Love and Let Spy

by Shana Galen

  Q and Moneypence were the first to greet them, but Moneypence, seeing the blood on Jane’s collar, immediately stepped back. “I’m fine,” she assured him.

  M elbowed his way through. “Foncé?” he asked.

  “Dead,” Wolf said. “It’s over.”

  Jane watched as relief flashed on her uncle’s face, and she saw something else as well: regret. It would never be over for Melbourne. And it would never be over for her.

  “My lord! Lord Smythe,” a voice called from outside the circle of the Barbican. Beside her, Wolf raised his head.

  “Wallace?” He sounded confused. Jane was confused as well. What was the Smythe’s butler doing here?

  “My lord, Lady Smythe has sent for you.”

  “How the devil did you find him here?” Baron asked.

  The butler gave him a withering look, as if to say there was no place he could not find his employer. “I have my methods, Lord Keating.”

  “Sophia,” Wolf said, bringing the matter of his wife back to the forefront. “She sent for me?” He’d gone rather pale, Jane noticed.

  “She has begun her labor, my lord.”

  Wolf’s knees gave way, and he would have sat down if Blue had not caught him.

  “She requests your presence at her side,” Wallace said, as though his master had not all but collapsed.

  “Of course,” Wolf—who was looking more and more like Adrian Galloway and less like a renowned agent for the Barbican—said and attempted to stand on his own.

  “It will all be well, Lord Smythe,” Butterfly said, stepping forward. “Winn and I will go with you. Wallace, have you brought the carriage?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good. Then make haste, Lord Smythe. You will soon be a father.”

  Baron took one side of the unsteady Lord Smythe, and Butterfly took the other. They began moving toward a carriage sitting on Margaret Street. In the last of the day’s light, Jane could just make out the Smythe crest on the door.

  Lady Keating looked back at them. “Are you coming?” she asked.

  “Ahh…” Blue stammered. “No. I have a prior engagement.”

  “Coward,” Baron called over his shoulder.

  “You leave assassins to me,” Blue answered, “and I leave babies to you.”

  “Shall we accompany them on horseback?” Dominic asked. Jane turned, surprised at his words. “That is, if you are feeling well enough.” He touched her neck gingerly.

  “This? It is just a—”

  “Scratch. Yes, I know.”

  She studied him in the gray dusk. Unlike Blue, his face showed no sign of panic. “You want to go along?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps we should see what is involved in the business of marriage and family. That is, if you still want to marry me.”

  “Oh, I do. I do.”

  Hand in hand, they started for their mounts, and it was only when they had arrived at the Smythe’s town house on Charles Street that she realized her uncle had not accompanied them, nor had he spoken except to inquire after Foncé. The man who had once been so central to her life had faded into the background. She glanced at Dominic, riding beside her, and found him looking back at her.

  All was finally as it should be.

  Twenty-one

  They lay in the clean hay of the stables at Kenham Hall, listening to the sounds of the horses settling down for the night. Jane rested her head on his chest, and he absently stroked her bare shoulder. She still wore her chemise, but little else. He’d yanked his trousers back on because he did not relish the idea of one of his grooms seeing him bare-arsed, although that was exactly what he’d been a few moments before.

  It still amazed him that this beautiful woman would soon be his. His wife. What amazed him more was that she loved him. She really did. She’d been patient with him these past few weeks as the last of his rules slipped away. Now he felt only slightly edgy when she touched him, as she did right now, her hand resting on his chest beside her cheek. The feel of her hands on him had become more comforting and arousing than triggers to the past.

  He still had nightmares. He had not forgotten the past, but he was learning to separate what he had with Jane from the abuse he’d suffered as a boy.

  She shivered, and he pulled her closer to share his warmth. It was summer now, but the coldest summer he could remember. “Shall we go inside?”

  “Yes,” she answered, not moving. “In a moment. Tomorrow night you shall have to allow me to come to your rooms.”

  “And if you’re caught?”

  She made a sound of derision. “I will not be caught. Besides, now that we have the grain thief, we do not need to meet in the stables any longer.”

  He smiled. “I think you like the stables. There are no servants to hear you.”

  She rose on one elbow, her chemise dipping low to reveal the swell of a breast. “I am a perfect lady.”

  “You are. Even on your back in the straw. Even when you toss me on my back.” He was grinning, and she grinned back. She could not stay angry with him, not when they both felt so pleasantly satiated at the moment. Not if she was even slightly as content as he. His grain thief had indeed been caught just a day after they’d retreated from London and come to stay at Kenham Hall. The man had been a disgruntled groom Dominic had let go last season. He’d been sneaking into the stables and stealing the premium grain then selling it. Now the thief sat in the local gaol, awaiting prosecution.

  Jane could finally rest easy. Foncé was dead, and the country was safe. He knew her thoughts still turned to the Barbican at times. They had left it in a state of upheaval. He would have stayed in London with her while matters were sorted, but she wanted out of the city, and where better to go than her betrothed’s country estate?

  “I had a letter today,” she said quietly. The tone of her voice alerted him to the seriousness of the contents, and he sat, pulling her up beside him. A lamp burned nearby, and in the dancing flames her hair looked like gold and her face glowed like an angel’s.

