by Shana Galen
And why had she allowed herself to fall into Lady Edgeberry’s trap? Jane was not going to see Dominic Griffyn as anything other than one of many of the men she knew. He was no different. She did not want to know anything about his childhood. She did not want to feel sympathy for him. She did not want to think that perhaps, in some way, her friendship might help Griffyn. She could not help him. She had to capture Foncé. She had to help her country.
And this was precisely why she should never marry. Her loyalties would forever be divided. Years ago, she’d had to make a choice, and she’d chosen the Barbican group. Why, then, did she have the urge to go to Griffyn? Why did she lie awake thinking about the feel of his lips on hers? Imagining what his hands on her bare skin would feel like? Why did she long to know more about him, yearn to know what secrets he hid behind those dark eyes? Why did she seek him out? For she had certainly sought him out this morning. She’d known he loved horses. She’d known he would be at the stables.
And why shouldn’t she want to see him? She was a woman as well as an agent. She had desires and needs, as much as she tried to suppress them. Could she have possibly known, all those years ago when she’d begun training as an agent for the Barbican group, what she was giving up? Had she ever even had a choice? Had her destiny been set when her parents died and she was sent to live with her aunt and uncle?
Suddenly, Jane was angry—angry that her uncle had chosen a path for her without considering it might not be the path she wanted; angry that she could not seem to put Griffyn out of her mind, the way she had other men; angry at his mother for whatever she had allowed, even unintentionally, to happen to him when he was a young boy.
Another glance in the mirror revealed spots of bright red in her cheeks. Jane took a deep breath. Foncé was in London. She could not afford to waste time fretting over what might have been. Her life, for better or worse, was the Barbican group. She had to find a way back into Town. A sharp knock sounded on the door adjoining her room to her aunt’s. Jane turned as her aunt opened it. She took a quick look at Jane and frowned. “Goodness. Have you already been out?”
“I went for a walk.”
“Is that wise, in your condition?”
“I’m fine.”
“You would say that even if you were being drawn and quartered.”
“Women aren’t drawn and quartered.”
Her aunt gave her a dark look.
Jane sighed. There was nothing wrong with being fussed over once in a while. “I may have overexerted myself. I came to rest and change into clean boots before breakfast. Lady Edgeberry has arrived.”
“Has she?” Lady Melbourne smiled. “Oh, good! We can spend the day planning the wedding.”
Jane inhaled sharply. She had walked directly into that trap. It was such an amateur mistake that she deserved her punishment.
“What is this nonsense about boots?” her aunt asked.
And here it comes, Jane thought.
“You do not need boots to embroider and discuss wedding plans.” She looked about. “Where is your maid? I will tell her to fetch your slippers.” She rang the bellpull, putting her plan into action. Jane could see no way to counter this plan, except to feign illness and stay in bed. She was not certain which was worse—staying in bed all day or being forced to discuss wedding lace and whether scones or crumpets should be served at the breakfast.
The maid entered, exclaiming over the state of Jane’s petticoats. Soon day dresses were dragged out for inspection, and her hair was taken out of its simple style and repinned. Maids hurried to and fro, jumping to carry out her aunt’s orders. Jane closed her eyes and focused on a piece of advice Agent Blue had once given her: When you’ve jumped into a strong current, sometimes the best strategy is to allow it to take you where it will.
Of course, they had been standing at the precipice of a particularly tumultuous stretch of the Seine, with three of Napoleon’s agents closing in, and she had not been certain she would survive the jump, much less the journey down the river. Jane winced now as another pin was thrust into her already too-tightly coiled hair. The situation now was not so very different, except at present she had jumped into a much stronger current.
Eleven
Dominic had not seen Jane the rest of the day. He had worked in the stables, or at least pretended to work, while keeping his ears open for any conversations that might hint at who the grain thief might be. But none of the grooms expressed anything but regret at Nessa’s death. None of them seemed displeased with his lot or complained of his wages. By late afternoon, Dominic was no closer to finding the guilty party than he had been at dawn.
Finally, when Old Connor found him dozing in front of his correspondence, Dominic returned to the house, intent upon sleeping for a few hours. Jane’s idea to keep watch in the stables all night seemed better and better the more Dominic considered it. A new shipment of grain had just arrived, so the thief would want to strike soon.
As he paused outside the drawing room, intending to greet his guests before retiring to his bedchamber, he heard his mother’s voice. He eased the door open silently and glimpsed the three ladies sitting properly with teacups balanced on their knees. His mother was saying something about adorning the wedding carriage with silk streamers and white flowers. “What is your favorite flower, Miss Bonde? That is to say, which is your favorite white flower?”
“Uhh…” She looked and sounded weary, much as he would have had he been forced to endure the conversation. “Daisies?” Her eyes met his. He should have realized that she, a spy, would catch him lurking. Her eyes pleaded with him, and she mouthed, help.
