My Gentleman Spy

by Sasha Cottman

  My Gentleman Spy

  Sasha Cottman

  To Dean and Laura

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  The Duke of Strathmore series

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Gibraltar 1817

  Hattie Wright sucked in a deep breath before slowly letting the air back out. The long drop over the side of the ship to the water below was a heart-rending distance.

  What had seemed a plausible idea only a minute or two before; now revealed itself to be nothing short of madness.

  She wondered how hard the water would be when she finally hit it. Had she overestimated her strength as a swimmer and was she fated to drown before she could make it back to shore?

  Worst of all, were there sharks lurking in the murky depths below?

  She lifted her gaze from the deep green of the bay and looked at the small town of Gibraltar a quarter mile across the water. Soon it would be out of sight and the Blade of Orion would be on her way to Africa.

  Earlier that morning, with her fiancé holding her firmly by the hand Hattie had made the short journey up the gangplank and onto the ship. All the while her heart had been beating a loud tattoo within her chest.

  No. no. no.

  Gibraltar was the last stop before they embarked on the long journey down the West coast of Africa to their destination of Sierra Leone. When her parents first announced their mission to Africa, she had tried to convince herself that this was her destiny. Her parents were resolved in their mission to bring the word of God to the people of Freetown and she as their dutiful daughter was to accompany them. Reverend Peter Brown, her recently acquired fiancé, was just another part of the grand plan. One which had been laid out for her.

  She rubbed her finger across the deep scowl line which sat just above her nose. She was by nature a person who worried about all manner of things. The impending journey to Africa had her lying awake every night.

  Long before the ship had left London Dock a nagging doubt had sparked and grown within her mind. Was this what she truly wanted for her life? Once she was wed to the dour Peter, all choice would be gone. Her life would be set in stone.

  And what of the friends she was being forced to leave behind. How would they survive without her?

  She looked back at the ship's deck. Apart from the crew there were no other passengers up on deck. Her mother would no doubt, be busy rearranging their tiny cabin for the second time that morning. Hattie knew her mother well. A place for everything and everything in its place.

  Her father and Peter would be locked in one of their never-ending conversations about how they were to set up the ministry on the edge of the African jungle. Every day on the journey thus far they had spent hours poring over paperwork and the building plans for a new church. A church in which she and Peter would be married.

  Everyone was busy with their own priorities. No one would come looking for her until it was too late. By the time they did she would be long gone.

  She looked down once more at the water lapping against the side of the ship. Soon the Blade of Orion would be far from port and the opportunity to change her life would be lost. She either accepted her future as the wife of a missionary or she jumped.

  The chill wind ruffled her light gold hair. Her pounding heart reminding her in its heavy beat that she was still very much alive. But would she be so when her body hit the water far below and she sunk deep beneath the waves?

  The ship's leading hand bellowed out orders to set out the sails. Sailors on the deck quickly scrambled up into the ropes. As the hive of activity swirled around the deck, she was grateful no one appeared to have noticed her presence.

  Her conscience which had until this morning vacillated between acceptance and rebellion finally made up its mind. The truth was, she counselled herself if she were to die shortly, it would be the better death. Quickly drowning in the Bay of Gibraltar would be preferable to a long living death as Peter’s wife in the dark heart of the African continent.

  In the short period they had been engaged, Peter had revealed to her the kind of husband he would make. There would be little laughter or happiness in their marriage. Duty would be the only constant.

  A tiny voice in the back of her brain whispered, urging her on.

  “You have to move.”

  For every second that she delayed, the opportunity to determine her own future slipped further from her reach. Even now the swim to shore would test her endurance to its limits.

  She slowly began to make her way along the deck to where the gangplank, having been raised, was now stored. The end of the plank still jutted a good eight feet out over the side of the ship. Not much, but it at least afforded her the semblance of a chance that if she went into the water from here, she could be clear of the ship and its dangerous wake.

  Hoisting her skirts, she climbed up onto the long wooden bridge. Dropping to her knees, she crawled out past the edge of the ship and over the water. At the end of the gangplank she sat down and swung her feet over the side.

  In the middle distance, Gibraltar was slowly, but certainly slipping away.

  It was now or never.

  “Lord if you grant me this boon I shall remain your devoted servant always,” she vowed.

  After a final glance back over her shoulder at the deck of the ship, Hattie took a deep breath and dropped over the side.

