Unmasking the Spy

by Janet Kent

  Sighing, Ian shelved his hopes of an early departure and worked his way across the candlelit room to rescue her.

  ###

  Alicia tried to ignore the spittle that shot from Louis’ mouth when he said she wasn’t good enough for her family’s money. She could not ignore the comment itself.

  “What do you do with your time, Louis,” she asked, “besides playing at dandy and collector?”

  Oh, why couldn’t Louis have drowned in the port decanter and left her alone? Impossible to search for suitors with him ranting and waving his hands four inches from her face.

  “I don’t play at anything,” Louis said with a pout. “I am an impeccable man of fashion and a revered collector in many circles. Your father should listen to me more often.”

  “’Revered’ is a bit of an overstatement, don’t you think?” Alicia racked her brain for an appropriate quote. “I believe the French author Duc de la Rochefoucauld first stated, ‘Pride has a greater share than goodness in the reproofs we give other people for their faults.’”

  “What does that even mean?” Louis demanded, bouncing on his toes. “You never make any sense. I can’t imagine why people fawn all over you. I’m the one who’s intelligent and stylish. You were simply lucky enough to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth. I’m the one who deserves it.”

  Alicia felt her jaw drop. This insufferable prig was to be her husband? “As they say,” she quoted, “‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.’” She restrained herself from poking him in the chest. “Watch yourself, Louis.”

  Louis sputtered. “When we marry, you will not be allowed to read. I will personally burn any books I find in the house. If you ever presume to lecture me again, I will–” Blood infused his swollen cheeks and his hands jerked into fists.

  “You can’t hurt me,” she said with more confidence than she felt. She slid a foot backwards and found she was already pressed against the wall.

  “Oh?” Louis smirked, stretching to loom over her even more.

  Alicia’s muscles trembled with rage. “I,” she said through clenched teeth, “am not your wife.”

  “Yet.” With a manic giggle, Louis lowered his heels, unfurled his fists, and fluffed his cravat. “But when you are…”

  Alicia fought the urge to scream. But if Louis thought for a moment she would prove difficult, he would run to her father, and who knows what Papa would do. She glared at Louis with her teeth clenched behind her lips, fearing what foolish words she might say if she allowed herself to speak.

  A hand appeared on Louis’ shoulder. He pivoted too fast on one heel, causing his hands to flail for balance. Alicia considered the harm of a wee little push when she noticed whose body the well-trimmed arm belonged to.

  Mr. Morrissey.

  He, like everyone else in arm’s reach, had heard the inane badinage at dinner. Hopefully he hadn’t overheard this conversation as well.

  “What?” snapped Louis in outrage. “Can’t you see I was talking to my cousin?”

  Mr. Morrissey inclined his head. “Please accept my apologies,” he said. “I simply wished to bid farewell to Miss Kinsey before I depart. If you’d rather I take my leave without doing so, I shall certainly honor your wishes.”

  Louis harrumphed. “No, no. I was off to the game room anyway.” He squinted his eyes at Alicia. “Don’t forget, cousin – eleven days.” He thrust his nose in the air and flounced off into the crowd.

  Mr. Morrissey’s eyes crinkled with humor. “Although I couldn’t hear what was said, I assume from the fascinating topics of my own conversations with Mr. Larouche that a subtly executed rescue would not be amiss.”

  Alicia nodded. Blast Louis for destroying her composure.

  “Thank you,” she added. “You surmised correctly.”

  “It was nothing.”

  He smiled and lounged next to her against the wall in companionable silence.

  Alicia’s muscles began to shed their rigidity until she began to notice all the envious glances being shot her way. Any time Mr. Morrissey moved across a room, hers weren’t the only pair of female eyes that noticed. From the jealous expressions on various women’s faces, she was about to start rumors or lose friends, depending on how long she appeared to monopolize the only handsome stranger at the party.

  “I must walk,” Alicia murmured and strolled away from the wall.

  With one long stride, Mr. Morrissey regained her side. He accompanied her several paces without speaking. Perhaps he regretting mentioning the scandals in her past when last they met. Perhaps he intended to apologize and start anew. Perhaps she was wrong about him and he wanted to court her after all.

  After a moment, Alicia tilted her head toward his and asked, “Did you wish to have a word to me about something?”

  “No.” He shrugged and continued walking next to her.

  Humph.

  Alicia glanced at the faces they passed and offered a tentative smile at the glaring countenance of Mrs. Lambert, a recent widow with a notorious interest in the ton’s most celebrated rakes.

  “I do not mean to be rude, but since you’ve finished with your rescue and don’t seem to be inclined toward conversation, why are you prowling beside me?”

  He flashed her a grin. “Maybe I enjoy your company. Or maybe I haven’t been introduced to anyone else.”

  Just like a rake. So much for him contemplating pressing suit on her. Stupid, stupid. What made her think he was interested? He was a stranger, and she was convenient. Alicia frowned. Men seemed to find her awfully convenient of late. Well, she wasn’t having it.

