The Heiress and the Spy (The Friendship Series Book 2)

by Julia Donner

  THE HEIRESS AND THE SPY

  By Julia Donner

  The Heiress and the Spy copyright © 2013 by M.L.Rigdon All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author.

  Cover Design and illustration by Stephen Case Stephen@casegrfx.com

  Visit the author (Julia Donner) at MLRigdon.com

  An excerpt from next book in the Friendship Series, THE RAKE AND THE BISHOP’S DAUGHTER is included with this volume.

  For TG: Teresa Ashton, sister from across the pond. Thanks for your patience with a girl fascinated with you, your shoes and the way you talked. I haven’t forgotten how quickly you came to my rescue in ‘66, which ended up being one of the most memorable summers of my life.

  Prologue

  Campsite near Ciudad Rodrigo, Spain Spring 1812

  Lieutenant Devon Shelton withdrew a miniature from the inner breast pocket of his tattered jacket. “Perry, I have a favor to ask.”

  Captain Lord Peregrine Asterly leaned forward to drop a log on the campfire coals. He waited for a break in the distant rumble of cannon bombardment to reply.

  “Certainly, Dev, if it’s in my power to do so.”

  Devon angled the palm-sized portrait to catch the firelight, which also revealed his troubled expression. “I suppose I should first ask if you’ll be fighting with us tomorrow.”

  Asterly ran a hand over his face and scratched a bristling jaw. “I haven’t heard. There’s talk of sending me back to the mountains.”

  “I see.” Devon flashed an unexpected grin. “Perry, did you know your face has gone brown as a guerrilla’s?”

  “I’ve helped it along with a black-walnut stain. It never hurts to blend in with the locals.”

  “Wonder how Wellington would manage, if not for you and El Empecinado’s fellows intercepting Boney’s dispatches.”

  Asterly said, “You mentioned a favor. What may I do for you?”

  Devon curled his fingers around the miniature, clenching it safely within his fist. “It’s about Elizabeth.”

  “Now there’s a game one! Your lady’s name is on everyone’s lips from here to Badajoz.”

  “That’s my Elizabeth.”

  “How does she do it, Dev? Wellington has the devil of a time getting his supply train set up, and her carts come rolling in, unmolested, not a bottle broken or a crust disturbed.”

  Devon exhaled a silent laugh. “She won’t allow it. Can’t have me making do with stringy rabbit or moldy bread for my supper.”

  Asterly grunted and shook his head. “Moldy bread? She sent you a cook, three servants, remounts fit for a pasha, Prussian wine, hams, and a stack of silk underwear. What will she do when she finds out you gave most of it away?”

  “Scold me. Send more. My girl has a generous spirit. I regret I couldn’t give her what she wanted most.” Shadows from the flames wavered across Devon’s face when he looked up. “Children.”

  Asterly squatted by the fire. He poked the embers with a stick and dryly said, “She’s undoubtedly someone who’s never been saddled with an annoying sibling.”

  “You’re right. None living.” Devon tucked the miniature into his pocket and placed his palm over the small lump nestled against his heart. “Perry, this favor I have to ask is not a trifling matter.”

  “Doesn’t signify. Go on.”

  “You see, Elizabeth is somewhat managing but in the nicest possible way. The problem is…she won’t let a thing rest until she knows there’s nothing left to be done. That’s why I want to ask you to find me after the battle tomorrow. I don’t think I’ll be making it this time.”

  “Nonsense, Dev! You made it through Badajoz. You’ll make it through tomorrow.”

  “Then, let me say it this way. If I don’t come through, I want you to find my body and ship it home. I don’t care if it’s only an arm or leg that’s left. There’s some coin sewed into the hem of this jacket that should cover it.”

  “I shouldn’t think I’ll need—”

  “Of course, you’ll need. We’re friends, Perry. I know you have less than I did when I married Elizabeth. Have I offended you?”

  “No. It’s the truth.”

  “Please, Perry, send what’s left of me in a decent casket for Elizabeth to bury. She’ll get over me that way and marry someone else. I want her to have a happy life.”

