Unmasking the Spy

by Janet Kent

  The paper now contained four nouns in a row, each of them scratched out in turn. Inspiration failed to strike. Ian sighed and rewrote “rose”. He could probably rhyme that one far better than “lady” or “moon” anyway.

  He dipped his pen and tapped the edge against the lip of the bottle while he thought of rhymes. We will not be foes? You make me forget my woes? We all have highs and lows? That’s just how it goes? You have a pretty nose? I like your naked toes? You’re not wearing any hose? I’m no good at writing prose?

  Argh.

  Being a poet was much harder than one would think. How did they invent rhymes to express such pure, simple feelings like enjoying a woman’s company, being charmed by her easy smile, aroused by her tentative passion, tickled by her keen wit?

  Ian wrote and scratched out several more lines before he faced the truth. His poetry was god-awful, and he felt like an ass. He balled the paper in his fist and threw it at the wall. He ducked when it ricocheted and nearly hit him in the face. Hound’s teeth, he couldn’t even throw a proper snit.

  After straightening his writing supplies, Ian turned to see where the crumpled ball had fallen. Devil take it, the damn thing had rolled right out the door. The last thing he needed was for his staff to come across it and have a good snicker at his expense.

  Sighing, Ian stood and lurched for the paper, snatching it up and stuffing it in his pocket. He should be worrying about Chadwick, not Elizabeth. He needed to keep his mind on his mission. One vase, one false-bottomed drawer, one trick frame, and one secret-hollow book. He’d already found half, so there were just two to go.

  Tonight, he’d search for the vase.

  ###

  After supper, Alicia wandered into the music room to pound at the pianoforte but ended up sitting on the bench and staring into space. She’d thought all men were condescending, fickle idiots – except for Rogue, of course – until last night when Mr. Morrissey had tried to comfort her.

  He had taken exception on her behalf because he had no way to know that she was long past being hurt by anything Louis might say. The music swelled, he pulled her into his arms for the illusion of privacy, and his expression was quite earnest when he said that all men were not like Louis and he, for one, appreciated a woman with a mind. How sweet was that?

  Of course all men were not like Louis. Alicia was banking on that fact in her lifelong search for Prince Charming. What she hadn’t expected was for Ian Morrissey to be unlike Louis as well. Ian conversed well, never patronized her, and seemed worried about her delicate sensibilities.

  Perhaps she had judged him far too harshly. Perhaps she should abandon her search for Mr. Wonderful and settle instead on Mr. Morrissey. After all, “not like Louis” was an excellent recommendation for any man.

  And, if she were honest with herself, it was looking less than likely that she would find everlasting love in the next five days.

  What was so wrong with Mr. Morrissey, anyway? He was handsome. Attentive. Youngish. Intelligent. He liked her well enough to care about her feelings, and he disliked Louis enough to make it a point to differentiate himself and his thoughts on women.

  “What are you doing in here, cousin?”

  Alicia turned to see her redheaded nightmare filling up the doorway in his long blue tails and extravagant cravat. His cologne stank more than usual, and his smirk rankled her nerves.

  Another point scored for Mr. Morrissey. He lived far from Louis.

  “Playing the piano,” Alicia replied with a pointed glance at the instrument.

  “I didn’t hear you play. Although,” he added with a sneer, “that may be just as well.”

  Alicia grit her teeth. Couldn’t she have a moment’s peace?

  “Don’t expect to play when you live with me, cousin. I don’t have musical instruments,” Louis informed her with a supercilious air. “And don’t think any less of my townhouse because of it. I choose not to have any. And although the location is just fine, once I come into some money I will buy a bigger house on a better street and have the best parties with more friends than you’ve ever had.”

  Alicia raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m sure,” she said in a voice that implied anything but.

  Louis sniffed. “You don’t want to stay a spinster, do you, cousin?” Louis asked, as if retracting his suit would in any way injure her feelings.