“Daisies are a rather common flower,” his mother said, dismissing his betrothed’s suggestion. “I was thinking roses. Much more elegant.” His mother spoke rapidly, as though discussing the wedding was a mere formality. She had obviously already planned the entire affair. Jane must have known this as well. If he were a hero, he would have swooped in and rescued her. She would have made a fine prize. She wore a frothy white gown that seemed to float around her body like storm-tossed waves. Her hair made a golden crown about her head, and not a single strand had escaped to mar the perfection of her high cheekbones, her straight nose, or her full lips. He’d seen her hair down, most recently when she’d been injured and lying on her uncle’s couch in the Barbican group’s offices. He did not know if she’d taken it down or it had fallen from the exertion of her efforts, but it had looked like a shiny silk skein against the dark leather of the couch. Looking at her now, Dominic had the urge to take it down again and let it tumble over her white shoulders and shapely arms.
“Roses would be lovely,” Lady Melbourne responded. “Do not you agree, Jane?”
Jane blinked. She’d been staring at him, just as he had been staring at her. “I am in perfect agreement,” she said, and he knew, without a doubt, she had no idea whatsoever her aunt was discussing. “If you would excuse me for just a moment—”
“What? No!” his mother objected, and Jane was trapped once again. Dominic could not suppress a chuckle.
“We must discuss the footmen’s livery. I was thinking gold…”
Dominic moved stealthily away, praying he was not heard. No, he was certainly no hero to allow a lady to suffer through such tortures. But she was a good agent. She would find a means of escape on her own.
He took a long nap and felt refreshed and clearheaded when the bell rang for dinner. He would have avoided the meal if he could, but it was too early to return to the stables without arousing curiosity among the stable hands. He was expected to dine with his betrothed and her aunt.
Once again the company had convened in the drawing room. Dominic joined them, planning to greet his mother and then find his betrothed and make a show of kissing her hand. But the first person he’d seen upon entering was Miss Bonde herself, and he found it impossible to advance any farther. She slew him. Her beauty, quite simply,
slew him. No matter how often he reminded himself he did not care for the classic English beauty, he found himself enthralled with her. Perhaps he had been wrong. He did care for the classic English beauty. It was her eyes, he decided, that drew him in. They were large and dark-fringed and the color of the ocean before a storm.
She wore a pink gown, probably more suitable for a debutante than for an elite spy with the Barbican group, but the color matched that in her cheeks. The neckline was modest for an evening gown, but his gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts pushing against the silk of the fabric. He could imagine the feel of them in his hands, their weight and firmness.
“Mr. Griffyn,” she said. His gaze returned quickly to her face, and he felt rather like a naughty boy caught peeping through the slit of a half-open door.
“Miss Bonde.” He made an effort to cross the small space between them, took her hand, and kissed her gloved knuckles.
“You look much better than you did this morning. I hope you were able to rest.”
“I was. You look well. How is your injury?”
She waved a hand. “I hardly notice it. Have you decided what you shall do about the grain thief?”
He frowned. His horses and stables were his concern and no one else’s. “I will deal with it.”
She arched a brow. “You are not exactly one for conversation.” She cocked her head. “Or is it that you do not think I, a woman, can understand the complexities of the situation?”
Dominic glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one else was listening. Everyone had moved away from them, giving them as much space as they could want in which to speak. He supposed that was one benefit of an engagement.
“That is not it at all. I am quite aware of your capabilities, Miss Bonde.”
“Then I would think an intelligent man such as yourself, a man who cares about his animals, would want the help of someone with my capabilities, in spite of the temptations. I will keep them at a minimum, I assure you. I will wear black and style my hair in an ugly fashion so I am quite hideous to look upon.”
She must know she could never look hideous. He could not decide if she was teasing him or actually thought the color she wore or the style of her dress really would play some part in how much he desired her. He said nothing. He’d merely intended to greet her and exchange pleasantries, but it seemed every conversation they had turned into a debate.
“I will meet you in the stables tonight at midnight,” she said. “Or would eleven be better? I forget that country hours are so much earlier than those kept in Town.”
“I do not wish to argue with you, Miss Bonde.”
“Then do not argue with me, Mr. Griffyn.” And before he could speak again, she walked away, joining her aunt and accepting a glass of ratafia. He wondered if it had been shaken as opposed to stirred. He wondered how he remembered such a minute and unimportant detail about her.
All through dinner, he listened to his mother and Lady Melbourne discuss wedding preparations. Miss Bonde sat to his right, and she appeared to listen attentively, though surely she had heard it all before. She was probably plotting other ways to make his life difficult. He did not want to meet her in the stables, but he could see no means to keep her away. She would not be afraid to venture out in the dark, and she could probably elude any of the servants still awake. If he did not go to the stables, she would apprehend the grain thief on her own. If he did go and tried to persuade her to return home, she would only make a scene and probably alert the thief to their presence. He had little choice but to tolerate her involvement tonight.
“Dominic, are you listening?” his mother asked.
