub his thumb over her full bottom lip, wanted to touch her skin to see if it was as soft as it looked, wanted to slide his palm over the full curve of her breast and test its weight.
He wanted her, and she had made it abundantly clear she did not want him. He could hardly blame her, but that did not mean he would forgive the slight.
“I suppose that is that then,” she said, turning. “If you’ll excuse me…”
“No!” Lady Melbourne looked panicked. “Mr. Griffyn, wait just one moment.” Her niece was already moving away, but the older woman moved swiftly to catch her. “Jane, do not walk away, or you will have your uncle to answer to.”
The girl stopped at that threat, and Dominic realized she was as trapped as he was. Her aunt and uncle had thrust him upon her, just as she’d been foisted upon him by his mother. But that did not mean he had to forgive her for the snub she’d given him. Why should he not make her suffer?
“You must at least dance with him,” Lady Melbourne hissed.
“Yes, Miss Bonde, you owe me a dance at the very least.”
She whipped her attention back to him, her mouth slightly agape. “You expect me—”