“Hello, Chamberlain.”
The feminine voice had Matthew glancing up from a rather dull report—some inept analyst’s take on the ongoing search for smugglers who were using the Channel to transport illegal liquor. He was forced to blink a time or two, for the woman who stood in his doorway seemed familiar and yet appeared entirely different from when he had last seen her at the theatre not a month ago, garbed in black and hiding behind the netting that decorated the hat she wore. “Lady Barrymore?” he replied, finally standing up.
Lydia waved him down. “No need to stand on my account, my lord,” she said as she moved farther into his office. “I know how your knees give you grief.” She wore the same gown and hat she had worn to Lady Morganfield’s garden party, and although the bottom of the sprigged muslin was still a bit damp from the earlier rain, it wasn’t immediately apparent. Her pelisse, folded so the rain-streaked side was on the inside, hung over one bent arm.
“What have you done to look so different?” the viscount asked as he angled his head.
The widow of the late Commander Jasper Barrymore allowed a shrug. “Oh, really, Chamberlain. It’s been a year. I am out of mourning. Out of widow’s weeds,” she replied as she indicated the bright-colored gown. She finally made her way to the chair across from his desk and settled into it, her reticule landing on her lap while a deep green parasol dangled from one wrist. “I am reporting for duty.”
Matthew leaned back in his chair, rather stunned by her words. Jesus! Despite his meeting with Adonis Truscott that morning—and the reminder of what had happened a year ago—he was still rather surprised by her words.
Had it truly been a year since Barrymore’s death?
The older he got, the faster time seemed to fly.
As for her other comment, he cursed himself for not having given much thought as to what he should have her do next.
Although he had a bit of work for a female agent outside of England, he didn’t particularly wish to send Lydia Barrymore to do it. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but her aristocratic features were hard to hide. Besides, it didn’t seem right sending her off to the Continent to infiltrate an illegal liquor trader’s firm, nor dispatch her to the Mediterranean to run with the likes of a pirate’s crew. If he offered her to the Home Office, they would probably assign her to play someone’s mistress in an attempt to discover the brains behind a smuggling operation.
He had half a mind to pension her out of the Foreign Office, but he hated the idea of losing her and her abilities.
How had Jasper Barrymore known to marry her? he wondered. Did the viscount know beforehand that she was so perceptive? Observant? That she understood motive and intent? Could memorize lines of a code and recite them later? Solve intricate puzzles quickly? Or had he married her first and then realized how valuable she could be to King and country?
Lydia Barrymore belonged in London. Needed to stay in London. And he had the perfect assignment for her if only he could get her to agree to befriend a fellow agent.
“Very good,” he finally responded to her comment about reporting for duty. “I admit, I’m a bit surprised at your return,” he finally stated, leaning forward. “Today of all days.”
Lydia frowned. “Why is that? You told me to come back in a year.”
Matthew sighed before considering how to respond. “It’s just ...” He allowed a shrug before he pinned her with a steely gaze. “It would be difficult for you to hide your features should I assign you to a smuggling operation.”
Rather disappointed at hearing the possible assignment, Lydia still wondered how she might be of assistance. “Would you at least consider dispatching me to do the footwork instead of going to The Times for information?” Lydia pleaded, hoping she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt just then. She needed an assignment. A distraction. A reason to get out of her bed in the morning, especially given how damned cold it was.
Lord Chamberlain frowned at her query. “I’ll be damned if I go to The Times for intelligence,” he murmured, the viscount displaying a rather sour expression.
Lydia sat very still, aware her comment had touched a sore spot. It was true the newspaper had more investigators, more reporters on the Continent than England had in the way of intelligence officers. They had a bigger budget for news gathering than the Foreign Office had.
“I rather doubt the Alien Office has anything for me, given the situation with France,” Lydia commented with a sigh. “But I figured you might.” Peace between England and France meant the Alien Office, charged with seeing to the deportation of any immigrants deemed unsuitable to England, was suddenly not as necessary as when French revolutionaries and refugees were pouring in from across the Channel. Their sole purpose these days was to simply deport those they suspected of treasonous activities. Truth be told, peacetime was no panacea for the two agencies.