  Alicia faced forward again, focusing on the sea of elegantly-clad bodies swarming around the room. She was hardly flattered to be singled out because she was the only woman Mr. Morrissey had acquainted himself with so far. Plenty of other, less moral women hovered – ready to crawl all over him if given the opportunity. She did not need to embrangle her already overwhelming life with yet another self-centered man.

  “Why don’t you ask the hostess? I’m sure she’ll be pleased to introduce you to other guests.” Alicia kept her tone polite, but laced with unmistakable finality.

  Mr. Morrissey halted mid-step.

  Whether or not he planned to reply, Alicia didn’t know. She kept walking.

  ###

  Twisting in his seat, Ian tilted the letter into the morning sun in order to make out the last lines.

  “However, such antics hardly come as a surprise when coming from Carlotta. Julia hopes you order new dresses for us while you’re in London. And Poppy says since you’re in town anyway, you might as well bring home a bride. Yours, etc. Mavis.”

  Ian folded the letter and stuffed it in his pocket. His sisters had been pestering him to settle down for what seemed like forever. He had almost decided they were right. An uncomplicated country miss seemed just the thing – but here he sat in his boring, barren townhouse.

  He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the sitting room. Gray curtains, gray chair-cushions, gray rug. Matched both London and his present mood perfectly. Ian lowered his chair with a thud. He loved hearing from his family, but talk of marriage never failed to make him think of his father.

  Some wounds would never heal, and his father’s death was one of them.

  Hell, he had just celebrated his ninth year when it had happened. His sisters were still babies. Twenty years ought to make it ancient history – but if he closed his eyes, he could see the scene just as vividly as ever. Poppy, barely five years old and already world-weary and dramatic. Julia, three years old and clutching his pantaloons. Mavis, crying because she was teething. Carlotta, not yet even born.

  And him – the oldest, but perhaps the most innocent of all. Because even when the men came and took his father away, he thought everything would work out. Even when his mother sobbed herself to sleep every night that first week, he still thought his father would come home. And when he found out his father would be hung for murder, he knew it was a mi
stake. His father was the gentlest, kindest, most patient man he knew. All those girls in the house, and he never once raised his voice. A kiss for each of them, every night.

  Even when the hanging was scheduled and it seemed the whole town turned out to watch the noose tighten, he still thought the overzealous hangmen would realize their mistake.

  The worst thing, the very worst thing, was that they had in fact realized their error – but too late. A nobleman had done the crime, a member of the peerage. And had accused his father out of fear and desperation, pointing to his Irish heritage as further proof of the crime. And on this accusation alone, his mother sobbed and his sisters screamed and his father swung at the end of a rope.

  The lies were not discovered, of course, until after the execution. After his father had been falsely accused and publicly hung. After his family had been denied his father’s proper funeral so that the body could be displayed on a gibbet as an example, a warning to the common folk of the consequences for crimes against their betters. Only then was his father exonerated.

  By the time the truth came out, it was too late.

  It was a crime of passion, they said. The lord had discovered his lady in bed with another man. She had met the lover in London, during the Season, and had decided to continue their relationship – and the lord reacted out of fury, yes, but also hurt, they said. Ian’s father had been nearby, the lord had confused him with the lady’s lover – surely you see how it could happen, they said.

  In London, married lords and ladies are often free to be with whomever they like, since they are so rarely intimate with each other. In London, things are different. People are different. The peerage is different. Try to understand, they said.

  But his confession comes too late, and my father is dead! He had shouted at them then, passionate words tossed blindly at the crowd of sympathizers once his father had been exonerated. Now the nobleman has killed two men! Should he not pay as my father has paid?

  Ah, they said, with a knowing smile and a shake of the head. Ah, the voice of babes. He is a lord, they said with a little shrug. He will be tried by his peers in the House of Lords, and no doubt hung as well, but nothing will bring back your father. You must learn to forget.

  Forget? he had demanded angrily. Forget my father? Forget that on one man’s accusation, my father was plucked from our lives and sentenced to dangle at the end of a rope, to die in front of my mother and my baby sisters? Forget that there is such injustice in this world that such wrongs could happen to me, or you, or to anyone I love? Forget that I am now the sole man in my family, and that it is up to me to see them safe from such injustices?

  No, he had not forgotten, nor forgiven. And he had never understood. But nor was he idle. He applied himself rigorously to his studies, and exercised his brain as much as his body. He was going to make a difference. He was going to change things. This would not happen to anyone else’s husband, as it did to his mother. This would not happen to anyone else’s father, as it did to his own.

  And when a special branch of the government approached him with an invitation to be part of a secret war division, how could he have said no? When he was given the opportunity to investigate matters before arrests were made – and possibly save the lives of innocents caught in the web of wicked men like Napoleon – how could he have walked away? When they offered to train him, in the arts of subterfuge and infiltration, all in the name of punishing the wrong and protecting the good – how could he have passed up the opportunity?

  For well over a decade, he had spent his days minding his investments for his family’s secured future, and his nights stalking the shadows, exposing the evil that men do. Many times, the perpetrators of the crimes were exactly who the government suspected them to be. If he were to be honest with himself, he would have to admit that this was almost always the case.

  Almost, yes. But not always.

