Love and Let Spy

by Shana Galen

  He was quite obviously an intelligent man, and that was why, as they stood there with nothing to do, she had to know. “Why did you do it?” she asked suddenly.

  He blinked at her in the adorable way he had when he was confused. “Pardon?”

  She looked over her shoulder at the MPs, who were still shuffling, slow as snails. She stepped closer to him. “I asked why you did it. Why did you kiss me at Bonde’s town house?”

  “I…ah—did I offend you?”

  “No.”

  “Good…then…must we speak of this now?”

  “Why not now?”

  He waved a hand quickly. “No reason. I suppose I kissed you because I wanted to. I think I’ve wanted to kiss you for quite some time, Miss Qwillen. I just did not know I did.”

  How was she supposed to react to that kind of sentiment? She wasn’t the type to swoon, and smacking him because he had been such a dolt for all this time hardly seemed an appropriate reaction. “Are you going to kiss me again?” she asked.

  “I might,” he said cautiously.

  “You had better,” she told him. He nodded then extended his arm, indicating she should precede him to the exit of the palace. She did so, following the last of the MPs into the streets where the guards had stopped passing carriages and were ushering the parliamentarians onto the Old Palace Yard, a safe distance away. She did not spot Melbourne or any of the lords, but they were in another building and might have exited another way. She moved toward the guards, eager to be out of the shadow of Westminster, but someone caught her arm. She turned, and Moneypence was looking at her. He was only slightly taller than she was and not much more substantive, but in the moment, he seemed large and safe and secure.

  “Miss Qwillen, before I kiss you again, I have one question. What is your given name? Mine is Pierce.”

  She’d known that. How many times had she whispered Pierce Moneypence to herself before falling asleep?

  “It’s Eliza,” she said. “Eliza Qwillen.”

  “Eliza.”

  She liked the sound of her name on his lips.

  “May I court you, Eliza?”

  Foolish man! He’d already kissed her. Did he not know he could court her? “Yes, Pierce,” she said. “You may.”

  “May I kiss you, Miss Qwillen? Dear Eliza?”

  “Yes, Pierce.” She smiled. “You’d better.”

  He bent and brushed his warm lips over hers, warming her through and through. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, and that was when they heard the sound of an explosion.

  ***

  The cold steel of the blade slid over the vulnerable skin of her throat, and Jane dared not do so much as swallow. She could feel Foncé behind her. He was taller than she’d thought he’d be, more solid and more muscled. This was no puny weakling. This was a man of power. He smelled clean, as though he’d bathed recently. She was dismayed not to detect the scent of fear on him. She was certain he could smell her fear. But this time she was not afraid for herself. She was afraid for Dominic. She tried to catch his eye, to tell him all was well. She would be well. It was a lie, of course. She was going to die.

  Dominic saw her look, their gazes met, but he did not step back. His expression could only be described as murderous. That was not good. He would end up dead himself, at this rate.

  “Agent Bonde,” Foncé said silkily, his breath caressing her ear. “Finally, we meet.”

  “Foncé,” she said, moving her mouth as little as possible. “I cannot claim this is a pleasure.”

  “Too bad. Call off your attack dog. Mr. Griffyn and I have met before. If we had more time, you would have to tell me how you managed to escape.”

  “I have a few surprises in me,” Dominic murmured.

  Jane glared at him, willing him to take himself and his surprises to safety. She had to think now. She had to think and plot, and she did not want to consider anyone’s safety. She might have to sacrifice herself to stop Foncé—she certainly would—but she did not think she could sacrifice Dominic. This was why she never worked with a partner.

  This was why she’d never allowed herself to fall in love.

  She stared at Dominic now, knowing that she could never allow any harm to come to him. More than that, she herself did not want to die. She wanted to live because he loved her.

  “Would you like me to show you my surprise?” Foncé asked.

  Jane took a breath. “Yes. I want to see it, but you have to let him go.”

