No Ordinary Mistress (Entangled Scandalous)

by DeHart, Robyn

  “The men,” he said hoarsely. “Book…”

  She shook her head. “What?”

  “Penni—” he said, and then his eyes rolled upward, and his head fell backward.

  “Pennington Hall?” she asked, but she knew the question was futile. Lord Comfry was dead.

  She rocked back on her heels and blew out a breath. She would never have the stomach for death. Which was all the more reason she had to keep her wits about her. Her suspect, Lord Comfry, was dead. He may have seemed like a typical Lord of the Realm, but the typical lord was not murdered in his own home.

  Emma pushed herself to her feet. After using her shawl to carefully wipe Lord Comfry’s blood from her hands, she blotted at the blood on her dress. Thank goodness for her sensible black gown. The blood barely showed. Then she crossed to the fireplace and tossed the ruined shawl into the blazing fire. She wouldn’t be here when the body was found, and her absence would be suspicious enough. She had to get out of here, tell Johnston what happened. Without another thought, she fled out into the darkness of the London street.

  As she made her way through the busy London streets, Emma concentrated on the facts she’d seen and heard while hiding in the closet. Those were the details that would be important to Johnston. When she reached one of the busy thoroughfares a few blocks from Lord Comfry’s house, she hired a hackney. Lord Comfry had wanted to tell her something about men and some book and Pennington Hall, his estate outside of London. If he was, in fact, working against the Crown, perhaps the evidence was there. She’d seen him write in the same book several times over the last few months, though she hadn’t seen it in the last week. Naturally, she’d tried to get her hands on the book herself, but she’d never seen it out of his hands. Perhaps that was the book he mentioned. Now that she thought about it, his behavior had been increasingly erratic over the past week. He’d been nervous and jumpy. He’d spent hours at a time passing the length of the hallway from his office to the library. Did that journal contain the information she needed? If so, he must have hidden it at Pennington Hall.

  The rig halted in front of the nondescript townhome, and she gave the driver money and then skirted the front entrance for the back. She knocked three times, as was their signal, then waited. No sound. Again she knocked, and still there was no answer.

  Johnston could be out, but she needed to get a message to him, and it was far more secure for her to leave it for him here herself than to trust a messenger. She withdrew a pin from her hair and slipped it into the lock. A few maneuvers later, and the latch clicked, the door opened. It was dark inside, not unexpected since it would seem Johnston was out for the evening.

  She made her way up the rounded staircase and down the corridor to his study. She’d been in the room many times before, the first being the day she’d accepted his offer to join the Seven. That had been more than three years before and little had changed. The floorboards creaked under her steps as she entered the room, and then her feet hit something, and she fell forward. She caught herself, bracing her weight on her hands and landing in a wet, sticky substance that coated her palms. Blast the darkness.

  She felt around the floor, trying to determine what had caused her to stumble. Her hands molded the object in front of her; it felt disturbingly similar to a leg. She jolted backward, quickly realizing that what she’d tripped over was Johnston himself. She brought her palm, covered in liquid, to her nose. Acrid copper and rust. Blood.

  Now she had the blood of two men on her palms and clothes.

  She swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. No need to leave him a message now. Tears pricked her eyes, but she willed them away. Johnston had been her contact for years. He was the sole constant in her life of drifting from mission to mission. She wasn’t close to him. She hadn’t made that mistake since her disastrous first mission in Paris. She didn’t even particularly care for the man, but his death shook the foundations of her existence. In the twisted labyrinth that was the world of spies, he had been her trail of breadcrumbs. Now there was only one other place to turn. It was time to seek the assistance of Harrison Carlisle, the head spy of the Seven.

  Try as she might, she could not still the tears once she sat inside the hack to Harrison’s house. She let them fall freely, knowing they’d end soon and she could once again resume her calm exterior. No one would blame her for the emotional outburst; she’d witnessed one murder then stumbled, literally, onto another dead body. After Paris, all of her assignments had been relatively calm ones, essentially her gathering intelligence. Tonight, though, she certainly felt the part of the spy, though she hadn’t had the security of a partner. Then again, she’d declined any assignments requiring a partner.

  Once the rig rolled to a stop, she climbed the stairs and kicked against the door else risk getting bloody hand marks all over the earl’s doorknocker. The door opened, and the butler frowned sternly. “We do not take kindly to street urchins banging on the door for handouts.”

  She pushed past the butler and stepped into Harrison’s townhome.

  “Miss! His lordship is otherwise engaged,” the butler said.

  “This is of vital importance.” It was then, in the light of the corridor, that she saw the full impact of the blood on her hands. Bright red stains covered her palms and streaked the upper side of her hands. The butler noticed them as well, and his brows rose slowly. She swiped her palms on her dress.

  “It would seem you have an emergency,” the butler said. “This way.” He led her down the corridor and then down a staircase to a large room. A table sat in the middle of the room and four men sat around it.

  “Sheldon, I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed,” Harrison said from the table.

  Emma stepped around the butler and walked forward. “I insisted,” she said.

