Matthew also realized he shouldn’t have felt the thrill of victory quite as much as he did just then. But he couldn’t help himself. “Lydia, he’s an important asset. I want him back, and I want him well. Figure out what’s got him stuck in the past and ... fix him, won’t you?”
The last two words gave her an out, but at that point, Lydia decided to accept the challenge. How hard could it be? A bit of feminine attention. A tumble or two. A serious discussion about service to King and country. A punch to the jaw, and the man would be right as rain.
Well, maybe she wouldn’t have to punch the man. Unless he went off into one of his extended visits to the inside of his head. Then she might have to punch him.
Or kiss him, perhaps. Her hand was already thanking her lips for an alternative solution.
She wasn’t so sure what her lips thought just yet.
At least she had already spent some time in the man’s company. He wasn’t a complete unknown. He wasn’t a bad sort, either. Wasn’t particularly proud. Wasn’t particularly meek, either. He was merely ... annoying.
At least he was beautiful.
With any luck, she could find out what had him spending hours staring into space. Perhaps make him sane before he drove her insane.
“Just promise me you won’t admit me to Bedlam when this is over,” she murmured before rising.
The viscount allowed a shrug. Should I? he nearly murmured, a hint of a grin appearing at the corners of his lips.
Sighing—Lydia was sure he wouldn’t answer—she was about to take her leave of Lord Chamberlain’s office when he suddenly stopped her with the words, “Just one more thing.”
She glanced over her shoulder before turning to face him. “Just one?” she repeated, sounding almost surprised.
Matthew ignored the spiteful tone. “Jasper’s ring. He wasn’t wearing it when he died,” he said in a quiet voice as he indicated the drawing on his desk.
Frowning, Lydia merely shook her head. “Ring?” she repeated. Jasper had at least a half a dozen rings ... “Oh,” she replied with a shake of her head. “It’s true. He left it behind ...” She stopped, her frown deepening. Jasper must have known he wasn’t coming back to British shores. Must have known he wouldn’t survive. Damn him. “It’s safe,” she said with a shrug.
The viscount stared at her for a moment, as if he were trying to decide if he should say anything more. “See that it stays that way. Do you ... know what he kept inside it?”
Lydia gave a shrug. “Currency. Runes. Rolled up bits of paper. It depended on the assignment, I suppose,” she hedged.
“Currency?” Matthew repeated, wondering how Jasper Barrymore might have hidden money in such a tiny compartment beneath a fake diamond mounted on a thick gold band.
“Sapphires,” Lydia stated as she opened the door. “Universal currency, wouldn’t you agree? Now, are you going to promise me you won’t admit me to Bedlam when this is all over?”
Matthew finally allowed a grin and was pretending to mull over her request when an ink pen sailed past within an inch of his ear. Had she wanted it to, it would have impaled his eye. “I promise!” he called out as he heard her leave the outer office.
His grin widened to the point where he no longer had the desire to continue working just then. Not when the memory of his wife’s soft body beneath him had him imagining how they might warm up the bed on this night.
Helping himself to his greatcoat, he took his leave of Whitehall and hurried home to Fitzsimmons House.
Chapter Eleven
An Intruder is Discovered
In the middle of the night
The sound of soft snoring brought Lydia out of a fitful sleep. She blinked awake and stared at the canopy above her, barely making out the gathered folds that splayed out from where brocade fabric met at the apex. The canopy curtains draped down to hide the end of the bed as well as the side facing the door to her bedchamber. The side facing her vanity, the fireplace, and the single window remained open, though, presumably to allow the heat from the fireplace to warm the bed. Only a few embers of coal remained lit, though, and the chilly air had her shivering.
Holding her breath and lying as still as possible, she listened intently.
Her attention went to the window when the soft snore sounded again. Silhouetted against the bit of light that made its way through the window was the shape of a man seated in the room’s Greek lounging chair. He was obviously asleep, but the realization did little to slow the pulse she felt pounding in her ears nor prevent the sudden alarm she felt.
How the hell did I sleep through the sound of someone making their way into my bedchamber?
Sliding her hand beneath the pillow next to the one on which her head rested, she felt for the cold metal of the muff flintlock pistol she kept there. She pulled it out at the same time as she sat up, attempting to straighten her nightrail. The lawn had become twisted around her legs whilst she slept. She moved to get out of the bed, hoping she could do so without making a sound. The ropes beneath the mattress protested the strain, though, and the man’s snoring suddenly ceased.
Knowing she would have the upper hand if she could prevent the intruder from standing up, she rushed to stand before him, her nightrail-clad body slightly angled in the event he made to launch himself from the lounging chair. She drew back the hammer on the top of the mock ivory and gold-toned pistol, her thumb steady as she did so, and aimed it at his forehead. She was careful to remain out of his reach, just in case he leaned forward with the intent of launching himself out of the lounging chair to tackle her. “Do not move, or you shall have a hole in your head,” she warned in a hoarse whisper.
“I mean you no harm.” The simple words were said as his hands slowly came up, their palms facing Lydia. “Quite the opposite, in fact,” he murmured.