When the viscount didn’t offer an immediate response, she sighed. “Intelligence was probably far easier before seventeen-eighty-two.”
Matthew angled his head, remembering the day the Southern Department of the Secretary of State was informed they would be merging with the Northern Department to form the current Foreign Office. He had been a clerk back then—he hadn’t yet inherited the Chamberlain viscountcy—and his father wanted him educated in an alternative manner to serve the Crown. He had stayed on despite the merger and been promoted over the years to his current position. What he knew from his work at the Foreign Office certainly made it easier when it came to vote on topics of importance in Parliament.
“I’m not going to send you to the Continent, and I’m certainly not going to let the Alien Office have you,” Matthew suddenly stated. “Not when I have a situation right here in London.”
Straightening in her chair, Lydia nearly held her breath. “Situation?” she repeated, her intrigue apparent.
“How much did you know about your husband?” he asked suddenly. He pulled the drawing Adonis had given him earlier that day from beneath a few papers, realizing he winced as he did so.
Sensing a trap, Lydia forced herself to remain calm and display a dispassionate expression. “All the usual, of course. Parentage, age, height, weight, hair color, eye color ...” She paused. “What have you there?”
“His position. Did you know what he did before you married him?” Matthew queried, ignoring her question.
Lydia sighed before she dared a look back at the open door. “Which one, Matthew? His position as an officer over an infantry unit during the war?” she hedged, one eyebrow arching in query. “Or ...?”
The viscount straightened in his chair and leaned his elbows on the desk. If he was annoyed by her use of his given name, he didn’t show it. “The or,” he said as he lifted his chin.
Glancing back again at the open door, Lydia gave a ‘tsk’ before getting up and moving to close it.
“What are you doing?”
Lydia waited for the latch to click into place before she angled her head and answered the viscount’s query. “Closing the door, of course. There are two clerks out there I’ve never seen before, and a caddy from the Home Office who looks as if his eyes are about to pop out of his head.”
Matthew straightened in his chair, impressed that her attention to detail was still so sharp. “Both clerks are fully vetted and cleared to hear and read classified reports. As for the caddy ...” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Master John is deaf. He shouldn’t be a problem ...”
“He can see, Matthew,” Lydia countered as she returned to her seat. “He can probably read lips, too.”
The viscount blinked. Damn it, but the woman was suspicious. “Point taken. Now, tell me what you knew.”
The widow took a deep breath and let it out before she said anything. “I knew Jasper was one of Wellington’s men, of course,” she whispered. “And he worked for you when he wasn’t reporting to the War Office.” She arched an eyebrow. “Or perhaps he always worked for you.” This last was said as more of a question than a guess.
/> Matthew blinked. “Of course he did,” he responded, a bit of disappointment apparent in his voice. He handed the drawing across the desk, holding it until Lydia finally reached for it. He watched as she studied the drawing, her gaze taking in far more than just the brutal scene depicted in the middle. He watched as she struggled to retain her composure. At no point did tears brighten her eyes, though.
“A bayonet, then. That’s how he died,” was all she said. She handed the drawing back to Chamberlain.
“Aye. He was also shot in the shoulder sometime before that.”
Lydia sighed. “I’ll let his brother know. That is, if you haven’t already informed him.”
Chamberlain shook his head. “No need to. I’ll see Barrymore when I’m next in Parliament,” he said quietly. “I am sorry for your loss. For mine as well. He was a good man. A good operative,” he said quietly.
“He recruited me, didn’t he? Wasn’t that why he was dispatched to find and marry me?” Lydia paused a moment. “Did you give him that order, too?”
The viscount cursed as his hand hit the top of his desk, but Lydia remained rock steady as she regarded him. “Really, Matthew. The man appeared out of nowhere claiming he wanted to court me. Even my father was suspicious, but he wasn’t about to turn down an offer of marriage from a fellow viscount.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Jasper was a viscount, wasn’t he?” She could just imagine an entire aristocratic line created for the sole purpose of hiding a spy. Or a family of them!