  After four years of war, Asterly knew better than to disagree with his friend. Battle-hardened men often knew when their time had come. “I’d be honored to be of service, Dev. May I see your portrait of her again?”

  Devon’s weary face lit up. He delved into his jacket pocket and extended the miniature. Asterly angled the small portrait toward the fire’s wavering light. The recently cut green wood popped and sizzled as he studied Mrs. Shelton’s unsmiling likeness. The warmth in her eyes overwhelmed the image. Something stirred in a heart he’d thought dead from so many years at war.

  Pride rang within Devon’s whisper, “She’s much prettier than that, you know. Well, perhaps not what one would call pretty, but she’s handsome. No painting can show how wonderful she is in person.”

  “She’s lovely, Dev. Every man must think his wife is the fairest, of course, but Mrs. Shelton has a certain something.”

  “Yes! I’m glad you see it, too, Perry! I wish my parents could.”

  Asterly gently brushed his thumb across the portrait encased in bronze and thick glass. “How could anyone help but love a face like that?”

  Devon snorted. “You’ve never met my parents. They treat her dreadfully, Perry. That’s another reason why I wish you’d contact her the next time you’re in London. My parents rarely speak to her. If she had an interest in securing a place for herself in the ton, Mother and Father might treat her differently, but she won’t risk a snub.”

  “May I ask why she would be snubbed?”

  “Her father, in trade, you know. That’s how I came to win her. She’s fabulously rich. Everything tied up in a trust. Like you, I haven’t a feather to fly with. But Elizabeth doesn’t think about money the way others do. She sees it like her father did—what it can do for others. Keeps a fleet of workers just to manage the charities. She writes of her amazement about the posies left on her doorstep every day. She can scarcely get out the door for the women lined up to thank her for the way she sees to me and my men.”

  “Your boys are the best fed on the Peninsula,” Asterly said, unable to pull his attention from Elizabeth Shelton’s tender expression.

  “You will see her for me, won’t you, Perry?”

  “I should be honored, Dev.”

  Asterly reluctantly handed back the miniature, but Devon shook his head. “No, Perry. Keep it for me. If I don’t make it through, return it to her, will you?”

  “Put your heart to rest about your Elizabeth. Her flower-strewn doorstep will be the first one I cross when I get home.”

  “And would you…Perry, would you look after her?”

  Asterly heard his reply as if from a distance, felt the comforting weight of the portrait in his breast pocket. A premonition shivered down his spine when he promised, “I’ll take care of her, Dev.”

  Chapter 1

  Cavendish Square, London, England Autumn, 1814

  A discreet tap on the book-room door wrested Elizabeth’s attention from the ledger. Hope bloomed in her heart. Perhaps whatever waited on the other side would offer a change from the endless boredom. She longed for excitement—something, anything—to enliven the tedium of her days. Perhaps a valiant knight on a prancing steed? Foolishness.

  She se
t down the quill with a slight shake of her head. She’d been reading too many novels. It would be wise to have a care. After all, what one wished for might actually happen. Her life held more than enough excitement in the form of threats from grasping in-laws.

  Her butler entered. “Beg your pardon for the interruption, Mrs. Shelton.”

  Elizabeth closed the metal cap on the ink stand. “A welcomed disruption, Crimm. Numbers become tedious after the fiftieth page.” She used both hands to close the heavy ledger. “Ah well, perhaps tomorrow a bomb might explode on my doorstep.”

  She huffed a sigh when Crimm had nothing to say about that. His dogged stoicism never failed to stir her sense of humor and evoke a naughty urge to challenge his sangfroid.

  “I’m curious, Crimm. Where is my luncheon tray? No treats to reward my hard labors? I’ve done my letters neatly and at least deserve bread and butter. You know it’s my favorite.”

  “Cook will have luncheon ready before the hour. You have a caller.”

  She felt the smile fade from her mouth. Dread’s chill slithered down her arms and tightened her shoulders. “The Sheltons have sent someone?”