  “Perhaps I do.” Alicia turned back to the pianoforte. She placed her fingers on the keys and began to pound out Beethoven’s Symphony Number 5 with as much force as she could, determined not to hear anything else Louis might wish to say.

  When the melody died, Louis was gone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  By the time her father’s loud snores drifted down the hallway, Alicia already had a candle burning and was debating whether or not to search his office again. To be honest, she was still a little upset about the documents she’d found last time, and wasn’t quite sure she wanted to find out anything more of that nature.

  Of course, by not going, she would miss Rogue. If he came.

  Alicia laughed softly to herself. When did the possibility of seeing Rogue start to matter more than the contents of her father’s desk? If she thought for one second that she was starting to fall in love with him, the smart thing would be to snuff out the candle and go right back to bed.

  But – since when did she do the smart thing? Alicia rose to her feet and faced the truth. She was smitten. If there was the chance he might come, she wanted to be there. She could while away the hours waiting in the library, reading a romance novel. If he came, he came. If he didn’t, he didn’t. Alicia stared out the dark window, hoping he planned to call and wishing he could take her away.

  He was so dashing. Handsome. Charming. What woman wouldn’t want him to steal a few kisses? And, oh, those kisses! Alicia’s fingertips skated from her shoulder to her neck. His lips had been warm. Soft. His breath had been moist. Hot. Good Lord, if he kissed her again she’d melt into a puddle at his feet.

  A little wicked smile flitted across her face. She hoped he’d kiss her again. And the only way he was going to get to do that is if she were downstairs. Ready. Available. Waiting.

  With a sigh, she crossed to her vanity and began applying patches.

  ###

  The first thing Ian noticed when he entered Chadwick House was a thin strip of light, shining in a soft line from under the library door, in the very room where he planned to start his search for the mysterious vase. Damn. He couldn’t take the chance that someone was awake and sitting inside. He’d have to search the office instead.

  Ian crossed his arms and squinted down the corridor. There didn’t appear to be any candles burning elsewhere. However, the office was at the other end of the hall. He’d have to walk right by the library. Although the door was closed, there was always the chance that whomever was inside would come out while he was still in view.

  He could go back outside and come in another window, of course. Or he could just leave and return another night altogether. Ian uncrossed his arms and turned around just as a loud crack of thunder barked from the clouds and torrents of rain dumped from the sky. Marvelous. Well, no sense standing around in the hallway contemplating the ironies of fate. Might as well try for the office.

  Keeping to the far wall, Ian prowled past the library, loped around the staircase and down the rest of the hall. He tried the handle. The office was dark and unlocked. With one final glance in the direction of the library, Ian slipped inside the office and shut the door behind him.

  If someone was awake at this time of night, lit candles were out of the question. Ian’s eyes adjusted well to darkness, but he was glad of the occasional bolts of lightning that lit the room in an eerie glow.

  He made his way around the room, picking up vases and shaking them gently to see if anything rattled inside. Nothing. He made the round again, this time picking up any object with a hollow and feeling inside for papers or other miscellany. Nothing again. Either there was no nefarious vase,
or it wasn’t in this room.

  Ian shrugged. All was not lost. He crossed to the desk and sat down at the chair. At last, he had the opportunity to investigate the claim of the false-bottomed drawer. He tugged each handle in succession, setting the contents in his lap and fishing around the dark recesses for a latch or a catch before putting the papers back and going on to the next drawer. He finally felt something in the bottom drawer to his right.

  The flat wooden panel rose, revealing a secret compartment below. Ian bent double and groped along the bottom for clues. His fingers came in contact with something hard and large. Not jewels.

  A pistol.

  Ian pulled the gun from the drawer and squinted at it in the darkness. This was the alleged proof of guilt? He made an exasperated face. What gentleman didn’t own guns? None of the thefts had been at gunpoint. None of the victims had even seen the thief. Whether or not Chadwick owned a gun had little or nothing to do with the missing jewels.