He realized everyone at the table was watching him and probably had been for several minutes. “I confess my mind was otherwise occupied.” He should not have glanced at Miss Bonde in that moment, but he could not seem to stop himself. She had a knowing smile on her lips. Curse the woman. She probably knew very well that he was plotting how to avoid her tonight. Unfortunately, his mother mistook the glance.
“Oh, I see,” she said, her voice low and teasing. “You are thinking about after the wedding. I can hardly blame you.”
Lady Melbourne colored, and Miss Bonde lowered her eyes. Dominic refused to allow his face to flush. There were times he wished he did not have quite so earthy a mother. “Actually, I was thinking about an offer Lord Charing made for one of the foals born last year. It’s a generous offer, but I am not certain I approve of his stables or the way he treats his hunters.”
“They are horses, not children,” his mother said.
“I think Mr. Griffyn’s concern speaks well of him,” Lady Melbourne said.
“So do I,” Miss Bonde added, and this time when he looked at her, her eyes were dark with something that caused his groin to tighten.
***
He never even heard her coming. He’d been listening for her as he crouched in Nessa’s empty stall, keeping watch on the room where the new shipment of grain was stored. It was after eleven, and he’d been expecting her. He’d watched and he’d listened, and then without warning, something touched his shoulder.
He almost let out a howl when he saw her standing beside him. “Where the hell did you come from?” he hissed.
“The house,” she said, crouching beside him. She wore a dark dress, black gloves, and a black shawl about her head to hide her bright hair. “My aunt wanted to chat more about the wedding—or, rather, what happens after the wedding.”
His breath caught in his throat, though she did not appear chagrined to be having this conversation with him. She settled beside him, her eyes alert and scanning the stable, her voice a low murmur he could barely detect over the noises of the horses, owls, and other night creatures.
“I did not have the heart to tell her the discussion was unnecessary.”
“Because you are not an innocent.”
She looked at him, turning her head slowly until her eagle eyes met his. “Because we are not actually going to marry.”
“Oh.” He’d insulted her. He had not intended to, but he’d never been good at social graces, and he was not practiced enough not to misstep on occasion. She turned her gaze back to the stables and continued her surveillance.
“This is a good location,” she said after a long silence between them. “If he comes tonight, he must pass us to reach what he wants.”
“Did you see anything on your approach?” There was no reason to ask if she’d been seen. He knew she had not.
“No. Everything looked to be as it should. But I do not live here. Perhaps if you’d made the walk, you would have seen something I missed.” She spoke without looking at him, her attention on the stables. He wondered how many times she had done this sort of thing. It seemed to come to her naturally, and she appeared quite at ease. He, on the other hand, could not seem to stop looking at her. He could smell the scent of violets on her and feel the warmth of her body beside his. They did not touch, but she sat companionably close.
How many men had she sat with all night long on one mission or another? How many weeks or months had she roamed the Continent unchaperoned, free to do as she might? He did not begrudge her that freedom; she was no young miss of twenty. If she had taken a lover, who was he to judge? He was far from pure himself.
And yet, he found himself annoyed by the thought that another man might have touched her. She was his, if only in word, and only for the time being.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I didn’t speak.”
“Something is troubling you. You clench your fists when you are troubled.”
“I do not.”
She glanced at him, and he clenched his fists before he could stop himself. He gave her a dark look. She shrugged.
“Should we be speaking? I would rather not alert the thief to our presence.”
“We’ll hear him before he hears us. List
en for a change in the sound of the chirping of the insects or the stamp of the horses’ hooves. They will hear him before we do and alert us.” She was looking at him now, not studying the stalls. He wished she would go back to her surveillance. “Very well. Don’t ask me.”
She knew the question in his mind. Of course she did. That did not mean he had to say it. He could keep silent. He should keep silent. If he asked her a question, she would ask him one. He did not want to answer her questions.
He looked away, and she murmured, “Coward” under her breath. He turned back to her so quickly that he nudged her and knocked her onto her bottom.
“I am not a coward.”
“Then ask.”
“Perhaps I do not want the answer.”
“Don’t you?”
He did. He really did. But he was not a man who gave into impulses and desires. He offered his hand and pulled her back to her feet so she was once again crouched beside him. He was thankful for her gloves. If he had touched her bare skin, he did not know if he could have resisted dragging her into his arms. As it was, he kept his attention resolutely on the stable and not on her. She said nothing, and for a very long time, all was silent. But there was no peace. He could not relax with her beside him. He was still fatigued from the long vigil last night, but with her beside him, there was no chance he would fall asleep.
“You are really not going to ask,” she said when perhaps a silent hour had passed.
“It is not my concern.”
“I am your betrothed. I would think my past lovers something of your concern.”
He took in a slow breath. Was that confirmation, or had she been speaking generally? “This discussion can do little good,” he finally said.
“Even if I tell you there has been no one?” She spoke the words earnestly, her gaze directly on him. If she was lying, she was very good at it—a fact that should not surprise him.
“I would not believe you.”
“How utterly disheartening. You think me such a loose woman?”