  “From whom?”

  “Baron—Lord Keating.”

  “What does he say?”

  “The gist of it is that he is now head of the Barbican group.”

  Dominic blinked.

  “You thought it would go to Wolf?” she asked, noting his surprise.

  “I thought Melbourne would remain.”

  She pushed her hair back from her face. “Then there would be no Barbican. The king would not force Melbourne out, but no agent would work for him. Foncé was one of his, trained by him personally. M failed in his role as a leader.”

  “Is that what Baron said?”

  “It is what my uncle said. Here.” She climbed to her knees and reached for her discarded gown. Rifling through it, she found a crumpled envelope. Dominic squinted in the dim light of the lamp but could not make out the words. “Never mind, I have it memorized. The part that matters says, and so I am retiring. I take full responsibility for my failings. Baron has my support and loyalty, and I hope yours as well.

  “He goes on like that for a page or so, and then he apologizes to me.”

  “That does not sound like him.”

  She shrugged. “He says, I always loved you, but I suppose I did not love you enough.” Her voice broke on the last, and Dominic gathered her into his lap.

  “I’m sorry.” He cradled her close, like one might a child. “I love you. It isn’t as much as you deserve—”

  “It’s more than I deserve,” she interrupted. “It’s everything.” She snuggled into his chest, and he held her to him, savoring the feel of her. This was what he had been missing in his life. This closeness, this oneness.

  “You once said you would laugh when I told you I loved you,” he reminded her.

  “I do not feel so jovial at the moment, although there is cause to celebra
te.”

  “What is that?”

  “Lady Keating included a note along with Baron’s letter. I read it first because I do tire of Baron’s directives.”

  He smiled. “And what did it say?”

  “That the Smythes’ son is doing very well indeed. She says he has a hearty appetite and a lusty yell, and Lord and Lady Smythe have called him their most difficult mission yet. Lord Keating has taken to trying to steal the weary Wallace away, or at least convince the butler to tutor the Keatings’ man.”

  “So Baron is the type who kicks a man when he is down.”

  She giggled. “For a chance at a butler like Wallace? I’d kick Wolf too, though I do not believe a mere babe will lay him low for long.”

  “I, too, trust the Smythes will meet the challenge.”

  “That’s not all.”

  He stroked her hair. “What else, my love?”

  “My love?”

  He could hear the smile, the pleasure in her voice.

  “Lady Keating writes she hopes to soon share in their joy. Can you imagine?”

  He could not. “Are you saying she is breeding?”

  “I forgot that I cannot be subtle with you. Yes, she is going to have another baby. Perhaps they will finally have an heir. Baron, the lout, did not mention it. Is that obvious enough?” She poked him.

  “Oh, it’s subtlety you want, is it?” He pulled her down on the hay, settling his body over hers. “I can be subtle.” He nipped at her earlobe, tracing a warm path down the skin of her soft neck until she was moving beneath him, pushing to be closer, to melt her body into his. “Admit it, Jane,” he whispered, his hand trailing across her shoulder to caress her warm breast. “You don’t like subtle.”

  “Oh, very well. Throw subtlety to the dogs. Ravish me.” She raked her fingers through his hair and closed her legs about his waist. “I want to know I’ve been ravished.”

  He bent to take her nipple in his mouth, then paused and sat back. She raised a brow. “Is this more of your subtlety?”

  “No. It occurred to me we are to marry in a fortnight, and I have not yet proposed to you.”

  She rose on her elbows, allowing her chemise to fall off her shoulder. One breast was already visible in the lamplight. He need but tug on the material, and he could have both in his hands. He could have her in his arms.

  “You proposed in my uncle’s offices at Barbican headquarters.”

  “A proposal that you called the worst in history, or something to that effect.”

  “Hmm.” She reached for his waistband and pulled him to her. “I don’t care about that any longer. Come here.”

  He stood. “Not until I do this properly.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You’re no proper gentleman. If you’re going to propose, do it most improperly.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Oh, yes.” She tugged him closer, but he resisted, instead falling to one knee before her. She raised a brow.

  “We are in a stable, half-naked, and about to make love. I cannot think of anything more improper. This is a story we will not tell the grandchildren.”

  “Or perhaps we might tell them an edited version.”

  “And it shall go something like this. Miss Bonde, from the moment I saw you, you stole my heart. I did not give it freely.”

  “God knows that is the truth.”

  He ignored her. “And you did not request it. You stole it away, and when I tried to reclaim it, I found I didn’t want it anymore. I wanted yours instead.”

  Her eyes were shining with tears now. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

  “I wanted it to be perfect.”

  “Oh, Dominic. You are perfect.” She reached for him.

  “I am not finished.”

  She had the nerve to appear exasperated.

  “And when you gave me your heart, I knew there was only one thing to do. Miss Bonde, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” He was actually nervous saying the words. He hoped she had not heard his voice waver. She would say yes. Of course she would say yes. The banns had already been called twice.

  “Dominic—I mean, Mr. Griffyn—I would like nothing more. Except”—she tugged him to her—“perhaps to be ravished.”