  Several times he had uncovered plots where the government had not seen behind the smokescreen. There were times when women wept in his arms for saving them from widowhood. There were also times when the wives didn’t know how close they’d come to losing their husbands, when the sight of their children – playing happily, innocent of the events swirling around them, faithful that their fathers would return safely home – caused a twist in his gut and a pain in his heart.

  Ian shook his head. The war was over. His father’s death was long past.

  When he recognized the handwriting in the afternoon post, he had hoped hearing from his sisters would cheer him. Although he was far too old for schoolboy homesickness, he could hardly wait to clear Chadwick’s name and get back to Heatherley and his family.

  However, he’d like to meet Chadwick just to see if he shared a similar personality with his baffling daughter.

  What a rude, ungrateful little chit! Granted, he hadn’t battled any dragons for her at last night’s rout. Larouche reminded him more of a scurrying roach than a fearsome beast. Nonetheless, a rescue was a rescue, was it not?

  “Go ask the hostess,” Ian mimicked, falsetto. “She’ll introduce you to someone else, you half-Irish country hick.”

  He hadn’t curried introductions for a reason. He preferred to remain somewhat behind the scenes. Gleaning relevant information from overheard scraps of dialogue was much easier when not engaged in conversation oneself.

  Walking with Miss Kinsey would have given the illusion of interacting in society while affording him the opportunity to keep his ears open. Who knew Miss Kinsey would be too high in the instep to be seen in his company?

  Behind closed lids, Ian relived her imperious tone and the exaggerated sway of her backside as she sashayed into the crowd. Just when he thought he’d been too quick to judge her based on his personal prejudices, she proved to him he was right all along.

  Ian opened his eyes. Sun trickled through the windows as the drizzling rain slowed.

  To be fair, she had her moments of wit. And although today’s fascination with literary quotations fell nothing short of bizarre, such a display of quick-thinking intelligence indicated an educated mind. His sisters would give him a set-to if he spoke so much as a word against educating females. Ian smiled. A brother had a duty to tease his sisters. He’d never let them know how proud they made him. He had no quarrel with women of a bluestocking bent.

  Elizabeth, on the other hand, blew hot where her uppish niece blew cold. Now, there was a woman who would choose passion over books if given the opportunity. Or, Ian admitted, if she knew what such a choice entailed. He doubted she realized how close he’d come to kissing her that night.

  Tonight, she might be waiting for him. He could get to play the romantic hero for a damsel in distress who would welcome a dramatic rescue. Elizabeth believed he was coming solely to see her and he must not let her doubt it. He should bring her some token. Perhaps a better flower.

  Ian gave a self-deprecating smile as he recalled his elation at having flowers in his pocket turn into horror when he realized their sorry state.

  And she had reached for them anyway.

  When she touched him, he had frozen. Her naked fingers touched the black leather glove encasing his hand and his palm had immediately begun to sweat. Her gaze flew to his as if she sensed his body’s response. Ian’s pantaloons tightened at the memory.

  If only there had been light – he would have loved to see her face. No. Better that he never see her face. Had he glimpsed a hint of passion, he might not have stopped himself from tasting her. Better that shadows enveloped them and kept her safe.

  Ian groaned and staggered to his feet. Damned fashionably tight pantaloons.

  He should be thinking about evidence, not Elizabeth. What on earth was the matter with him?

  ###

  Although her eyes were closed, Alicia’s fingers danced over the ivory keys of the pianoforte with precision. The rise and fall of the staggered chords before the conclusion of Fur Elise was her favorite segment of the piece, and since neither Papa nor Louis were present to
say otherwise, she could play that section as much as she liked without feeling obligated to start from the beginning and continue until the end. The power of that portion always lifted her spirits.

  So did the absence of Louis, although she had been certain he and Papa would return by nightfall. When supper came and went with no word or sign of them, she assumed they were off on another antiquity-hunting jaunt. Alicia didn’t much care where Louis took himself as long as he wasn’t by her side to harass her. How fortunate that she had escaped his claws last night.

  Well… to be honest, she didn’t do any escaping on her own. If Mr. Morrissey had not come by to stage his fortuitous rescue, she might have been listening to Louis lecture for another hour.

  Alicia’s fingers flew down the keys in a flurry of descending chords. She hadn’t been on her best behavior.

  While unflattering to find herself the default conversational partner of a known rake for the simple reason that he hadn’t yet gained introductions to women more of his bent, one might say she’d been a bit more discourteous than necessary. Alicia scowled. Fine, she had been horribly rude. The situation hadn’t called for dismissing him out of hand. After all, he had rescued her, no matter what his motives were. He’d at least been mannerly and considerate, more than could be said for Louis.

  Anti-library Louis.

  She wondered how many men shared his sentiments about female education. Alicia’s hands stilled then began the song anew. Regardless of whether they carried a positive opinion of female brains, many men were without libraries in their homes, and most who could claim a reading room of some sort couldn’t boast a collection like her father’s.

  However, even if Louis were representative of most men, she still didn’t want him. She had no desire to marry most men. She wanted a man who loved her. And who was unconcerned with scandal in her family’s past. She hoped for a sincere suitor, someone who didn’t see her as a means to acquiring money or connections to a title.