Matthew rolled his eyes and nodded. “Of course he was a viscount! He was a Barrymore, through and through,” he insisted. He paused a moment, considering her earlier comment. “If he recruited you, as you seem to think, it wasn’t because he was ordered to do so by anyone in this office. The man had a knack for discovering people with certain talents, though, and he recognized yours the first opportunity he had to dance with you. At least, that’s what he claimed when he brought word of you to us.” He paused a moment. “He did have to marry, though.”
Lydia struggled to keep the surprise she felt from showing. “Oh?” ‘Have to marry’ implied all sorts of not-so-pleasant situations, not the least of which was the need to sire an heir to carry on the viscountcy, something Jasper had never accomplished.
It wasn’t exactly for lack of trying, although the opportunities to do so had been few and far between.
“He was always in the company of men. If he ever availed himself of a lady of the evening, no one paid witness to it, and after a time, rumors started circulating ...” He wasn’t surprised to hear her sudden gasp.
“How ridiculous!” Lydia interrupted with a shake of her head. “Jasper wasn’t a homosexual,” she whispered hoarsely.
Matthew sighed. “We know that, but all it took was some gossip monger to suggest otherwise, and suddenly he was under scrutiny.”
Sighing, Lydia settled back into her chair. She had always wondered at Jasper’s motivation when it came to courting her. To proposing marriage, especially after such a short courtship. “He was a good man, Matthew. A good viscount, too,” she added before she was forced to swallow a sudden sob. At some point, she had fallen in love with her husband. Fallen in love and had visions of becoming a mother, of bearing a heir, and a spare, and a daughter or two.
“And since you didn’t bear him an heir, his brother now has that honor.”
If Lydia felt a sting of guilt or hurt at the accusation, she hid it well. “Seems I’m in good company, though,” she countered with an arched eyebrow, her head angling up in defiance.
The viscount understood her meaning immediately, at once angered and then hurt by her words. “Touché,” he replied as the entire frame of his body slumped. Despite all the years he and Caroline Harrington had been married, she had never borne him a child. But then, he hadn’t exactly been in her company much in the early years, what with travel for his assignments and late nights in Whitehall. Since she was seeing to raising her niece, Samantha, Caroline didn’t seem particularly interested in having a child of her own. Perhaps it was time to bring up the topic. Get home a bit earlier. Drop some hints and hope for an invitation to her bedchamber. Do more of what he had done last night, even though he didn’t quite know what it was he had done to garner his wife’s attentions. To find himself in the same bed with her. To find her suddenly wanton and willing beneath him.
The memory had his cock hardening and his mind on lustful thoughts of his wife.
Lydia felt a hint of satisfaction at how her words had the viscount ruminating. “Although, if you continue what you were doing last night, I should think you’ll get a child on her within the year.” The statement, made with just a hint of spite, had Lydia regretting it almost immediately. “Oh, dammit. I apologize. That was uncalled for.” Damnation! What was it about men and their topics of conversation that had her so defensive these days?
Matthew stared at her for a full ten seconds, a series of possible reasons Lydia could know such a detail ticking off in his brain. “I cannot believe Caro would speak of our ...”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “She didn’t say a word, Matthew. She didn’t need to. I can tell when a woman’s been tumbled three ways to Thursday.” She paused a moment and sighed, rather glad to see his reaction to her comment. Why, she was sure the man was blushing! The curmudgeon was married to one of the friendliest women in the ton, and it was obvious he worshipped her. It was past time the two realized they were well-suited for one another. “She was positively glowing this afternoon at the garden party. Looked rather youthful, too. And you look as if you might have youthened five or ten years since I saw you at the theatre last month.”
The viscount cleared his throat, stunned by Lydia Barrymore’s words. He had never known her to be so direct—she rarely put voice to her observations given she usually had to supply them in written reports.
No wonder Jasper had insisted she would make a good agent. A good operative. A better analyst.