  “No, ma’am. A gentleman is requesting to speak with you.”

  Elizabeth tipped her head to one side, surprised. She rarely had morning visitors. “His style?”

  “A baron, Mrs. Shelton, but he is not here in the usual capacity.”

  This was Crimm’s subtle way of letting her know that the caller wasn’t another encroaching fortune hunter. Her tall, stout butler came to the desk and extended a silver tray.

  Elizabeth slid the card off the gleaming surface. She pursed her lips as she read the name. “Where is he?”

  Crimm discreetly touched the edge of her desk with a glove-tipped finger, checking for dust. “I have placed him in the green saloon.”

  Elizabeth elevated both eyebrows. Crimm never stooped to escort visitors. He stationed a footman at the front door for that purpose. The footman delivered cards to Crimm, who made a decision as to the worthiness of the caller. The footman went back to the front door with a directive, telling the visitor to wait or to inform that the lady of the house was not at home.

  Although acquainted with many of its members, Elizabeth had no interest in London society. Even a fringe-dweller would recognize this morning’s caller as a member of the select. His name and that of his twin brother, Sir Harry Collyns, were often seen in newsprint. For different reasons.

  Elizabeth tapped the edge of the card against her lips and considered her butler’s inscrutable expression. This Lord Asterly must be a gentleman of some consequence and address. After searching her memory, she recalled what little she knew of him from Devon’s letters. In any event, she had complete trust in Crimm’s social acumen and intuition. Her caller had to be something out of the ordinary.

  Elizabeth frowned at the card in her hand and set it aside. She removed the spectacles from her nose and rubbed at the indentations before standing. “I will see Lord Asterly now. Only to please you. But, Crimm, for going beyond the call of duty, I shall expect something tastier than gruel for luncheon.”

  “But of course, Mrs. Shelton. Cook is slicing Westphalian ham. I believe there is an asparagus sauce to go with it. A gateau chocolat with strawberries and cream for a sweet. Pear compote, cheese and almonds to follow. Nothing out of the ordinary but not gruel.”

  Wrestling down a grin, she pouted. “No bread and butter, Crimm?”

  “If you wish, ma’am.”

  She rewarded him with a prim smile she knew would be ruined by the mischief in her eyes she could never conceal. “Thank you, Crimm. Lead the way.”

  Before exiting, Elizabeth paused to check her appearance in a long mirror and judged her gown adequate for receiving callers. She inspected her cuffs for telltale smudges from the quill she’d used as a marker to run down the columns on the ledger’s thick vellum pages.

  She paused when she caught herself searching for ink stains on her fingers, a habit that never failed to rekindle painful memories. At seminary, the cruel barbs were a constant source of embarrassment. One classmate, Lady Gertrude Warrick, took especial pleasure in spiteful reminders of Elizabeth’s inferior origins. Her father, so proud of his daughter’s attendance at a select school, never knew of her misery. She hadn’t the heart to tell him, to squash the dream of his child becoming a part of the aristocracy.

  Pinching her lips together, she tugged her cuffs in place. One day she would conquer past pain and free herself from what amounted to little more than childish taunts. But to a lonely child, the roots of those wounds delved deep and scarred deeper.

  Elizabeth averted her face from the mirror and banished memories that profited nothing. She nodded for Crimm to open the book-room door. He followed her up the wide staircase to the first floor.

  Crimm dismissed the footman with an almost indiscernible flick of his fingers and glided in front of Elizabeth to reach for the saloon door. His particular care of her always made her smile inside, but this time, a curious anxiety annulled her sense of humor. She had the oddest impression that something important waited on the other side of the door, something life-changing.

  Her caller stood at the window overlooking the street, presenting Elizabeth with a view of his military straight, wide-shouldered back. A morning coat of bottle-green hadn’t been so tightly constructed as to designate her visitor a slave to fashion—a relaxed cut meant for comfort, not style. Snug buckskins revealed the athletic limbs of a physically active man. His sand-colored hair was damp and darkened near his collar, showing where his hat protected him from the cold morning rain now letting up outside. Even before she saw his face, she felt she knew him—sensed a yearning pull, as if they shared an invisible connection.