  Chapter Two

  Will Saunders leaned back against the rock wall of the Port of Gibraltar and closed his eyes. The warmth of the sun seeped deep into his bones. For all that he longed to return home to England, he knew it would be the warm weather of Europe he missed the most once he left.

  All those long years spent in Paris as an undercover operative for His Majesty's government now seemed a lifetime ago.

  Yet it was only last month that he had finally packed up his things, given notice to his landlady, Madame Dessaint and vacated his lodgings in Paris. Treating himself to a farewell tour of the now peaceful cities of lower France and Spain he planned for his journey to end with a boat trip back to London.

  London.

  He shivered at the prospect of facing the forthcoming English winter.

  “Oh well it has to be,” he murmured. His fingers caressed the warm stone sea wall of the dock.

  For five years he had been away. Years which had seen him change forever. The young man who had slipped into Paris in the summer of 1812 was long gone. Too self-assured bordering on arrogant, he had quickly learned the truth of life as a spy. Living on the knife's edge, knowing that at any moment there could be a knock at the door and his m
ortal existence would be at an end.

  A spy's greatest hope was that when it did come, death would be quick. Only those whom fate had completely abandoned were faced with arrest and the inevitable journey to the scaffold and an audience with Madame Guillotine.

  Will opened his eyes. The bright sun had him blinking hard to focus. He put a hand to his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart. He sighed, grateful that he, unlike so many others, had been fortunate enough to escape that terrible fate.

  If the damp weather in England was the worst he had to deal with for the rest of his life, he would be blessed. He lifted his head from the wall and sat upright, before indulging in a long, tension releasing stretch.

  The wind from the sea blew through his linen shirt and chilled his still damp skin. A short while earlier, he had taken a leisurely swim in the harbor. Seated now on an upturned wooden crate at the bottom of a series of steep stone steps he could hear the local Spanish traders as they beckoned for all comers to buy their wares at the Friday morning market which was taking place in the town square above.

  He rummaged around in his leather satchel, which sat on the stone paving next to him, and pulled out a small knife and an orange which he had purchased earlier that morning in the market. After peeling off the dimpled skin of the succulent fruit, he stuffed a piece of the orange into his mouth. A smile crept to his lips as he relished the sweet citrus juice. With his thumb he wiped a stray trickle of juice from his lips.

  “That is good,” he murmured.

  Days from now he would be home in England, and back in the rarefied air of London high society. These simple days would be pleasant, but ever distant memories to cherish as he tried to re-establish himself within the haute ton.

  Letters from his parents and family had offered all manner of assistance once he had made known his intention to return home permanently. His brother and sisters would no doubt make every effort to see him well set once more.

  He missed his family. How much he missed them had been brought home during his brief summer visit back to London earlier that year.

  Instinctively he reached for his left hand, his fingers searching for his wedding ring. They touched only skin, and the ridge where once a ring had been. He flinched momentarily before remembering his recent decision to take it off.

  Yvette was dead.

  Three years and eight months. He had stopped counting the days, but even now he was unsure as to whether he was truly ready to move on. To finally accept that his wife was gone. To allow the ghost of his guilt to rest in peace.

  A movement on the horizon caught his eye. A ship which had left the nearby dockside only a short while earlier, turned portside. He recalled seeing the last of the ship’s passengers scramble on board the Blade of Orion. She was a sturdy, though not overly large sea going vessel. He sent a silent prayer to those on board, wishing them a safe journey. She was bound for Africa.

  Only the brave and steady of heart made the perilous journey to Africa. Apart from the countries which bordered the Mediterranean Sea, the African continent was largely unknown. Many had left Europe seeking their fortunes in that vast land, only to be never heard from again. Africa was known as the white man’s graveyard with good reason.

  He was about to turn away and put his boots and jacket back on when something else caught his attention.

  He could see someone crawling along what appeared to be the raised gangplank of the ship. Will frowned at this rather dangerous occupation. The life of a sailor was fraught with peril. As he put a hand up to shade his eyes from the bright morning sun, he squinted to get a better look.

  As the person reached the end of the gangplank they sat down. Will's breath caught in his throat at the sight of long skirts draped over the edge of the plank. It was not a sailor; it was a woman.

  “What the devil are you up to?” he muttered.

  The words had barely left his lips when to his horror, the woman dropped over the side of the ship and fell into the water below. She disappeared beneath the waves.

