by Shana Galen
Idiot, he chided himself. He clenched his hands and walked confidently forward.
Behind him, a floorboard creaked.
Dominic paused. Had that been his imagination? Was someone else up here with him? He turned back, and that was when the attack came. Later Dominic would take comfort in the fact that he did not scream. He would take comfort in the fact that his brother would wake up in the morning with a sore jaw.
Phineas jumped out from a dark alcove and yelled, “Got you!”
Dominic hit him, sending him sprawling onto his skinny arse. He would have hit him again if he hadn’t recognized him.
“What the devil was that for?” Phineas complained, his words slurred from too much drink. “Jus’ having a bit o’ fun.”
Dominic grabbed his half brother by the shirt and slammed him against the wall. “Listen, and listen well, Brother. Do not ever—do you hear me? ever—come at me from behind again.”
“Very well.”
Dominic released him, and Phineas all but slumped to the floor before picking himself up. “What is wrong with you, anyway?”
Dominic shook his head and continued to his room. “Pray you never find out,” he muttered before opening the door. The lamp in his room burned, and he welcomed the light. He slammed the door, leaning back against it and closing his eyes tightly. His entire body shook, and it was a long, long time before his legs were strong enough to carry him to his bed.
Six
Jane stood outside the doors to the drawing room for a long moment after Lord and Lady Smythe’s butler escorted Mr. Griffyn away. Her cheeks were still burning, but it was not from embarrassment. She did not embarrass easily, and she could not remember ever having blushed so often. She was not the blushing sort—or at least she hadn’t been.
She was the sort to feel annoyed when she allowed the personal to interfere with the professional. She was here on business for the Barbican group. That business had nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Griffyn. In fact, he was in the way. And yet, she had allowed him to escort her to the residence of one of the Barbican group’s best operatives—Agent Wolf.
And then she’d allowed him to kiss her senseless within feet of that operative and his wife. She was obviously in need of more sleep or a knock on the head or a long stint in the Barbican group’s filing room, affectionately referred to by agents as the Dungeon. And she might opt for any or all of those possibilities after she destroyed the Maîtriser group.
With that thought, she took a breath and glided into the drawing room. The Smythes, heads together as they sat beside each other on the settee, had obviously been in the middle of a discussion, because their whispered conversation ceased, and Lord Smythe stood.
“I am afraid Mr. Griffyn was called home,” she said, making her way to a gilt armchair with lions carved on the front legs. “That might be for the best, as he is not…a friend of Lord Melbourne.” She looked pointedly at Lady Smythe and then at Lord Smythe. It might not be proper for Lord Smythe to be alone with her, but she could hardly discuss classified Barbican cases in front of a civilian. Not to mention, the deeds of a monster like Foncé might cause the poor woman to give birth prematurely. Her belly was huge on her small frame, and Jane rather thought the lady looked ready to fall forward from the enormous size and weight of the babe she was carrying. The child looked as though it would be more horse than human.
Of course, Jane had no experience with women in Lady Smythe’s condition, so perhaps all of them looked as though they were carrying a foal at this stage.
Lord Smythe correctly interpreted her glance at his wife and sat beside the woman, taking her hand. Jane was a bit uncomfortable at such displays of affection, especially considering holding the woman’s hand was probably the beginning of what had caused the condition the woman was in now, but the woman was not hers to contend with. Surely Lord Smythe knew how to dismiss his own wife. Considering her difficulty in ridding herself of Mr. Griffyn earlier, she should probably take notes.
“Miss Bonde,” Lord Smythe began, “you said Lord Melbourne sent you.”
Actually, she hadn’t said that, but she had let it be assumed. “I am his niece,” she repeated.
“And did he mention who I was?”
Jane’s gaze slid to Lady Smythe again. Really, the poor woman should probably go lie down. It could not be comfortable to sit in her position. Or stand. Or…exist.
“You can speak in front of Lady Smythe,” he said. “If you know I am Agent Wolf, then you might as well know she is Agent Saint.”
If he had pulled out a pistol and shot her, Jane would have been less surprised. She actually fell back against the seat of her chair, all the air whooshing out of her lungs. She shook her head. “I don’t understand.” She knew it was rude, but she could not stop staring at Lady Smythe’s—Agent Saint’s, the Agent Saint’s?—belly. How could this hugely pregnant woman be an agent for the Barbican group?
“I see you are somewhat surprised,” Lady Smythe—Jane could not think of her as Agent Saint in her condition—said. “Believe me when I tell you Lord Smythe and I were equally surprised. We had been married five years when we discovered, quite by accident, that we were both agents for the Barbican group.”
“And M knew?” Like many agents in the group, she often called her uncle M to protect his identity and save her the time and trouble of using his courtesy title.
“Of course. He managed to keep the secret from everyone.”
That did not surprise her. What was truly extraordinary was that these two were such good spies that they kept their roles from each other. It underscored what she already knew: Wolf and Saint were the best—save herself, of course. She had studied their previous cases and the techniques they’d used to fulfill their missions. She had read and reread Saint’s amazing feats, never once considering Saint was a woman.
