by Shana Galen
“Tell M. I will. What should I tell him?”
The silence was loud, punctuated by the slow, labored breathing of Viking. She could hear the struggle his lungs made to pull in one last breath. She was killing him. Making him talk was killing him faster. No matter that he would die despite any action she took. She would never forgive herself for this. She would add it to the list of all the things she’d done for which she could never forgive herself.
“Foncé,” Viking whispered.
“Yes.” Jane nodded. “What about Foncé? What should I tell M?”
He pulled in a ragged breath. “Knows him.”
Jane waited. She waited for Viking to exhale. Waited for him to speak again. After a long moment, she realized he never would. She was shaking when Griffyn put his hand on her shoulder. “He’s gone.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” she spat at him. Then she closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No apology required. You’re wounded. You need a doctor.”
“I know.” She allowed him to help her rise. Her head was spinning too much for her to manage it on her own. Her stomach churned at the smell of blood and death clinging to her. She would not allow herself to cast up her accounts. To do so would serve no purpose but to split her wound further. Straight spine, Bonde, she told herself. Her uncle had said it enough times that the words were almost her own.
“No argument?” he asked when she’d gained her feet.
“I know when I need help.”
“Good.” And the next thing she knew he’d swept her into his arms.
“No!” Now her head reeled. “I can still walk. I want to walk.”
“You don’t always have your way. I’m taking you home.”
“No.” She would have her way on this. “Take me to Piccadilly.”
“Piccadilly?”
“There’s a doctor there,” she said.
“This Farrar you mentioned?”
She nodded, struggling to keep her head up. Finally, she gave in and rested it on his shoulder. She didn’t want to be close to him. She simply needed the support. But she couldn’t stop herself noticing how clean and wonderful he smelled. She had no choice but to smell him.
“Where on Piccadilly?”
She opened her eyes and started. She was sitting on his lap, and they were inside a carriage. “Where are we?”
“Hack. Where on Piccadilly?”
She gave him the address and fought to keep her eyes open. She had never lost consciousness before, and she refused to believe she’d done it tonight. Knife wound or no.
Griffyn gave the jarvey the direction, and the carriage jerked into motion. She hissed in a breath as her wound was jostled.
“Besides a doctor, what is on Piccadilly?”
She might as well tell him. It was a bit late for secrets, and he’d soon see, at any rate. “The offices for the Barbican group.”
He took her chin in his hand. “Stay with me, Miss Bonde.”
She realized she’d closed her eyes again, and she nodded and fought to keep them open.
“What is the Barbican group? And do not tell me you cannot say.”
She swallowed. “I can’t say, but I might as well. Remember you did not hear this from me.”
He gave her a look bordering on amusement. “I am the soul of discretion.”
Fine. Let him jest now. “The Barbican group is a subset of the Foreign Office. It’s the most elite group of spies England has to offer.”
When he didn’t respond, she glanced at him. It was a short glance as, slowly, she realized she was still sitting on his lap. Why did he not put her down?
His face was turned away from her, his jaw clenched.
“Griffyn?”
He stared at her. “I bloody well knew it.”
***
He didn’t know why he expected to see a sign on Piccadilly directing the hackney to the headquarters of the Barbican group. It wasn’t as though the Foreign Office wanted to advertise the location of the offices of its most elite spies.
Spies! Bloody spies! He glanced at Miss Bonde, who had moved out of his lap and was now sitting beside him, looking out the window. “We’re almost there,” she said. She said it as though going to spy headquarters was the most normal thing in the world for her. And it probably was. He didn’t want to believe she was a spy. His betrothed, a spy!
Well, she wasn’t actually his betrothed yet, as he hadn’t asked for her hand in marriage. But she was as good as betrothed to him. Women were not supposed to work as spies. He’d thought his mother’s career as an actress about the most outlandish career a woman could have.
Apparently, he’d been wrong.
He didn’t want a wife who was unconventional. He didn’t want a wife at all—not from the beau monde at any rate—another prim and proper miss who would look down on him because he was the bastard son of an actress. He’d lived all his life with the taunts and jibes of others because of his mother’s career. If he ever were to marry, he wanted a wife who stayed home and…did whatever it was women did. They did not carry pistols and suffer knife wounds.
Women wrote letters and…embroidered. That’s what they did.
Whatever the hell embroidery was.
He would raise horses. She would raise children. And that would be that.
Except it would not be the end of it. Bonde was not going to give this…occupation of hers up lightly. And the last thing he wanted was to be saddled with a spy. Bloody hell! He didn’t even think women could be spies.
No, he would cross Jane Bonde off his mother’s short list of marriageable ladies. She would have to find another bride for him. Not that ladies were exactly lining up. Yes, certain sorts of women were eager to trade favors, but they weren’t the sort one brought to dinner at Kenham Hall. Miss Bonde was that sort, but the others of her ilk were not so keen to marry a bastard—even the bastard of a marchioness.
Miss Bonde hadn’t seemed to mind his illegitimacy. Initially, he’d thought her disdain for him was the reason she tried to avoid him. Clearly, she had another reason. She was the one with secrets, the one who was not what she seemed. Did her uncle know what she was involved in?