  “What do I care?” Foncé asked. “It is too late for him to save you.” The hand around her midsection tightened, and he dragged her toward the open door.

  “Go, Dominic,” she said, keeping her voice hard and emotionless. “Get out.”

  “I won’t leave you,” he said. Vexing man.

  “How terribly touching,” Foncé said, mocking them. “Shall I kill him and solve the dilemma?”

  “Go, Dominic,” she said. “I don’t want you.”

  He knew she was lying, but she would have said anything to make him leave her. He couldn’t save her. Foncé would kill her for half an excuse. He was already digging the knife into her flesh, and she felt the trickle of blood oozing down her neck where he’d pricked her with the point of the blade. This was a man who liked to cut, who liked to carve.

  Dominic did not move, but Foncé continued to drag her. She blinked into the bright light of the room and stared at Dominic’s face before Foncé kicked the door closed. Then he swung her around, and she blinked in shock at the monstrosity in the center of the room. It was a simple room, rectangular in shape, one entrance and one exit. There were no windows, as it was underground, and she noted the faint outline of furnishings on the floor where pieces had once inhabited the space. A storage room for clothing? No, too damp. Perhaps for plate or serving utensils?

  But now it had become something else entirely. Crates and crates labeled Gunpowder had been stacked in the center, rising almost to the ceiling. Snaking out from the stack in all directions were long fuses. It would take but a single spark to ignite one and blow them all into oblivion.

  “What do you think, chérie?” he asked. “Do you love it? My little creation?”

  She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know if it would help to say anything. Had enough time passed for the MPs and the lords to have escaped? And did it even matter? Dominic had said he would not leave her. Could she allow Foncé to kill him without even a fight?

  “You do not have to do this,” she said, feeling the knife point cut into her skin at each word. “I know you want revenge, but if you want to kill Melbourne, why not go after him? He is far away from the palace at this moment. You won’t hurt him by your actions.”

  “Oh yes, I will. I will hurt him more than a simple death ever could. You know it as well as I. The shame of his failure will eat him alive.”

  It was true. God help her, but it was entirely true. This would ruin what had been a long and stellar career for Melbourne. This would tarnish his sterling reputation forever.

  “Why do you hate him so?”

  Foncé laughed softly. She felt him laughing more than she heard it. She hated being so close to him, having his hands on her. She itched to dig her elbow into his belly, kick his shin, smash his nose with the back of her head, but any such action on her part would leave her lying in a pool of blood from the gash in her throat. And Foncé would be free to strike a match to a flint and light the fuses. “Chérie, you know better than anyone else why I hate him. I hate him for the same reason you do.”

  “I don’t hate him.”

  He laughed again; this time she could hear the mirthless sound. “Yes, you do. You despise him. Admit it, and I may allow you to live another minute.”

  Jane could play along. Another minute, and she might find a way to stop him. “Fine. I despise Melbourne.” She was surprised at the vehemence
in her voice, surprised that she meant what she said, even though she had been humoring Foncé.

  “Of course you do. He used you. Just as he used me.”

  She shook her head, feeling the flat of the blade hot on her skin now. “We’re nothing alike.”

  “There you are wrong.” He moved her closer to the altar in the center of the room, pushed her away, and the sudden freedom startled her. She stumbled and fell onto one of the gunpowder crates. The acrid smell of it burned her throat and nostrils.

  “We could be brother and sister,” Foncé said, kneeling before her like a nervous suitor asking for the hand of his lady. “He took you in when you were lost and afraid. Your parents were dead, and you had nowhere else to go. He gave you security in a world turned confusing and frightening.”

  Jane stared at him, this handsome man who seemed to know all of her thoughts and feelings. It was true. When she’d lost her parents at the age of six, her entire life had changed. But Lord and Lady Melbourne had welcomed her. They had given her a home with no conditions.

  Or so she had thought.