  Dominic gladly obliged.

  SHANA GALEN’S NEW REGENCY ROMANCE SERIES

  Covent Garden Cubs

  WILL BE INTRODUCED IN EARLY 2015 WITH A NOVELLA

  Viscount of Vice

  READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK

  He was going to hell. Shame, Flynn thought, dangling from the third-floor window of a town house in exclusive Grosvenor Square. It was his birthday tomorrow, too. Actually, given the time of night, he’d already attained his twenty-seventh year.

  His hand slipped, and he felt the moisture gathering on his fingers. He could not hold on much longer. Perhaps his death was for the best. It wasn’t as though anyone would mourn him. It wasn’t as though he had anything to live for.

  Still, it seemed harsh even for one such as Beelzebub to claim him when he was hanging naked from the window of one of the most prestigious addresses in Mayfair.

  “Flynn!” a woman’s voice hissed. His name was Henry Flynn, and he was the new Lord Chesham, but most everyone still called him Flynn—that was, when he wasn’t being called something far less complimentary.

  “Still here,” he answered through teeth clenched with the effort of maintaining his hold.

  A cloud of blond hair appeared above him, and he felt her hand on his. “Quick! Climb up before he returns.”

  He was her husband, a duke of enormous wealth and power. If he found Flynn in the duchess’s bedchamber, he’d ruin Flynn and the entire Chesham family. The danger of discovery hadn’t deterred Flynn from accepting the duchess’s invitation, though. In fact, the more risk, the better. He should simply let go of the ledge and get it over with. Then he could stop looking for death.

  Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and hauled himself upward. His arms shook with the effort, but he managed to gain the leverage he needed, and the duchess made a show of hauling him the rest of the way inside.

  “Where are my clothes?” he asked without preamble.

  “You cannot think to leave now,” she protested. She was dressed in a frilly robe, cut low to display her generous cleavage. In truth, the duchess was beautiful, if a bit past her prime, but their close call had stolen away Flynn’s desire for the distraction provided by a dalliance.

  “I do think to leave now, Your Grace.” He looked about for his clothing. It had been scattered about on the floor by her bed, but now it had vanished. He did not want to walk through the ball naked as the day he was born, but he would do so if it became necessary. Let the duchess explain that to her guests. Of course, the ton expected nothing less of the man they’d proclaimed the Viscount of Vice.

  “But, my lord,” the duchess protested, extending a long finger to stroke his chest. “You have not yet fulfilled your promises. This was to be a night I would not soon forget.”

  Any lingering desire he might have felt revolted at her touch. “It is a night I will not soon forget,” he replied. “And one your husband will not soon forget if I’m forced to exit dressed—or rather, undressed—like so.”

  “That would be unwise, Flynn,” she said, raking her gaze over him. “One look at you and the female attendees would swoon. You are an excellent specimen of manhood.”

  “Thank you. My clothing?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Certainly. As soon as you fulfill your promises.”

  Flynn narrowed his eyes. She thought that sort of veiled threat would persuade him? Even if she’d been the queen herself, Flynn was not going to bed a woman he did not desire. He had not sunk that low. “Very well, Your Grace,” he said with a nod. She smiled and reached for the tie of h
er robe. Flynn walked right past her, ignoring her squeal of protest, and stopped to retrieve his beaver hat, which he’d spotted under a side table. From that angle, he spied his trousers under the bed, and one of his boots behind a curtain. Thus attired, Flynn stepped into the corridor outside her bedchamber.

  A maid rushing by with an armful of linen shrieked and dropped her load. Flynn tipped his hat and continued on. He was halfway to the main staircase when the duchess appeared in her doorway. “Flynn,” she hissed. “Flynn!”

  Without looking back, he descended the stairs. The footman stationed at the base of the enormous curving marble staircase looked up at him, blinked, and looked forward again, his expression stoic. The guests in the vestibule were not quite so well trained. Fortunately, there were only a dozen or so men and women in the entryway. Most of the guests were in the ballroom, but there were always guests leaving early or arriving late. Several women shrieked, a man or two cursed, and Flynn kept his head high despite the chuckles and murmurs of appreciation.

  An old school chum, whose name Flynn didn’t remember, nodded at him. “Nice hat, Flynn.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” a woman yelled, pointing a finger at him. Her other hand was wrapped around a debutante’s head, shielding the girl’s eyes. He could see the girl blinking at him through the spaces between her mother’s fingers. Flynn winked and kept walking. Finally, he was at the doorway.

  “Your carriage, my lord?” the butler asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I have your greatcoat fetched, my lord?”

  Flynn glanced at the man and nodded. “Please. I find the breeze a bit nippy this evening.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  And so it was that the Viscount of Vice had to return to his town house for a change of wardrobe before he was able to travel to his club. Of course, by the time he arrived at Brooks, the news had already spread, and he encountered every reaction from slaps on the shoulder to cold stares.

  He headed for the Great Subscription Room, intent on gambling and drinking his way into oblivion, but he was stopped at the wide double doors. A bleary-eyed man with disheveled gray hair and a bulbous red nose stepped in front of him.