The Devil's Own Luck (Once a Spy)

by Diana Douglas

  The Devil's Own Luck

  By

  Diana Douglas

  Copyright © 2012 by Diana Douglas

  http://dianadouglas.wordpress.com

  https://twitter.com/themodernscribe

  E-mail: dltd@cox.net

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Diana Douglas.

  eBook formatting by www.ebook-format.com

  Dedication

  Thanks to my husband, Dan, for all the love and encouragement he has given me. To my editor, Gia, for patiently pointing out that a Scotsman does not speak with an Irish brogue, mere mortals can't see through walls and other assorted errors that I've committed along the way. And last, to my friends at the Arizona Novel Writer's Workshop for keeping me on-track and motivated.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Bewitching Hour Preview

  Prologue

  France 1812, Ten miles south of Calais

  Rand moved swiftly through the darkness, cursing his inability to silence the sound of his boots striking the cobblestone. The hair on the back of his neck prickled; his spine tingled. He’d had someone on his tail since the coach dropped him off at the village’s edge, though whether they were footpads, French spies or something in-between he had no notion. No, that was a lie. They weren’t footpads. Footpads would have made their move by now. His rendezvous with Morris had been compromised.

  Trails of mist swirled about his greatcoat. His collar was drawn up and a dark felt hat covered his light hair and forehead. The night was black, the moon obscured behind cloud cover, and the narrow lane he traveled, unlit. The only glow of light came from a noisy tavern down the lane. His best chance was to remain in the darkness. Too much depended on the papers sewn into the lining of his coat. Napoleon's plans to invade Russia could prove disastrous for England if Whitehall wasn't informed. He crossed the lane to avoid the tavern’s light. A moment-later his pursuers did the same. They quickened their pace. Their footfalls were muffled but he determined there were two shadows.

  He closed his fingers around one of the pistols he carried and withdrew it from his coat pocket. Two pistols. Two chances. He couldn’t afford to waste a shot by firing blindly into the darkness. The raucous sounds from the tavern grew louder. The moon temporarily emerged from the clouds and the next five seconds passed in the blink of an eye. A gunshot behind him reverberated in his ears and he sensed one of his pursuers rushing toward him. Pistol in hand, he whirled around and fired at the approaching shadow. He heard a soft, surprisingly feminine grunt and the sound of someone hitting the cobbles. He dropped the first pistol, grasped the other and aimed at the second shadow.

  “God’s teeth! Put the damned thing away!” Relief washed over him. The arrogant English voice belonged to his best friend and colleague, Lord Stratton. “I save your bloody life and you thank me by thinking to put a bullet between my eyes!”

  Rand continued to hold the pistol as he glanced over his shoulder at the tavern. If anyone had heard the shots, it appeared they had paid it no notice. “There were two. What happened to the other one?”

  “I took care of him. He’s about thirty paces behind us.” Stratton knelt down to check the pulse of the second victim. “Christ! Do you…” He was interrupted by the inharmonious sounds of a tavern song behind them. It grew closer. He rose quickly. “Let’s go. Now. I’ve horses tethered a few minutes away.”

  They took off at a rapid pace. It wasn’t until the tavern’s light was well behind them that Rand spoke. “I’m grateful you decided to put in an appearance but what in the devil are you doing here? I was supposed to meet Morris.”

  “Plans have changed.” The viscount’s breath misted in the chilled air. His voice was bleak as he continued, “Morris was found dead two days ago in Rouen. Don’t know how much he gave up but Connolly wasn’t about to risk the documents you’re carrying. He sent me to keep you alive, if possible, and make certain the information reached its destination. I kept in the doorway once I saw you were being followed. I was lucky to hit the bastard. It was too damned dark to get much of a look.” He paused. “You haven’t any idea who you shot back there, have you?”

  “A French agent, I assume. Female. Can’t say that killing a woman sits well with me.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over that one. You’ve brought down Marguerite. Morris’s death had her stamp all over it.”

  Rand came to a halt.

  Stratton pushed him forward. “Keep going!”

  Still stunned, he resumed his pace. Marguerite was a French spy who had tortured and mutilated at least a dozen English agents over the past three years. If she had been Morris’s interrogator, he had died a grisly death. Anger tore at him. Morris had been a decent chap. He attempted to close his mind to the picture that had begun to play itself out in his imagination. They had been warned what might happen if captured. God knows what he’d give up if he were put to the test. It was too gruesome to think about. But, they all understood the chance they took going in. And chances were, he had barely escaped the same horror Morris had suffered.

  “You’re timing was fortuitous,” he said soberly. “Once again, I believe I owe you my life. Though,” he added with a touch of dryness, “I suspect you will remind me of that whenever it suits your purpose.”

  “Most likely. But you’re the one who’s truly owed a debt. Bloody hell, you’ve killed Marguerite. Damnable thing is, you’ll never be able to take credit for it.”

  Rand shrugged. “Don’t know that I should get any. It was sheer chance on my part. By the way, where are we headed?”