  “You were grateful,” Foncé said. “So grateful you would risk your life for him. You would kill for him.”

  “No.” She shook her head. That was not why she had joined the Barbican.

  “Oui,” Foncé said, nodding his head. “You wanted love and the security of a family, and he turned your innocent desires into clay he could mold to his liking.”

  Jane felt her face burn. It was as though Foncé looked deep into her heart, into her mind, and read the story written there. But she was no naive child. She knew Foncé’s tactics. Nothing he said was meant to soothe her. Here she sat, on his altar like a pagan sacrifice. He would kill her when he was finished tearing down her defenses. “You have done your research, Monsieur Foncé, but my story is not yours.”

  “Is it not? I too was an orphan. I fled the brutality of the revolution in France. I arrived in London homeless, penniless, friendless. Your uncle—he was no lord then—took me in, showed me kindness, and gave me a vocation. I was part of your precious Barbican. I made it what it is. The prestige of the Barbican group was founded on the blood of the traitors I murdered.”

  She stared at him, hating him and wanting desperately to discount everything he said. But she could not. There was too much truth, despite the madness she saw in his eyes.

  “You think me a cold-hearted killer,” he said. “It’s true. I like to kill. I like to cut.” Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. “But who showed me how to kill? Who showed me how to make an efficient, clean cut with my knife? A flick of my wrist across a man’s throat, and he is dead quickly and painlessly. It is not murder if it is done in the service of King and Country.”

  Jane closed her eyes. She knew her uncle’s methods and his words. He’d taught her the same technique. Given her the same trite justifications.

  “But in time I came to loathe myself, loathe what I was doing, and I began to hate. Do you understand that, Bonde?”

  “Yes.” She lowered her head, eyes still closed. Why did Foncé not light the fuse? Why did he not kill them all? She wanted to die. She knew the loathing Foncé spoke of. She’d felt it too. She’d taken lives. She’d played God. She was no assassin, as Foncé had been trained, but she had done her share of murder in the name of the Crown. And though she had her reasons, her justifications, she hated herself every time she took a man’s life. She despised herself and the Barbican for what she did. “I understand the resentment,” she said, opening her eyes and looking at him. She saw him differently now. He was one of them. He was part of the Barbican. Her brother in so many ways. “He never gave me a choice. He took any chance I had for a normal life from me and gave me”—she waved a hand at the madness of the altar Foncé had built in the hollows of the Palace of Westminster—“this in its place. For that I do resent him.”

  Slowly she stood. “But I am not a child any longer, and I have not been for years. I cannot blame my uncle for all of my choices. I made some on my own. You, too, made your own choices. You chose to become a traitor. You chose to kill the innocent. M did not force your hand.”

  “You still do not understand,” Foncé said, shaking his head. “When will you ever understand?”

  “When will you?” And she kicked out, landing a boot squarely under his jaw, jerking his head back so he lost his balance. The dagger he held clattered to the floor, and Jane jumped.

  ***

  He was lost. Dominic was lost. It had killed him to watch Jane disappear behind that door with Foncé. It had pierced his heart to walk away from her, but it had been the only way. Alone he could not save her. He knew horses, not combat. But he knew who could save her, and he’d retraced their steps, running and calling out until Wolf and Blue had met him, their gazes hard with anger and concern.

  Now he led the two agents back, praying he remembered the way. If he made a wrong turn…if he did not remember correctly, he would lose her. He would lose the only person he had ever come to love. He could not lose her.

  He lost his footing, and Blue caught his arm, hauling him back from the abyss. “I remember this,” Dominic said when he caught his breath. “The steps lead to the chamber where Foncé has her.”

  “You’re certain?” Wolf asked.

  Dominic looked at the two men. They would follow him now, though they surely must know there was a distinct possibility that he was mistaken. There were hundreds of such stairwells. And if he was not mistaken, they would still follow him. They’d follow him to what might be their death.