  Lord Asterly’s movements were fluid and controlled when he pivoted to greet her. A prickling sensation of physical awareness skittered across her skin. She’d never felt anything like it but knew exactly what it was—attraction, mesmerizing—on the edge of uncomfortably intense.

  The baron’s tanned, lean face looked worn and harshly handsome but impatiently remote, as if plagued by constant introspection. His jaw line suggested a character not easily swayed.

  Elizabeth watched her caller make a swift, impersonal assessment of her character and person. She knew herself to have been thoroughly studied in that brief moment of inspection. His stark, calculating expression softened, and even showed a trace of wonder, when she acknowledged him with a welcoming smile.

  She imagined herself through her guest’s eyes—a modishly gowned young matron who favored understatement in her clothes. The mauve frock had been designed on severe lines with no frills—the half-mourning she preferred to wear even though she could have put her mourning colors away a year ago. Devon would have scolded her for not moving on with her life.

  Elizabeth swallowed a nervous chuckle at the sudden recollection of the silly tricks Devon did to calm her insecurities, especially before meeting someone new. She almost let slip a peep of humor as she speculated what her austere and dignified caller would think if she suddenly burst out with a nervous laugh. Something about him turned her brain to mush. His direct, keen stare made every nerve stand on end. She really had to get hold of her flying emotions.

  Thankfully, Crimm rescued her by announcing, “Major Lord Asterly.”

  Chapter 2

  Peregrine felt acutely aware of his stern expression but was too focused on his task to do anything about it. He’d waited a long time to meet this lady—someone he thought he knew quite well, even though they’d never met. The last thing he wanted was to make a fool of himself, if not for his own sake, for Devon’s. Years at war had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit.

  Until handed over to Peregrine’s safekeeping, Devon kept the miniature of his wife pocketed close to his heart. It wasn’t until this moment that he saw the artist hadn’t done justice to Elizabeth Shelton. When she quickly corrected the stubborn tilt of her chin with a glorious smil
e, he suspected that her pleasant expression masked a resolve not easily broken. She projected a dignified surface, but he sensed it was a surface calmness that hid the apprehension underneath.

  Initially, she appeared aloof and somewhat defensive. Her infectious smile of greeting banished her chilly demeanor and made his heart skip. Expressive hazel eyes reflected a sense of humor, twinkling with a knowing gleam, but it was her hair that made him pause. The artist of the miniature he always carried in his pocket had painted her cap-covered. She wore no cap this morning, perhaps because she kept the mansion so warm or she hadn’t expected visitors. He didn’t care why and delighted in the view.

  Devon’s wife possessed a quantity of chestnut waves, all of it mounded in a rather haphazard style that must have taken her dresser most of the morning to achieve. He’d never seen such hair and wondered what it would feel like to sink his hands into the shining mass. He abruptly reined in that thought and a few others. Wooing wouldn’t be the way to win her. Widow Shelton presented a challenge, and unfortunately, a chase for which he had no time to savor.

  Until this morning, he’d tried to convince himself that his interest in his friend’s wife was nothing more than a sop—something to ease the rigors and loneliness of war, an obligation to be fulfilled. He hadn’t expected a tempting attraction. Perhaps attraction was too mild a definition for the upheaval churning inside. Whatever the cause, he trusted his feelings. Survival depended on reliance on experience-refined instincts.

  Earlier, when he’d stood outside the mansion, his heart thumped with unexplained excitement. Her house dominated the square. Its exterior hadn’t been constructed to suit anyone’s idea of style. This house looked like a fortress, shrieked power and wealth wisely spent.

  Looking up at four stories of granite, marble and glass, his heart had pounded with an anticipation that had nothing to do with impressive architecture. Finally, he would meet the darling of the Peninsular soldiers and fulfill his promise to Devon. And himself.