Of course he did. Lord Melbourne worked for the Foreign Office, which meant he’d probably brought up his niece to continue in his footsteps.
“Why does your uncle want you to marry?” he asked suddenly.
She dragged her gaze from the window, where she was monitoring their slow progress along Piccadilly. “The usual reasons,” she said smoothly.
“You lie quite easily,” he remarked. “But then that’s your profession.”
“My profession is to stop madmen like Foncé and groups like the Maîtriser group, who are intent on destroying the sovereignty of the British nation. At times I cannot reveal certain aspects of my life. That doesn’t make me a liar.” She was in pain. Her voice was strained and higher pitched than normal. But otherwise she didn’t show it. He couldn’t help but admire her for that. She was no simpering miss.
But admire her or not, he wasn’t going to marry her.
“And you haven’t answered my question,” he said. “That was quite the patriotic speech, however.”
She opened her mouth, and he held up a hand. “Do not say the usual reasons. They do not apply in this case. A husband and the children accompanying marriage would be more hindrance than help to your profession.”
The hack slowed, and she turned her attention back to the window. “We’ve arrived. Do you have any blunt? If not, I’ll ask the jarvey to wait and have Moneypence pay.”
He gave her a scornful look. “I have coin enough for a hack. Who is Moneypence?”
“My uncle’s clerk.” With a nod, she moved to open the door, but he grasped her arm. “Our conversation is not over.”
She looked dow
n at his hand on her arm, and he pulled it back. “Good.” She met his gaze with her clear blue eyes. “Because I have more to add.”
“Do not open the door,” Dominic ordered her. “That’s for me to do.”
“I don’t need assistance opening a door.”
“I don’t imagine the majority of ladies need assistance opening doors. That isn’t why it’s offered.” He opened the door, jumped down, and lowered the steps, then held out a hand to assist her. She rose unsteadily, and Dominic realized she was too weak to make it down the steps on her own. Not that she would ever admit as much. He leaned forward, putting an arm around her so she might lean on him. He would have carried her, but that would be too much of a spectacle in the middle of Piccadilly, even at this late hour. The street still teemed with life.
He tossed the jarvey a few coins and followed the nod of her head to a small, unmarked brown door beside a men’s haberdashery. “That’s it? The door to the chamber of espionage?”
“Yes. Did you think it would be gilded and ornamented with diamonds?”
“That’s what they have you for, I suppose.”
The fact that she made no retort spoke for how exhausted she must be. Keeping his arm about her, he helped her to the door. She moved slowly, and he more or less carried her, dragging her feet. When they stopped before the door, he reached for the handle, but she shook her head and indicated a bellpull. Dominic pulled it. Nothing happened.
“Wait,” she said. “He’s slow.”
Dominic waited. And waited.
Finally, a rectangular slit in the wood opened, and two ancient rheumy blue eyes appeared. “Are you here to see Miss Leighton?”
Dominic shook his head. “No, we’re—”
Miss Bonde held up a hand. “Yes. I hear she cobbles shoes.”
The blue eyes narrowed and focused on Dominic. “She also makes blackberry pies.”
“Which I hear she sells in twos.”
The rectangular slit closed, and Dominic heard a clang inside. Secret codes? Hidden chambers? Dead spies? How had he become involved in this?
“Let me speak,” Miss Bonde told him.
“Gladly. I know nothing of pies or shoes.”
“It was the code to gain entrance. I had to give two lines of it, because you made Felix suspicious.”
“Doesn’t he know you by now?”
“This isn’t Almack’s, Griffyn. If someone is trying to find a way in, he or she will be much smarter than a debutante and far craftier too. We take no chances.”
The door opened slightly, and the two of them squeezed through. It was immediately closed again, shrouding them in semidarkness. Before them stretched a long, surprisingly wide hallway. It seemed carved into the building and cavelike, with walls of stone on either side and an arched stone ceiling above. Dominic began to move forward, but he realized Miss Bonde hadn’t moved. She leaned against the wall near the entrance, eyes closed and hand pressed to her belly. The crimson stain had grown larger, and even in the dim light, she looked pale. “Where is this doctor?” he demanded, but Felix was already gone.
“Moneypence can summon him,” Miss Bonde said.
“Fine. Where’s Moneypence?”
“End of the hallway.” She gasped in a breath. “There’s a door on the right.”
The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly. She was never going to make it.
“Miss Bonde.” The man she’d called Felix appeared again. Damn these spies and their appearing and disappearing. He was beginning to feel as skittish as a new colt.
“Are you injured?” Felix asked.
“A scratch,” she answered.
Dominic refrained from rolling his eyes. He had a feeling that even if she’d lost a limb, she’d call it a scratch. “Go find Moneypence,” he ordered Felix before he disappeared again. “Tell him to fetch the doctor.”
“Farrar,” Miss Bonde supplied.
“Yes, Bonde.” Felix shuffled down the long hallway, moving rather more quickly than Dominic had assumed was possible for a man his age. He turned to Miss Bonde, who had pushed away from the wall. His gaze caught the smear of blood she’d left behind. He moved to catch her as she stumbled forward and swept her into his arms.