  “Ms. Masterson, I didn’t realize.” He stood and took a moment to look her over. “Good God.” He motioned her forward. “You are safe within these walls. These are—”

  “Other members of the Seven,” she said. “Yes, I recognize them.” And she did. Remington Hawthorne, her former partner, sat directly to Harrison’s right; her heart thundered at the sight of him. As much as she didn’t want to, she drank in the sight of him. After the night she’d had, he was a welcoming face. She resisted the urge to run and fall into his arms. She knew from their work together, those arms would be strong and secure. They hadn’t been lovers, but it seemed only a matter of time. As much as they both denied it, they shared a deep attraction. She hadn’t seen him since he’d left Paris two years before. Since he’d left her in Paris, believing the very worst of her.

  He came to his feet, but stopped short of walking toward her. She forced her gaze off him. The other two men were Lord Brentwood and Bailey Fenton. The latter was the liaison between the Seven and the Prime Minister himself.

  “Very well,” Harrison said. “First, I must ask, is that your blood or someone else’s?” He nodded to her hands, his voice calm.

  “Someone else’s. Johnston has been killed,” she said, doing her best to keep her tone unaffected. Crying in this room would literally destroy her career. There were still several members of the Seven who believed espionage was no place for women.

  “Did he send for you?” Fenton asked.

  “No, Sir, I went to seek his assistance when my mark was murdered.”

  Chapter Two

  Emma Masterson.

  Remy Hawthorne did his best to school his features as he returned to his seat. It had been two years since he’d left her in Paris, since her assignment to seduce Comte Gibrault. Remy had made certain she’d be safe working with another member of the Seven, one he trusted, and then he left. He knew she’d accomplished her task because they’d acquired the necessary intelligence from Gibrault.

  Remy had done everything he could since then to avoid seeing her, but here she was, standing before him, covered in blood. He fought the urge to go to her and check her for injuries, even though she’d said the blood wasn’
t hers. He slowly returned to his seat.

  She had been the brightest and bravest in the group of women they’d recruited into espionage, but she’d also been the most stubborn; quite possibly the most stubborn of all women—not just the ones who worked for the Seven. Still, Remy leaned back in his chair and took in the sight of her. She was slight of build, and her current dress made it a mystery as to whether or not she had any curves. He knew from working with her in Paris that she had delicious curves any woman would envy. Tonight, though, she hid her body beneath a plain wool gown. Hell, he couldn’t even tell if she had a bosom worth perusal because she wore a silk spencer fastened tight beneath her neck. When the light shone just right, he could see the bloody handprints marring the front of her dark skirts.

  “Lord Comfry was murdered?” Harrison asked.

  “Yes. Right in front of me, though I never saw the killer’s face. I was hiding.”

  “Clever girl,” Fenton said. His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “But then we wouldn’t have recruited you if you weren’t. Sit, sit, you must be exhausted.”

  Harrison moved an empty chair next to him. She took a seat and angled her body so as to not face Remy, despite the fact she sat directly across from him.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Harrison asked.

  “Tonight?” Remy asked. “She’s obviously been through quite the ordeal.”

  She shot him a glance. “I can certainly discuss things tonight just as any of you would.” She recalled details, her voice devoid of emotion. It was a technique taught at the Academy. Weariness slumped her shoulders. Her red-stained fingers massaged her temples.

  Harrison stopped her. “We’ll go through everything again tomorrow, Emma. You probably need to sit by a fire with some nice warm tea.”

  “And a change of clothes,” Remy said. “She’s covered in blood.”

  She looked down at her hands and flinched. “A bath,” she said.

  “Of course,” Harrison said. He rang for his butler and gave him instructions to ready a room for Emma along with a hot bath and a change of clothes. He also told the man to send for Franklin. “You can stay here tonight.”

  “Well, she can’t very well go back to the Comfrys,” Remy said.

  “True. We’ll take the necessary steps to ensure his family is safe, especially the children.” Fenton came to his feet. “In the meantime, I charge you, Harrison, with finding a place to keep Miss Masterson safe in the interim. Also, send some men to Comfry’s townhome to collect any evidence. Keep me notified with any new information.” With that, Fenton left the room with more grace than his girth would suggest.

  “Who is Franklin?” she asked.

  “A man we had following Comfry when he’d leave his townhome. You could only gather intelligence from inside the house,” Harrison said.

  She nodded. “Perhaps he saw whoever came into the townhome.”

  “You can go, too, Emma. We can talk more tomorrow.”

  She eyed him, obviously not certain if she should accept the reprieve or try to pick more details from her tired mind.

  “There’s nothing more that can be done tonight, Emma,” Harrison said. “Go, clean up, and get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll come up with a plan of how to move forward.”

  “If you’re certain it can wait. If not, I am fit enough to go over everything again tonight,” she said, her chin bumping up a notch.

  “We have business to finish here, so it might as well wait,” Harrison said.

  She exhaled slowly, stood, and left the room.

  Remy wanted to leave it alone, let her retire to a room and get herself cleaned up, but damn if that wasn’t enough for him. He stood, said nothing to the other men, and followed her out of the room.

  “Emma,” he called.

  She turned, her stance etched in weariness. “What do you want, Remy?”