Until very recently, women were not allowed in the Barbican group—or so her uncle had told her. That was one reason her identity was kept so secret. At least, that was what she had believed. But how could a woman so hugely pregnant be an operative? Did they have other children? How had she fought with that huge belly? She certainly couldn’t run.
“We are retired,” Agent Wolf told her.
“I had heard that,” Jane said, snapping her gaze back to him. “But I also know no one can rest easy with Foncé free.”
“That is true,” Saint said. “It’s only a matter of time until he uncovers our hidden identities and comes after us. He abducted Baron’s wife, and he sent his assassin after Blue. Foncé has more reason to hate us. We’ve almost had him twice.”
Jane nodded. In other words, these two had come face-to-face with Foncé and lived. Not many could say that, especially agents of the Barbican group.
“We’d rather not risk a third encounter,” Wolf said. “And we have every reason to believe Foncé wants every member of the Barbican group dead. He will not stop until he achieves his purposes.”
“But why has he targeted us? It’s almost as though he has a personal vendetta against the Barbican group.”
Wolf spread his hands. “If we knew that, it might give us some insight into how we might apprehend him.”
“That is why I’m here,” Jane said. “I was told you are in possession of information as to Foncé’s whereabouts.”
Wolf and Saint exchanged a look. There seemed to be an entire conversation in that brief meeting of their gazes.
Saint spoke. “We’ve been told you are the best.”
“I am.” It wasn’t false pride or braggadocio behind her boast. She was the best. She’d never yet failed a mission. She was the operative sent in when other agents could not complete their missions.
“I believe it,” Agent Saint conceded, “but M didn’t send you.”
Jane schooled her face. “How do you know that?” she asked, keeping her voice level.
“Because he doesn’t know I have this information,” Wolf said.
Bollocks. She had fallen for the trick—and it was not even a new trick. “Blue,” she swore under her breath.
“Yes.” Saint nodded. “We wanted to know whom M considered the best of the best. We wanted to assess whether we thought you could really capture Foncé.”
They were assessing her? Jane’s brow rose. “And?”
“We’re undecided,” Wolf said. “You seem young.”
Jane stood. “Am I young or merely female?”
Wolf held his hands up as though to ward off an attack. “Do not put words in my mouth. We are as invested in capturing Foncé as you are. We have been trying to destroy the Maîtriser group for almost a year.”
“I will destroy the Maîtriser group,” she said. “I never lose.”
The two spies exchanged another glance.
“Stop doing that!” Jane said, moving to stand before them. “Say what you’re thinking. You don’t believe I can do it.”
“It’s not that,” Saint said. She rose, pushing herself up, belly first. Jane had to step back to make room for her distended form. “You are just so very young.”
“And you are so very pregnant! A tortoise could move more quickly than you at the moment. You are not going to apprehend Foncé. If I were you, I would go into hiding.”
“Don’t think we haven’t considered it,” Wolf said. “As yet, we don’t believe Foncé knows who we are or where we live. But we might be wrong, and time is running out.” He gestured to his wife. “There is more than the two of us to consider.”
“Then give me the information in your possession. Blue said one of your contacts sold you Foncé’s whereabouts. Or was that a ploy to arrange this meeting?”
“No, it’s true. I don’t know how much to trust the information, however. It might be a trap.”
“Whatever trap Foncé has laid, I assure you, I can elude it.”
“You are very confident,” Saint said. “But we don’t want to send you to your death.”
“I’m not afraid of death, and I’m not afraid of Foncé.”
“You should be,” Wolf said quietly. Jane started to ask what he meant, but he turned away. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”
Jane followed the other agent out of the drawing room. Behind them, Saint said, “I’ll come with you.”
Wolf looked back, his eyes narrowed, and his lips parted as though he would contradict her. Jane waited for him to object, but the seconds ticked by, and he said nothing. Instead, he took his wife’s arm and walked down the stairs with her, while the butler appeared seemingly from nowhere and led the way to what Jane assumed was Wolf’s library, on the ground floor of the residence.
Wolf paused outside the closed door. “If you will give me one moment.” He went inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. Jane could not help but peek inside, but before she saw much more than dark wood and a shelf of books, the butler moved to block her view.
“Have you ever been in the Dungeon?” Saint asked while they waited.
“Yes, have you?”
“Once.” She shuddered. “That was quite enough.” She inclined her head toward the butler and the library behind him. “Adrian has his own version of the Dungeon inside.”
Jane’s eyes widened. The Dungeon housed all of the Barbican’s files—stacks of boxes filled with maps, agent notes, drawings, secrets, and information about some of the most dangerous and notorious men and women in the world. Jane found it fascinating. Just not as fascinating as working in the field. Still, she liked to spend an afternoon there when she had free time. She could lose herself in old maps and reports.
“I’d love to see it sometime,” Jane told Saint.
“Catch Foncé, and I’ll give you a key,” Wolf said, appearing at the door. “Come inside.”
She entered the library, disappointed it appeared much like any other library in London. Desk, couch, chairs, books. She shrugged to herself. No sign of any enormous file warehouse here. On the desk, a small sheaf of papers was stacked neatly, and Wolf gestured toward these. “Sophia, sit in my chair,” he said.