“Put me down.”
“When you can stand on your own, I will.” He followed the hallway in the direction Felix had gone. He was about halfway to the door Bonde had pointed out when it burst open, and a slim, dark-haired man in tailored black shot out.
He skidded to a stop when he saw her being carried and put a hand to his mouth, which had formed an O. “Bonde!”
“I’m fine, Moneypence,” she said. “Griffyn is overreacting.”
The clerk’s gaze shot to Dominic for a moment, lingered with not a little distaste, and returned to Bonde. “What happened? Shall I send for your uncle?”
“Send for the doctor,” Griffyn said. “She’s lost a lot of blood.”
Moneypence’s gaze didn’t leave Bonde’s face. Finally, she nodded. “It would be helpful to see Farrar.”
“I’ll fetch him. He’s downstairs.”
“I’ll wait in my uncle’s office.”
But Moneypence was already gone. He’d opened a door in the wall and disappeared. Damn spies. Griffyn moved forward, but wherever the door had been, he couldn’t see any sign of it now. “Where’s Melbourne’s office?”
“Through that door.” She gestured to the one she’d indicated earlier. “You have to forgive Moneypence. He has a tendré for me.”
“Is there a man who doesn’t?” Dominic asked, sounding surlier than he’d intended.
“Plenty. I have my share of enemies.”
They reached the door, but before Dominic could grasp the latch, Felix opened it.
“Haven’t you disappeared yet?” Griffyn asked before turning to survey the room. It was brightly lit by both a chandelier and several lamps, and Dominic stepped inside, wondering if he’d somehow stumbled into White’s. It wasn’t as luxurious as the gentleman’s club—or what he knew of it, since he was not a member—but it was certainly not what he expected to step into after traversing the austere hallway.
Dark wood tables with lion’s-paw feet had been placed throughout the room, which was about half the size of a ballroom. Couches with plush pillows and sumptuous fabrics served as seats alongside padded armchairs. Desks, with clerks dressed in black, were located near shelves full of books and files. Stacks of paper piled like towers on every desk. About half-a-dozen men were at work this night, and every single one of them looked up at his entrance. All conversation ceased as they took in the situation. He was carrying a woman—one probably familiar to them—and she was obviously injured. He looked down at her, dismayed to see she had her head on his chest and her eyes closed. “You had better not die on me,” he grumbled.
“You won’t be so lucky,” she answered, but her voice was thin and weak. Where the hell was that doctor?
“Terribly sorry to interrupt,” Dominic began. The doctor wasn’t present yet, and light as Miss Bonde was, his arms were tired. “I’m looking for Lord Melbourne’s office.”
A clerk—judging by his dress and youth—stepped forward. “That area is restricted.”
Dominic raised a brow. If he hadn’t been holding a woman, he would have punched the man. “Shall I set her on a couch here to bleed to death, or is there somewhere more private?”
“I’ll show you.” A man not much older than Dominic stepped around from behind one of the tables and gestured to the far end of the room. He was short and unassuming, with dark brown hair and a confident gait. No one challenged him as he led Dominic out of the room and into a smaller antechamber. There sat an empty desk before a closed door. “You must be the reason Moneypence went scurrying into the unknown a few moments ago,” he said.
“He went to fetch the doctor.”
; The man nodded as he opened the door to the office and gestured for them to proceed inside. He followed, going to the lamp and lighting it. “Farrar. Good man.”
“And you are?” Dominic asked.
The man smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Never ask a spy his identity. Put her down on the couch there,” he said. Dominic followed his gesture toward a leather couch in the far corner. The room was dark and masculine, and Dominic imagined the couch had cost a pretty penny. He didn’t think the blood would easily wash out of the furnishing.
Dominic set her down gently, placing her head on the arm. She’d kept her hands over her abdomen, and they were covered with blood now.
“Stomach wound,” the spy said. “Those are rarely fatal, if treated.” He shrugged. “And if they don’t succumb to infection.”
“That’s reassuring,” Miss Bonde said, surprising Dominic. He hadn’t realized she was still conscious. “Any other words of comfort?”
“No. But you don’t look as though you need any, Miss…”
“I’ll tell if you do.”
Dominic watched the two spies volley verbal balls back and forth. He had no doubt she would win, but he didn’t intend to sit here and wait for the inevitable outcome. “Is a doctor actually coming, or shall I fetch one myself?”
“Allow me to inquire about the good doctor’s progress,” the spy said and took his leave, closing the door behind him. On a table behind the large desk set against a wall, Dominic spied a decanter of what looked suspiciously like brandy. He had neither time nor inclination to study the room, but he did note the large painting. It seemed to depict a group of men in a tavern, heads close together in earnest conversation, while all around them the patrons of the tavern engaged in one folly after another.
“It’s good brandy,” she said.
He gave her a curious look.
“I saw you glance at it.”
“I didn’t think ladies drank spirits,” he said, going to the table.
“Ladies, no. Spies, yes.” She swallowed and paused, as though gathering her strength. “Farrar is good, but he is not exactly delicate. I’ll need a drink for what’s coming. Unfortunately you should never, never give liquids to a person with a stomach wound.”