Well, at the moment, he didn’t need a spy in the field so much as someone to keep an eye on another spy. Or perhaps ... he straightened. “Lady Craven has been rather vocal about her brother’s bouts of melancholy since his return from Brussels,” Matthew stated suddenly. “She claims he stares off into space for hours at a time. Called him a Bedlamite in the company of several aristocrats. The man is due to be knighted in the morning ...”
Lydia suddenly straightened in her chair, well aware of just whom Lord Chamberlain was describing. “Adonis Truscott?” she interrupted. “Sir Donald?”
Matthew Fitzsimmons settled back again, deciding that although he was just a bit stunned she knew of Adonis Truscott and his status of an about-to-be-knight, he was also quite sure he sensed something else by the way she said his name. He was, in fact, quite sure he had touched a sore spot.
Well, this is about to become interesting, he thought.
“Know him, do you?” he countered carefully.
Lydia blinked. “Of him. I’ve ... I saw him. Today. He was at Lady Morganfield’s garden party this afternoon. Gave her a rather generous cheque for her daughter’s charity, and he wasn’t even on the invitation list.” Inwardly, she cringed. Why the hell was Adonis at the garden party in the first place? He had a cheque already filled out for the charity, though. Perhaps he merely wanted to support Lady E’s ‘Finding Work for the Wounded’ and thought to give his cheque directly to Lady Morganfield.
What other reason could he have to be there?
Matthew angled his head at this bit of information, wondering just how generous Sir Donald had been. He didn’t know if Adonis Truscott could afford a generous donation to anyone, which had him wondering whose money was behind the cheque.
“I need you to ... to meet him. Befriend him. As a colleague, if it becomes necessary. Ensure he stays sane, and if he is insane, bring him back to sanity. Accompany him to ...” He paused a moment. “To the theatre. Rides in the park. Balls. Soireés. Marry him, if you have to. The man was a crack agent back in the day, and I shou
ld hate to lose his services over something awful that happened on a battlefield in the Republic of The Netherlands a year ago.”
Lydia blinked—that’s when Matthew knew he had dented her armor just a bit—before she gave her head a quick shake. “Adonis Truscott is my ... assignment?”
Matthew nodded, rather liking how she fought to retain a modicum of dignity just then. “Whatever you need to do to get him back on an even keel, you have my permission,” he stated with a nod, rather enjoying just how Lydia managed to keep a calm façade when he knew she was positively stunned by his words.
“I suppose challenging him to a duel in Wimbledon Commons isn’t an option,” she murmured, her manner most deadpan.
The viscount pretended to mull over the idea, wondering why she would say something so unexpected. “He would probably beat you at swords, but my money would be on you with a pistol,” he stated, a distinct lack of humor sounding in his voice. “No, Lydia. I want him alive. I want him right as rain. I want him sane.”
Lydia stared at the viscount. “Don’t make me do this,” she whispered as she shook her head. “Matthew, the man is ins ... ”
“Oh, so you have met him?” Chamberlain interrupted, his voice taking on a sugary tone. “Kissed him, perhaps?”
It was Lydia’s turn to hide her shock. How the hell does he know such a thing? For a moment, she thought perhaps he was merely baiting her. She had come straight to Whitehall from Carlington House. When would there have been time for someone to report Adonis’ clandestine peck on the corner of her mouth? Or hers on his?
There hadn’t been, which meant he was teasing.
Feeling ever so spiteful, Lydia cleared her throat. “He initiated it. I merely ...” She sighed and rolled her eyes. So much for hiding her tells. “I admit, I felt a bit sorry for the old fogey. At the time. Now, I don’t.”
Matthew winced before he shook his head from side to side. Jesus, but the woman could be an enigma! And cheeky. Old fogey? Well, he had noticed the man’s pronounced limp and his need to use a cane when the man had been in the office the day before. Broken leg, he remembered from the medical report. Compound fracture. Nearly lost the leg, but some young doctor in Brussels insisted he could save it, and then there was a round of surgeries to ensure Sir Donald could walk again.
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