  “I’m certain.” And he led the way.

  ***

  Jane landed on Foncé and struck him before he could retaliate. But he was a trained agent, one trained by the same master who had trained her, and it took him only a second to recover and strike back. He kicked her in the belly, and she skidded across the floor on her back. Instead of advancing, of taking advantage of her weakness, he turned toward the lost weapon. He was no fool, this Foncé. With a cry, Jane bounced to her feet and went for the dagger too. She knocked Foncé out of the way and reached for it.

  Her fingers grasped the cold metal before Foncé kicked her hand away. She elbowed him, and they both went down. She caught his leg as he crawled for the weapon, and he dragged her across the floor.

  Belatedly, she realized he was no longer reaching for the dagger. He was moving toward a table where a lamp burned.

  “No!” She released him, rolled, swiped the dagger, and blocked his path. Calmly, he set the lamp down and inclined his head. She was breathing hard, but she managed, “This is…over.”

  “Not until I light it, ma chérie.”

  She gasped in a breath. “Never.”

  And the door slammed open.

  ***

  From over Wolf’s shoulder Dominic could see Jane. She had managed to wrest the knife away from Foncé, and now she faced him with the blade in her hand. But their entrance had taken her off guard, and Foncé moved quickly. Too quickly. He grabbed Jane about the waist and took hold of her wrist, raising her hand and the blade to her throat. She wore a simple day dress in dark blue with white lace at the rounded neck. It was a modest cut made gruesome by the crimson stain of her blood on the white lace. The man had already cut her, and he would make the deep, deadly one now.

  “Agent Wolf. Agent Blue,” Foncé said. He sounded completely at ease, while Dominic could see Jane struggled to catch her breath. “So kind of you to join us. I have a fireworks display to show you.”

  “Release her,” Wolf said, training his pistol on Foncé. Blue cocked his own weapon and pointed it at the madman. Dominic fused his gaze on Jane’s. She was watching him. There was no fear in her eyes, only resignation, only regret. He shook his head. It was not over yet. He would not lose her.

  Foncé angled her body toward the table they stood beside. “Miss Bonde, if you would be so kind as to
take hold of that lamp.”

  “No,” she said. Foncé dug the knife deep into her skin, forcing her head up.

  “Do it.”

  Her gaze flicked to Wolf. “Shoot him,” she said. “It’s the only way.”

  “Shut up and take the lamp.”

  She did not move, her gaze still locked on Wolf’s. “Kill him. Kill me. I’m dead anyway.”

  “Take the shot,” Blue said.

  “No!” Dominic heard himself scream. He hadn’t even known he would speak.

  “If you won’t take the lamp, I will.” Still holding Jane as a shield, Foncé reached for the lamp. Jane managed to slide out of the line of sight, and the room exploded with the sound of a pistol shot.

  ***

  Jane pushed the dead weight off her and stumbled forward. She didn’t see who caught her, but she knew by his scent and the feel of his body it was Dominic. She buried her face in his chest, feeling unaccountably exhausted.

  It was over. She was still alive. But there was no triumph in the victory. She felt hollow and empty. For the first time she walked away from a mission without the thrill of success coursing through her veins. There was no glory in this.

  “He’s dead,” Blue said. “Good shot, Wolf.”

  Jane opened her eyes and turned her head. Blue knelt beside Foncé’s lifeless body. He withdrew a handkerchief, pristine white, from his ghastly puce coat and wiped the blood from his fingers. And then he allowed the cloth to fall over Foncé’s face. Wolf turned away, the look in his eyes as dead as she felt inside.

  “It’s over,” he said to no one and all of them. “It’s finally over.”

  The four of them limped toward the surface, seeking fresh air and what remained of the light, like worms after a heavy rain. They met Baron and Butterfly rushing toward them, and no words were needed to explain what had happened. The six of them emerged from the palace together, blinking in the noise and light of the Old Palace Yard.