  “Calais. You’ll hand the papers over there. Then home. We sail before daylight. Not one of yours, I’m afraid,” he added referring to the three merchant ships, and numerous smaller vessels, Danfield Shipping had volunteered in the Crown’s fight against Napoleon Bonaparte.

  “Damn! You know how I hate traveling in any conveyances other than my own. God only knows how seaworthy the thing is.”

  Stratton chuckled. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “I’ve used up my quota for the week, tonight.”

  “It’s more than a week’s worth. Our adventure’s over. Morris’s capture has effectively ended our operations. I don’t suppose either one of us will be returning to the continent any time soon. At least not until this bloody war is over.”

  Rand took in a deep breath letting the crisp, cold air fill his lungs. Truth be told, he was glad to be returning home, still breathing and in one piece. As they approached their mounts the animals were snorting and pawing restlessly at the ground. They were al
so anxious to be on their way. With a little luck they’d be in England sometime tomorrow.

  Chapter One

  Three years later, London, England

  Of all the wretched, damnable luck. He was a marquis. A goddamned, bloody marquis. The normally winsome, sandy-haired Thomas Randolph Danfield, affectionately known to his friends as Rand, was now the Marquis of Clarendon. But it was no cause for celebration. Not to his mind, anyway. Scowling, he uttered a string of barnyard curses and then leaned over and retrieved the crumpled paper he had just thrown in the waste bin, smoothed it out against the surface of his desk and stared at it. The words were the same. Robert Franklin Stephens, the eleventh Marquis of Clarendon had met his demise and he was now the twelfth bloody Marquis of Clarendon. He shoved it across the desk and looked up at the solicitor, a white haired little man who was staring at him in bewilderment.

  “I don’t care what you have to do, Mansfield. Fix this,” he ordered. “Now. Before my mother finds out.”

  The solicitor pushed his wire rimmed glasses back up his nose and inquired nervously, “Fix it, my lord?”

  He nodded brusquely. “Fix it. I have no desire to be a marquis. None whatsoever. I have enough to do as it is. And don’t address me as my lord. Someone might hear you.”

  “But my...”

  The new marquis glared at the solicitor who promptly shut his mouth. “I was seventh in line,” Rand muttered. “Not even in the running. How the devil did this happen?” But he knew how. A streak of amazingly bad luck coupled with amazingly bad judgment had befallen the heirs of Clarendon. Two he couldn’t fault. They had lost their lives fighting the bloody French. One in Salamanca and the other just recently at Waterloo. He would never begrudge that. They had, after all, sacrificed themselves for the good of England. But the rest of the lot were imbeciles. Complete morons without enough sense to know when to come in from the rain. Or more to the point, how to keep from killing themselves.

  Only a year ago, one had drowned trying to save a friend who had fallen into the lake from their small fishing boat. The friend could swim. His would be savior could not. Then another had decided to gallop along the moors of Cornwall completely foxed and received a broken neck for his efforts. The fifth was fatally wounded in a duel when he accused the Duke of Beresford, an accomplished card player as well as a crack shot, of cheating during a high stakes game of Baccarat. And the most recent marquis had been thrown to his death from a high perch Phaeton while racing another like-minded idiot along a country road. Stupid bugger! Taking chances like that before he’d sired an heir. Still scowling, Rand picked up a pencil and began tapping it against his desk.

  “Who is my heir at present?” he grumbled.

  The solicitor hesitated before he answered. “I believe you will be required to produce the next heir, sir. You are, regrettably, the last of the line.”

  All hopes dashed, Rand flung his pencil on the desk. “Damn it! If that doesn’t beat all. There’s simply no way out of this, is there?” He looked up at Mansfield, who shook his head.

  “No. But it’s a great honor, my lord, and I believe there are extensive lands for grazing. Wool is quite profitable you know. And there are the textile and pottery mills, as well.”

  “I don’t give a tinker’s damn about titles and I’m already an extremely wealthy man,” Rand groused. “My great grandfather and grandfather made bloody certain of that. Even my wastrel father couldn’t deplete the fortune. I can’t spend what I’ve got, as it is. Why in the hell would I want more?”

  “I’ve no idea,” the solicitor mumbled dryly.

  Rand ignored the remark. “Just where are these ancestral lands I’ve been shackled with?”

  “Devon primarily. A beautiful area.”

  Refusing to be mollified, he glared at the solicitor. “It could be Camelot for all I bloody care.” Well aware that he was being childish Rand sighed heavily and asked, “Other than the tenants, who currently resides on the estate?”

  Mansfield adjusted his glasses again. “The previous marquis was newly married and as there was no issue, his widow has returned to live with her family. But there is an elderly lady, a distant relative I believe, still living in the main house.” He paused. “She has spent most of her life dependent on the generosity of the various marquises and is, I believe, somewhat anxious as to her future. I was not certain as to your plans.”

  Rand’s mouth tightened. “My plans do not include throwing an old lady out of her home,” he said curtly. “Send a missive straightaway to assure her of that. And also that I will be out to survey the estate, sometime within the month.” He reached for the bell pull. “Leave the rest of the documents on my desk and I’ll read over them this evening. I’d like to finish my accounts before I take on anything else. Edwards will show you out.”