  No doubt, he kept the gun hidden in a secret drawer simply because he had no wish for his staff to bother with it or his daughter to become alarmed by it. Where was the man supposed to keep it, on the dining room table next to the salt? Ian shook his head and replaced both the gun and the drawer’s contents.

  Worthless. The informant’s alleged proof only proved there was nothing to find but a normal man living a normal life. Ian stood and crossed to the window. The rain had abated, and now fell in a light drizzle.

  He doubted there was a vase filled with incriminating evidence anywhere in Chadwick House, but if the library’s occupant had gone to bed, he’d glance around just to be able to say he’d looked everywhere he could.

  Ian cracked open the office door and listened. Silence. He stepped into the hallway. There was no way to tell from this distance whether or not the light in the library still burned. He headed down the hall, crossed the foot of the stairs, and stepped into the other end of the corridor.

  The crack under the door still glowed.

  Unbelievable. He’d been in the office for almost two hours, examining every antiquity and piece of pottery and inspecting every drawer. Who in the world would still be up?

  Ian turned to exit somewhere far from the library when he had a thought. In short, careful steps, he made his way to the door and knelt to peer through the keyhole.

  Elizabeth.

  The barefoot beauty was curled in a chair, her head propped in her hand and a book open on her lap. She looked pretty. Peaceful. Lost in her imagination. Ian stood. He should go. There was no need to interrupt her. He should leave while still unnoticed.

  Somehow, despite his better judgment, Ian found his hand twisting the handle and his traitorous body slipping into the library.

  He closed the door behind him and stood, watching her from across the room. Elizabeth didn’t look up until she reached into her lap to turn the page. When she saw him, a slow smile spread across her face.

  “You’ve got tough competition tonight, Rogue,” she said in a throaty whisper.

  Ian blinked. “I do?”

  She held up her book.

  He shook his head. “I can’t see it. What is it?”

  “A romance,” she answered with a saucy grin. “Can you possibly improve upon the romantic nature of the heroes I’ve just been reading?”

  Well, no, probably not. Ian wished he’d bought her something after all. He’d had no idea she was going to put him on the spot like this. He opened his mouth to tell her that he had nothing for her and did not plan to make a romantic gesture of any sort, when he caught sight of her expectant expression. He hated to disappoint her.

  Instead of words intended to cool the fire between them, what came from his mouth surprised them both.

  “I… wrote you a poem.”

  The novel tumbled from Elizabeth’s lap. “You did?”

  Damn. He hadn’t meant to show anyone at all his sad attempt at poetry.

  Ian felt himself blushing under his mask. He was glad it was dark enough that she could not see the color staining his cheeks. He’d just stay over there by the door, far from the single candle.

  “It’s very short,” he muttered, hoping she wouldn’t ask to hear it.

  Elizabeth gave a little bounce in her chair and clasped her hands together. “Oh, won’t you please tell it to me? Is it memorized?”

  Embarrassed, Ian shook his head. “Er, not exactly. It’s written.”

  She beamed at him. “Then won’t you please read it to me?”

  Ian gulped. He’d gotten himself into this mess by opening his big mouth. He should never have peeked through that keyhole, and he definitely should not have come inside and started blathering on about his misbegotten attempt at poetry.

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out the paper. If she was surprised to see him carrying around parchment crumpled into a tiny ball, she made no comment. Ian cleared his throat and felt his face flame hotter. He unwrapped the paper and tried his best to smooth it against his leg before shaking it out and holding it up about a foot in front of his chest.

  “Elizabeth,” he said and swallowed hard. He coughed into his hand and tried again. “Elizabeth. You are like a rose.” He paused and peeked at her over the top of the paper.

  She leaned forward in her chair and nodded encouragingly.

  “Elizabeth,” he began again after clearing his throat one more time. “You are like a rose. My regard for you just grows and grows.”

  He risked another glance over the top of the wrinkled paper. She gave him a reassuring smile.

  “Er, that’s all,” Ian mumbled and looked away. “It’s very short.”