Maintaining her stance and the aim of the gun, she took a breath. The scent of the man’s cologne was barely there, somewhat familiar but not enough to have her guessing whom he might be. “Then why are you here?”
“I am ... keeping a promise, my lady,” he murmured. “Although, it’s become quite evident you can see to your own protection, I suppose.”
Lydia frowned, rather surprised by his words and the sound of disappointment she heard in them. “To whom did you make the promise?”
Even before the words were out of her mouth, she realized Jasper had to have been the one to extract such a promise from someone. A fellow officer, no doubt. An officer or a colleague.
An agent.
Slowly lowering the pistol, Lydia stared at the intruder. “When?” she whispered. Jasper’s been dead a year now, but who else could he mean?
“A year ago. I apologize for the delay. I have not been in London long, and it took some doing to find you ...”
Lydia inhaled sharply as she finally recognized the man’s voice. “Sir Donald?”
“Well, not yet, but I am at your service, my lady.”
A dozen thoughts vied for attention just then—but outrage won out over all the rational reasons. “How dare you come into my house? To my bedchamber?” she whispered hoarsely. “Are you insane?” The word was out of her mouth before she could censor it, before she realized just how fitting it was to describe Adonis Truscott at that moment. She had been warned, though. Lord Chamberlain had implied the man wasn’t in his right mind when she met with him.
“I have been told I am,” Adonis acknowledged with a nod, his admission sounding ever so reasonable. “But I dared only because it was a requirement to accomplish what I promised to do.” He paused a moment, his head dipping a bit. “As for my presence in your bedchamber ... I am not sure where else I could be. I can assure you I was not seen when I came into the house, though.”
Lydia blinked, her shoulders slumping as she considered his explanation. He sounded sane. He sounded perfectly reasonable, in fact, even if his actions were the very height of impropriety.
Before she could form a suitable response, she realized her bare feet we
re freezing despite the rich carpet beneath them. Once that thought had registered, she was suddenly aware of how her nipples had puckered into hard buds behind her nightrail, of how her fingers felt chilled. Her attention still on her intruder, she realized he had to be cold, too. He wasn’t wearing a greatcoat over his ... she wasn’t even sure what he was wearing, its dark fabric blending into the chair’s upholstery in the dim light. “How did you get here?”
It was Sir Donald’s turn to blink. “I walked.”
Well, at least there isn’t a horse parked outside the townhouse, she thought with a bit of relief.
“Got in through the back door, no doubt,” Lydia murmured, remembering how the lock was broken.
“Yes, my lady. You really should see to its repair.”
Lydia frowned at the familiar annoyance she felt toward the man just then. Could he be any more annoying? “No doubt,” she finally responded with a roll of her eyes, not bothering to add that one was scheduled to see to the problem later that day. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, making sure the pistol was uncocked as she did so. The movement had her nipples pressing into the fine lawn of her nightrail, their silhouettes evident despite the dim light from the window. “Can you leave now, please? As you can see, there’s really no need for your presence here. I am freezing, and I’d really like to get back to my warm bed.”
The gun no longer a threat, Adonis stood up from the Greek lounging chair. “I cannot, my lady,” he whispered with a shake of his head. “Please, don’t make me.” He moved to stand directly in front of her, so close, the scent of his cologne was readily apparent.
Stunned by his words, Lydia stared up at him. “You cannot stay here. The gossip ...”
“No one will know I am here. I promise,” he interrupted, his gaze dropping from her eyes to where her breasts were made evident by her crossed arms.
“I will,” she countered indignantly.
He reached out, the back of one of his fingers suddenly brushing the side of one fabric-covered breast. Lydia jerked at the sensation, both because his finger was cold and because the caress set off a rather pleasant sensation just beneath her skin. “How dare you?” she whispered.
Adonis didn’t seem to hear her, for his gaze was entirely on the spot where his finger had touched. Glancing down to see what had his attention, Lydia let out a gasp and changed the angle of her arms to cover the evidence of her chilled nipples. When Adonis didn’t seem to notice—indeed, he still stared at exactly the same spot—Lydia sighed. “You’re doing it again,” she accused. “Staring at nothing ...” She allowed her words to trail off when she realized he was somewhere—or some when—else, and probably couldn’t hear a word she said. She had half a mind to shove him just to discover if he would topple over or awaken with a start and catch himself. Then she remembered he walked with a limp and decided he would probably topple over either way.
I’m not that cruel.
Weary and cold, she made her way to the bed and slowly settled into it, covering herself against the chill in the room as she continued to keep her gaze on the strange man. Despite her attempt to keep her eyes open, though, she soon drifted off to sleep.
A sob had Adonis suddenly straightening, his attempt to breathe interrupted by something apparently lodged in his throat. Aware his cheek was wet, he moved a hand up to determine the source of the moisture, his gaze turning up as if he thought it was rain before his mind finally registered that he wasn’t outside. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he realized the cause—tears fell from his eyes.
Poor Johanna!
The unfamiliar surroundings had him glancing about, his gaze finally resting on the counterpane-covered mound on the bed.
Lydia, he thought then with a great deal of relief. Unlike Johanna, she was alive. She was well.