  Obviously dismissed, the solicitor left the brooding Lord Clarendon to his accounts.

  Surrey, England

  “Cecelia, my darling. Do come here.”

  Eighteen year old Lady Cecelia who had been attempting to creep past her aunt’s open door stopped suddenly and groaned. Blast! She peered inside to see Lady Fitzberry motioning for her to enter the sitting room.

  The stout matron, wearing a heavily embroidered, silk crimson dressing gown reclined on a velvet chaise with a bandaged foot propped up on a stack of pillows. Two loudly snoring terriers were curled up beside her. In spite of her compromised state, she was pink with excitement.

  “I’ve been thinking, my dear, and I believe I have a solution to our little problem. Do you remember my dear friend, Mrs. Weathers? Well, I’ve decided to write to her and ask if she could stay with us for a little while. Given that your brother and Priscilla are in Dover and, of course, now that I’m laid up by that clumsy spill I took, well dear, we must find you a companion. The Littleton’s house party will be here soon and you certainly can’t go without one. I could use Eloise’s company, too. She’s such a lovely person and it would be so pleasant to have her around.”

  Cecelia stared at her aunt in horror. Mrs. Weathers was most definitely not pleasant to be around. She drenched herself in vile smelling perfume; blackened her hair with dye that rubbed off on everything, powdered her face until she resembled a ghost and wore a little black star shaped patch above her lip and another on her temple. She snorted when she laughed and was silly beyond belief. Aunt Mirabella was difficult enough, but to have Mrs. Weathers as a companion was unthinkable.

  Cecelia swallowed hard and said, “But Aunt Mirabella, I’ll have Mattie with me. Mrs. Weathers needn’t act as my companion. It isn’t as if we were still in London and you’re such good friends, I’m certain she would much rather spend her time with you than traipsing about with me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, my darling.” Her aunt’s forehead furrowed with a frown. “You can’t take your maid as your companion to social engagements. It would be beyond the pale. People would talk. And dear, Eloise has such wonderful fashion sense and with her help you would stand out more than ever. The Littleton’s house party will be an excellent time to find a husband. Mark my words; you’ll be betrothed in no time.”

  Cecelia gritted her teeth. Tall with a riot of unfashionably red curls, she felt that she stood out quite enough as it was without Aunt Mirabella’s and Mrs. Weather’s fashion sense added into the equation. Her wardrobe was a point in which Cecelia and her aunt had a great difference of opinion and without her brother Eugene in residence to take her side, Lord only knew what she would be expected to wear. And as far as finding as husband was concerned, she had yet to meet anyone she wanted as more than a dance partner. Certainly not as a husband. But her aunt was right. If she were to attend the Littleton’s party, she needed a companion.

  What a wretched state of affairs! She felt as if she had been deserted and left to the wolves. Not that it was intentional or anyone’s fault. Her parents, the earl and countess of Stratton, were in France with her older sister who was increasing. Under normal circumstances, her sister br
ought new meaning to the word missish, but now that she was breeding she was positively histrionic and needed their mama far more than Cecelia did at the moment. Her older brother Eugene and his wife Priscilla were newly married and had taken themselves off to Dover for a brief honeymoon and she wouldn’t dream of appealing for his help at this point. It wouldn’t be fair. Not even with Mrs. Weathers looming on the horizon. There simply had to be some sort of solution to avoid the embarrassment of having Mrs. Weathers in tow. She glanced up at her aunt who was still babbling away. “Excuse me Aunt Mirabella,” she murmured and left for the quiet of her own room. She had to think.

  The Marquis of Clarendon slowly woke to the sensation of something delightfully soft and wet and warm attached to his penis. He opened his eyes a fraction to see a fall of long dark hair and the profile of Miss April Lamont as she proceeded to do an exceptional job of what he paid her so well to do. The musky scent of their lovemaking lingered from the night before. He ran his fingers through the soft silky hair that lay across his belly. He watched the bobbing head a moment, then sighed. His hand fell to his side and he closed his eyes, surrendering to the bliss of her ministrations. It was, he considered, an exceedingly pleasant way to start the day.

  It was early afternoon before he had dressed and was pulling on his boots. He rose, moving behind April where she sat at the dressing table, his eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her hair. She was an exotic creature with raven-black hair that fell to her waist, violet eyes and a soft, voluptuous body. Still stark naked, her heavy, rose tipped breasts swung freely with every stroke of her brush.

  He had always been partial to women with generous curves and she had them in abundance. But even more enticing than the lushness of her body, she had the aura of a woman who was confident in her ability to satisfy a man’s desires. And her confidence was justified. She would have no trouble finding another protector. Maybe someone who would take her out and about town. Something that to the tempestuous Miss Lamont’s vexation, he was not willing to do. His mistresses were never a part of his social life. He considered it bad form and had never made any exceptions. Still, he would miss her and wished he didn’t feel compelled to break off their arrangement.