Saint’s brows rose. “You really are worried about me.” She took the chair and glanced at Jane, who sat opposite her. “He doesn’t like me to climb up and down the stairs.”
“You should rest in your condition.”
“Traitor!” Saint said playfully. “Just you wait. Ten to one when you are increasing, all the resting your husband tries to force on you will drive you mad.”
For a moment Jane couldn’t breathe. When she was increasing? She was never going to be increasing. She was not going to have children.
Except if she married Griffyn, she supposed she would be expected to have children. They would lie together, and children would be the inevitable result. She’d be forced to rest and be kept away from the action—just like Saint. It wasn’t that she didn’t like children. She did like them, but she also liked traveling the world, hunting double agents, and priming a pistol.
Men had always been secondary considerations compared to those central to the Barbican group. She’d known men. She was still a virgin—by most definitions—because she did not want to find herself with child. But in her travels, she had occasionally met a handsome man who intrigued her. She’d shared kisses and more. She’d known passion—or so she’d thought. Nothing she had experienced thus far could compare to what had passed between her and Griffyn tonight. She had all but lost herself in his arms. That had never happened to her. She always knew what she was doing. She was in control and quite capable of telling a man to stop what he was doing—and enforcing her command, if necessary—when she felt he or she was becoming carried away.
Tonight Jane was not so certain she would have stopped Griffyn. Her skin felt warm when she but considered the kiss they’d shared in the very public space just outside the Smythe’s drawing room. What had she been thinking?
She hadn’t been thinking. That was the problem, and that was why she could not possibly consent to marry Griffyn.
Wolf was saying something, and Jane tried to concentrate. She stared at the papers before her on the desk, but found her gaze drifting to study the two of them. They loved each other. It was so clear, so obvious. He had his hand on her shoulder, and she leaned toward him. Jane had seen men and women in love before. Her own aunt and uncle certainly had an affection for each other. But nothing she had ever seen had made her want what others had.
The Smythes were different. She wanted a man to worry about her, to want to protect her, to cherish her, as Wolf so obviously cherished his wife. And she wanted someone to lean on, someone who would make her feel safe and valued for more than the way she could flutter her eyelashes or toss her hair. She wanted a man who would see the real her—the woman and the agent—and love them both.
“Bonde?” Wolf asked.
“I’m sorry.” She blinked. “I’m listening.” She focused her gaze on the papers in front of her.
“As I was saying, this is the information I’ve”—he looked at Saint—“we’ve gathered. The top page is where my source believes Foncé is hiding.”
Jane scanned the foolscap, lifted it, looked for another sheet, then frowned. “That is all?”
Wolf shrugged. “Now you see why I didn’t rush to inform M.”
“Westminster is a busy area—the river, Whitehall.” She shook her head. “He could be anywhere. Not to mention, your source notes only having seen Foncé in that area on…” She consulted the parchment again. “On numerous occasions.”
“It’s a start,” Saint said. “It’s more than we had.”
Jane tapped her fingernails on the desk and shifted through the other papers in the file. They were more informative. She knew quite a lot about the Maîtriser group, but Wolf’s research filled in several gaps. “If the Maîtriser group is
intent upon”—she read from the page—“furthering anarchy by disrupting and destroying government, it certainly makes sense for Foncé to frequent Westminster. That is the seat of power.”
“He could be planning another attempt on the life of the prince regent.”
“It’s a possibility.” But she didn’t think so. “He has something big planned. A grand finale. It will take him years to kill every member of the Barbican group, even if he could uncover all of our identities. But he could cripple us in other ways. Make us look ineffective and useless.”
“He’s tried that,” Wolf said, “when he went after the regent.”
Jane rose. “Next time he will make certain he doesn’t fail.”
***
Dominic felt edgy. It wasn’t simply the close confines of Edgeberry’s carriage, though it was quite cramped with two of his brothers and both his parents inside. Carlisle prattled on endlessly about an upcoming horse race, and his mother, always vivacious herself, asked dozens of questions. It wasn’t just the incessant chatter and cramped squabs Dominic was forced to share. The entire day had been rainy and cold, and he’d been cooped up inside for the better part of the afternoon.
He missed his horses. He hated being away from them for this long. He’d spent the morning in Edgeberry’s mews, tending to the marquess’s town hacks. He knew these animals. He’d bred them, trained them, and they were some of the finest animals the stables at Kenham Hall had produced. But the mews were a far cry from the open air and land of Edgeberry’s country estate, and London was as loud and damp and foggy as ever.
Dominic hated London, and he hated being away when one of his horses was ailing. Though he trusted Old Connor implicitly, he could not help but wonder how Lily’s Turn was getting on and whether any other horses had been struck down with colic.
“You’re quiet tonight, old boy,” his brother Arthur said. He was Lord Trewe, the oldest of Dominic’s three half siblings and the heir to the marquessate. Like his brothers, he possessed fair hair and large brown eyes. He was more serious than Phineas, who was most likely carousing again tonight, and not quite as carefree as Carlisle. And at five and twenty, his hair was already thinning, making him look older than his years.