She was angry with him, too, but it couldn’t be helped. He had a promise to keep. A duty to perform.
A shiver reminded him it was cold in the room. Moving to the fireplace, he found the tongs the maid used to load coal into the box. Adding the three lumps that had been left on the hearth, he felt a good deal of satisfaction when a flame finally erupted and warmth seemed to penetrate the chill. He dared a glance back at the bed, relieved to see that Lydia still slept. When his shivering ceased, he returned to the upholstered Greek lounging chair and settled himself for the rest of the night.
Chapter Twelve
Pondering an Enigma
The following morning, May 15, 1816
Lydia awoke with a start, sure she felt movement in her bedchamber.
“Morning, milady,” Rachel called out from where she was opening the drapes.
Glancing about the part of the room she could see from the open side of the bed, and the amount of light that filtered through the Austrian sheers that still covered the window, Lydia realized it was later than usual. “What time is it?” she asked as she sat up in bed, one hand moving to push the errant locks of hair from her face.
“Nearly nine o’clock, milady.”
Nine? A vague memory niggled at the edges of her consciousness. Moving her hand beneath one of the pillows, she felt the cold metal of her gun and relaxed a bit. A quick glance at the Greek lounging chair near the window assured her no one had been sitting in it recently—the seat cushion was smooth.
“Musta been a vera cold night, seein’ as how the coal I left on the hearth has been used. Hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience for you to have to do that yourself,” she added with a worried look.
Lydia blinked as she gazed at the palm of her right hand. There was no evidence of coal dust on her fingers. “Not at all,” she murmured, suddenly quite sure she hadn’t been the one to feed the dying fire.
The memory of Adonis Truscott sitting on the Greek chair beneath the window came flooding back. The memory of her aiming her muff pistol at him. Her threats. His replies.
His lack of reply.
His assurance he wouldn’t be discovered.
Well, it was quite evident he hadn’t left any evidence of his presence behind, at least in this room, Lydia realized, her quick assessment assuring her that even his boot prints couldn’t be found in the Aubusson carpet.
Damn, but the man was an enigma. He hadn’t answered the most important question she had asked last night, and yet she had been too tired and too angry to force the answer out of him. She had a gun to his head, for God’s sake!
To whom had be promised to provide her protection?
Jasper came to mind, of course. But how? And when?
She was about to spend some time puzzling it out when she realized Rachel was giving her an expectant look. “Just a round gown for the morning. I’ll be paying calls this afternoon, though,” she murmured. “I’ll need the town coach and a driver.” A thought to visit the Foreign Office in Whitehall crossed her mind—she had a mind to apprise Lord Chamberlain as to what had happened the night before—but to do so meant she might have to ride in a hackney to get there. No one in her household knew of her prior work for Chamberlain. Even if most of her duties involved reading reports and news sheets or decoding messages from operatives, she preferred her work be kept as secret as possible.
Perhaps she could have her driver take her in the town coach when next she paid a visit on Lord Chamberlain, though. There were other buildings in Whitehall she could claim were her destination.
“I’ll get some more coal right quick and be back up to help you dress,” the maid stated as she headed for the door.
Lydia held up a hand. “While you’re down there, could you find out if the back door lock has been repaired yet?”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “Of course, milady,” she said as she bobbed a curtsy and disappeared with the coal can.
Adonis had made his way into the house via the back door. Lydia was sure of it. What if he had been the one to damage its lock in the first place? As the means to ensure he could gain access to the house and use the back stairs to reach her bedchamber?
Da
mn him! she thought in dismay.
Well, the sooner the lock was repaired, the better. If Adonis Truscott paid her another nocturnal visit, she would know it was because he broke the lock again.
Chapter Thirteen
A Brother-in-Law Isn’t Convinced
A few hours later
“I think he’s worse now than he was when he returned from Europe,” Persephone Craven complained in a whisper, arching an elegant eyebrow as she made the comment.
“Now, now, don’t exaggerate, m’dear,” her husband replied, his attention on that morning’s edition of The Times. The newly ironed paper had been delivered by the butler only moments before.
Although he hadn’t been present in the breakfast parlor that morning, Robert Craven made his way straight to the dining room when he did make an appearance at the Craven townhouse at precisely one o’clock in the afternoon. He immediately took a seat in the large carver at one end of the mahogany table and settled in as if he expected luncheon to be served momentarily.
Persephone struggled to hide her surprise, both because she hadn’t expected him and because he didn’t smell of having spent the morning in a traveling coach.
Or a gaming hell.
“I assure you, I am not exaggerating,” she replied from the other end of the table. The sudden unexpected appearance of her brother, Adonis, had her pasting on a smile. “So glad you could join us, Donald. I wasn’t sure you would,” she said in an attempt to cover her surprise at having Adonis show up in the dining room only moments after her husband had taken his seat.
Adonis gave Persephone a quelling glance. “I’m quite sure I accepted your invitation for luncheon last evening. Before I took my leave of you,” he said before stopping to give his brother-in-law’s shoulder a quick shake. “Good afternoon, Craven. Anything interesting in the news today?”
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