  “I merely wanted to ensure you were all right. You obviously went through quite the ordeal tonight,” he said, unable to hide his concern.

  She took a shaky breath, and it took every ounce of his control not to pull her into his arms. But she’d made her choice a long time ago; she chose the job over him.

  “You look tired,” he said. Still beautiful, though; he couldn’t deny that. Hell, he’d never been able to keep his eyes off her.

  “I shall be back to my usual self by morning. I need to wash up and get a good night’s sleep,” she said. “Thank you.” She turned and walked the rest of the way up the stairs.

  Remy waited until she turned the corner at the top of the stairs before moving back into the room. “She needs protection.”

  “Obviously,” Harrison said.

  “She is trained. Can she not protect herself?” Brentwood asked.

  “She is trained, yes, and she is as clever as any of us. But she is still a woman and therefore, not as physically strong as we are. There is obviously a killer on the loose,” Harrison said.

  “Not to mention her field experience as of late has been that of a governess, sneaking around the house to listen to conversations and pilfer through his mail,” Remy said. Some had blamed him for Emma refusing more active fieldwork. She claimed she preferred to work alone. “That hardly gives her the type of skills to keep herself from getting killed.”

  “So it falls to us to babysit the chit?” Brentwood rolled his eyes. “Honestly, this was why I told all of you that recruiting females into the Seven was a terrible idea.”

  Remy wanted to tell the bastard Emma was twice the spy Brentwood was, but there was no reason to fight with the man tonight.

  “They serve their purposes. They are often able to get into places we cannot,” Harrison said. “Men with your attitude, Brentwood, will say nearly anything in front of a woman because you don’t believe them to be intelligent creatures.”

  “If she needs to be watched until Comfry’s murderer is caught, she should pose as someone’s mistress. That would keep her safe,” Remy said. “Ensure she was guarded at all hours.

  “Excellent idea,” Harrison said. “Thank you for volunteering.”

  Remy sat forward. “I never volunteered. You know Emma and I have history.”

  “Everyone in the Seven knows you and Emma have your differences,” Harrison said.

  “This goes beyond mere differences. She loathes me. There is no possible way she could pretend to be my mistress. Not to mention no one would believe she was a mistress. She’s too…” But he stopped himself. She wasn’t too proper, by any means. She’d seduced one man to gather information; pretending to be a mistress wouldn’t be that different.

  “She is a professional, she can pretend to be anything we ask her to be, just as you or I could.” Harrison nodded. “It is settled. I shall bring her to your townhome tomorrow.”

  Remy looked at Harrison and then Brentwood. Her playing mistress had been his idea, and if he were honest, would he want her pretending with any other man? Brentwood would certainly do nothing to protect her; he didn’t even consider her a member of their team. And Harrison was far too busy to keep a watchful eye. There were other members, but none Remy would trust with her safety. Harrison’s brows rose in a question.

  “Splendid,” Remy said.

  …

  Emma felt human again now that she was clean of blood. She’d been thankful Harrison had dismissed her for the evening. She’d done her best to recall all the details, but the two scenes were blurring in her mind. There had been darkness, blood, and death in both locations. She finger combed her damp hair and brought it to the front where she worked it into a thick plait.

  Now that she was feeling better, her anger simmered to the surface. Damn Remy for being so handsome. And damn him for pretending to be concerned. Her foolish body betrayed her for noticing his wicked good looks. She’d once thought him different from other men. She’d thought he believed her capable of her position with the Seven. But once she’d received notice to seduce the Comte, Remy revealed the truth. He thought her in need of saving. She was surpris
ed he hadn’t come up with some ridiculous scheme in order to “protect” her from her current situation.

  Yes, she had doubts herself. This very night. But to hear those doubts coming from him had been too much. In working with him, she’d done the unforgiveable and gotten too close to him. When he proposed, she wanted to say yes, and she hated him for it. She didn’t need his or any other man’s protection. Besides, she had yet to fail an assignment.

  She crossed the bedchamber and pulled back the curtain. The city loomed before her, dark and full of secrets. Somewhere out there was a murderer, and if she could find him, she’d find the rest of the traitors.

  Chapter Three

  The following morning, Emma felt remarkably well rested. She’d fully expected a restless night, but after a long soak in the hot bath and some bread and tea to settle her stomach, she’d fallen asleep. The last image in her mind hadn’t been of Lord Comfry’s dying breath, but instead was Remy’s expression as he stood at the foot of the stairs. He’d been so earnest with his concern.

  Harrison had put Emma in a carriage where she currently sat waiting for him to join her. She concentrated on her breathing. He’d said he already had another assignment for her, but that the nature of this assignment was highly unusual. He jumped inside and said nothing as the carriage rumbled down the street.

  “Did you find your man, Franklin?” she asked.

  Harrison nodded. “We did. He’d been hit over the head outside of Comfry’s townhome. Needless to say, he didn’t see anything. We gathered what information he could tell us about Comfry’s comings and goings, but it doesn’t appear that it will amount to anything.”

  She fell quiet, scouring her mind for more details of the night before.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of requesting Madam Dupree meet us to take your measurements. You’ll require a new wardrobe for this assignment as your governess rags will not suit.”