  He re-crumpled the paper in his fist and stuffed it back into his pocket. He’d never felt more foolish in his life. He stood there, fighting against the urge to flee out the window, away from the horrible insecurity of waiting for her to speak. The poem was stupid. He was stupid. Why wasn’t she saying anything? He didn’t dare to look at her. He should’ve burned the damn thing when he had the chance.

  Ian heard a puff of breath and the candle went out. Darkness was complete. He stood there, unsure of what to do. He knew the poem was bad, but was it so terrible that she planned to ambush him in the dark? He probably deserved it. By Jove, he’d never write one again. He’d-

  A pair of slender arms suddenly wrapped around his chest. Startled, Ian looked down, forgetting he couldn’t see her. His chin rubbed against the softness of her bonnet and her soft, flowery scent wafted to his nose.

  “It was wonderful, Rogue. I loved it,” came a soft, choked whisper.

  Was she crying? Good Lord, the trauma of his poetry had driven her to tears. Ian’s hands found the sides of her face and tilted her head upwards. He plastered his lips to hers, telling her without words all the feelings he couldn’t verbalize in his poem.

  Her arms encircled his neck. Ian curved one hand around the back of her head and ran the other down her neck, along her shoulder, and down her back. He pressed her body against his even more tightly.

  He peppered her face with little kisses, the velvet patches not marring the silky softness of her skin. Her eager mouth found his again and the heat of her breath mixed with his as they stood, clutched together and devouring each other with hungry kisses.

  Ian slid his hand further down her back until he cupped the curve of her rear in his hand. God, she was irresistible. If he kept her pressed against him much longer, she was not going to have any doubt as to how fetching his body found hers.

  He slid his hand to her waist, intending to push her away and break the spell. Somehow, his hand found itself coasting up the thin cloth covering her flat stomach and enveloping one perfect breast. Her tongue paused briefly in his mouth, but she did not pull away.

  With a slow, gentle movement, Ian rubbed his fingers over the thin material covering her breast and gloried in the feel of her nipple springing to life against his palm. Her breath caught in her throat, but she leaned into him and twined her fingers in his hair, as if afraid he
’d stop at any moment.

  Ian was afraid he’d never stop.

  He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, teasing her breasts through her nightdress and reveling in the sweetness and ardency of her kisses. When his mind turned to the undesirability of clothing, a tiny sliver of reality began to intrude on his thoughts. Was he seriously considering seducing her in the middle of the library? He had to get a hold of himself and reign in his demons before the situation got too hot for either of them to handle.

  With more than a little reluctance, Ian forced his hand from her bodice, cupped her face, and rubbed the tip of his nose gently against hers.

  “You do not know how you tempt me, woman,” he whispered. “I must go now, while I’m still strong enough to leave.”

  Elizabeth’s ragged breath answered for her. She sagged against his chest and he enveloped her in a long hug.

  “I’ll be back,” Ian promised, and gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Whether I should or not.” He nuzzled the top of her head. “Two days hence? About this time?”

  She pulled away as if about to speak, but he silenced her with a short, sweet kiss and slipped out the door.

  ###

  The next afternoon, Alicia sat with her aunt in the sewing room. She wanted a chance to think, and the library now held far too many recent memories to allow for any logical thinking. She’d shown little rational thought last night, to be sure. Alicia slunk a sidelong glance toward Beatrix, who was lost in her own thoughts.

  Alicia wished she had someone to confide in. Oh, she supposed she could tell Aunt Beatrix anything she wanted without fear of recrimination. Her aunt offered no less than unconditional love. However, her aunt was also the sort who would think it great sport to tag along and meet Rogue herself. Considering the shenanigans they got up to last night, having her great-aunt in the room would be a bit inappropriate, to say the least.

  And the poem! Sure, it was dreadful. She could tell he felt awful reading it, like a boy afraid of being rejected. His embarrassment made the gesture all the sweeter. Alicia gave herself a little hug. She’d never driven a man to poetry before. It was quite a heady feeling.