  For a moment Will stood rooted to the spot, struck motionless as his brain struggled to accept what his eyes had just beheld. From where he stood, he could see no one else on board the ship had seen the woman fall.

  The crew continued about their business of preparing and setting the sails, oblivious to the crisis which was unfolding. He frantically called out to the ship, but his voice was carried away on the wind.

  The woman was now alone with her fate. Only he could possibly save her.

  Coming to his senses he tossed away the remainder of his orange. He stripped off his shirt and flung it down on the stones. He hurried down to the edge of the dock. Reaching the water's edge, he dived in. Coming up for air, he began to swim toward the ship, praying against all hope that he could reach her before she drowned.

  The impact of the water punched the air out of Hattie's lungs so hard that she feared she would lose consciousness. Salt water filled her mouth and eyes.

  She flayed about for what seemed an eternity, bordering on the edge of panic as her limited vision filled with swirling skirts and foam. Finally, she caught a glimpse of light above her and realizing it was the sun began to swim toward the surface.

  Breaking the surface of the water, she sucked in a huge lungful of air. Her momentary relief dashed by the sight of the ship which filled her entire vision.

  Death stared her in the face. Even if she had been able to scream, no one could have heard her above the roar of the waves and the ship. Any moment now the ship's wake would pull her under and she would die.

  “Dear lord,” she muttered.

  She turned and began to frantically swim away, hoping against all hope that she could by some miracle survive.

  She soon found the going to be tougher than she could ever have imagined. Hattie had never had to swim in boots and skirts before. The weight of her clothing threatened to overwhelm her efforts to make good her escape.

  Lifting her head, a break in the waves afforded her a brief glimpse of the dockside. So tantalizingly close.

  Get clear of the ship and then float. Come on Hattie, you are not done for yet. You shall not die this day.

  Knowing that the greatest enemy of any swimmer was fatigue she rolled over onto her back and began to kick strongly away from the ship. Slowly, but surely, she gradually built a safe distance between her and certain death.

  As the Blade of Orion slowly drew away, the first tangible sense of relief pricked her brain. Her drop over the side of the ship had gone unnoticed. No one up on deck was running about and pointing to her in the water.

  Best of all she had survived. So far.

  “Next time I jump over the side of a ship, I shall remove my boots first,” she chided herself.

  With the ship now sailing away, she gathered her thoughts. Her first task was to make it to safety. She would deal with the rest of her predicament once she was back on dry land.

  With her head pointed toward the town, continuing to swim on her back made sense. It allowed her legs to partly float and take some of the weight of her boots. Every so often, she would stop, turn around and once she had reconfirmed her bearings continue to swim toward the shore.

  The rhythmic strokes of her arms helped to calm her panic. As she drew closer to the dockside, hope sparked in her heart.

  “I'm going to make it,” she sobbed.

  A scream erupted from her mouth a second later as a firm hand took hold of her downward descending arm.

  She fought vainly against the stranger, but he was altogether too strong for her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her toward him. With her back against his chest he began to swim toward shore.

  “Stop struggling or we shall both drown,” he bellowed at her above the noise of the waves.

  She caught a glimpse of dark hair and a naked torso. Where had he come from?

  The thought that only a lunatic would be out swimming in the middle of the bay briefly crossed her mind, but at that mome
nt all that really mattered was that they were swimming toward land.

  He was also right about not fighting him. If he was prepared to do the lion's share of the work then she stood a much better chance of making it safely to shore. Accepting his assistance, she relaxed against the stranger's chest and attempted to aid him in his endeavors by kicking as best as she could in her water-logged boots.

  Working together they finally made it to the water's edge at the dockside. Several local dock hands came down and helped them both ashore.

  As soon as her feet touched solid ground, Hattie's legs buckled from under her and she fell heavily to her knees. The soft flesh of her hands smacked hard against the stone paving of the dockside.

  “Ooof,” she groaned.

  Her dark-haired savior bent down and putting an arm around her waist, lifted her to her feet.

  “Swimming in boots is never a good idea,” he said.

  “No,” was all the reply she could muster.

  With his arm still wrapped tightly around her waist, he guided her up a nearby short set of stone steps. The curious dock workers followed. Reaching the top, he sat her down upon an upturned wooden crate. He dropped down beside her. After reassuring the dock hands that the two of them were safe, he waved them away.

  While she did not understand anything of the words the men were muttering as they headed back down the steps, Hattie suspected they were not kind. No one in their right frame of mind would willingly leap over the side of a ship.