Too Hot for a Spy

by Pearl Wolf

  “You!” Olivia blurted when she entered the dining room on the dot of six. She found herself facing the man who had tried to seduce her—and had very nearly succeeded—at the Hobbleton Ball.

  Sebastian looked grim. “Sir, Fairchild. The trainees are instructed to address me as ‘Sir.’ You will do the same.”

  “Lady Fairchild to you, sir.”

  “Here you shall be known as Fairchild. All trainees are addressed thus and we make no distinctions.” He took his seat at the head of the table and nodded toward a seat at the opposite end.

  He seats himself before he seats a lady in his presence? Man has no manners. She marched to her seat, took it and folded her arms in a gesture of defiance.

  “We’ll dine first, after which you may speak.” They ate in silence, though Olivia was bursting with a myriad of questions.

  At the end of the meal, Sebastian waited for the servants to withdraw. He raised an eyebrow and said, “Well?”

  “Well what, sir?”

  “This shall be your only opportunity to voice your complaints. You will not be given another.”

  “Which complaint, sir, would you like me to address first, sir? How do I like my quarters, sir? How did I enjoy the warm welcome I received, sir? How did I feel about leaving my wardrobe and my abigail at home, sir? How did I like lugging my own icy cold wash water up four flights of stairs to my tiny cell, sir? How did I like my cot, which I was forced to make up on my own, sir?” She sat back, her eyes blazing.

  Sebastian sipped his wine, put the goblet down, wiped his mouth and asked, “What did you do to come to the attention of the home secretary? He was most impressed with your credentials. Kindly furnish me with them.”

  “I was employed in the home office, sir.”

  “And what work did you do there, may I ask?”

  “I handled sensitive materials.”

  A light dawned in Sebastian’s mind. Of course! This was the clerk he knocked down when he left Sidmouth’s office in a blind temper that day. Does she know it? He thought not. His lips twitched when he recalled his glimpse of her derriere. But he didn’t let on.

  “You were a file clerk, then. You may not find the rigors of Wilson Academy to your liking, Fairchild. If that proves to be the case, inform me and I will arrange to have you escorted home at once.”

  Don’t celebrate my departure too soon, spymaster. I’m not a quitter. And you, sir, are far too eager to be rid of me! Defiance bubbled up within her. She raised her chin and said, “I am up to the challenge, sir. Have you no more answers to my questions, sir?”

  Sebastian shrugged, thinking it a great pity he couldn’t take this sassy bit of skirt in his arms and make love to her once more. Too bad. She had such delicious breasts. The thought roused an involuntary response. He hoped he could rise from his chair without embarrassing himself. “You insult me with your foolish questions, and since they amount to nothing more than mere petty grievances, I have no intention of responding.”

  “Then why have you invited me to dine? Sir?” The word took on the color of an insult.

  “I did so in order to outline our rules. For one, there is no favoritism shown here. For another, the high standards our instructors set for you will be no different from the ones they set for all trainees. We run a tight, efficient operation here, Fairchild. If you cannot keep up, you will be dismissed. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Perfectly, sir.” Sebastian said. “Forgetting to address me or your instructors as ‘sir’ is a serious offense and will earn you a penalty.” He could not fail to see the fire in her eyes. “Though you may find it difficult, Fairchild, your most pressing task is to learn to obey orders. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Breakfast is served at half past four, calisthenics begin promptly at five. Wear the regulation training clothes we have provided.”

  “Do you mean half past four in the morning, sir?” That last word constricted her throat.

  He had already risen from his seat. Pleased that his erection had subsided, he allowed himself a smirk. “Pleasure to meet you once again, Fairchild.” He reached the door, and added, “Don’t oversleep. If you miss breakfast, you won’t be fed again until lunch is served at half past noon.”

  Olivia remained at the dining room table after the spymaster left, lost in the misery of her thoughts. This was not turning out as well as she had hoped. She hadn’t touched any of her wine during dinner. Now she reached for it, removed the stopper and guzzled it directly from the decanter. She rose un-steadily and trudged up to her room, disheartened, dispirited, disillusioned.

  Her eye caught an unfamiliar sheet of paper on her desk that hadn’t been there before dinner. She picked it up. Tomorrow’s schedule. It read:

  4:30–5:00 AM

  Breakfast

  5:00–6:00 AM

  Calisthenics

  6:00–8:00 AM

  Codes and Ciphers

  8:00–10:00 AM

  Fencing

  10:00–12:00 AM

  Intelligence

  12:00–1:00 PM

  Luncheon

  1:00–3:00 PM

  Housekeeping

  3:00–5:00 PM

  Horseback Riding

  5:00–6:00 PM

  Dinner

  6:00–8:00 PM

  Study Hall

  8:00 PM

  Lights Out

  She shivered. Could she do all these things? All in one day? She had to. She couldn’t fail. She wouldn’t fail.

  She sat on the chair at her desk and slowly pulled the pins from her hair, allowing her lengthy tresses to fall in confusion. She’d never combed her own hair before when she’d gotten ready for bed, but she took up the brush and gamely tried to untangle the knots, wincing at each pull.

  Bloody hell! I’ll brush it in the morning. She put the brush down and began to rise when a vision of her sister Helena floated before her eyes.

  Don’t fail me, Livy. Pick up that brush and finish the task or you will have the devil of a time untangling the jumble in the morning. She heard the words in her mind, as clear as if her sister had spoken them aloud. Olivia picked up the brush once again and counted the strokes. One. Two. Three…

  When she reached twenty-five, the strength in her arms failed her. She braided it as best she could to prevent morning tangles, tied it with a ribbon plucked from her bonnet, rose from her chair and turned to the cot. Her body yearned to drop down without another thought. Again, Helena clouded her vision and shook her head from side to side.

  An exhausted Olivia sighed, unfolded the sheet and tucked it around the thin, lumpy mattress as best as she could manage. She stuffed the pillow into its case, wrapped the thin blanket around her shoulders and lay down on the cot. Seconds later, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Wilson Academy—Monday, The First of July

  The jarring noise of a bell woke Olivia at four. In the fog between sleep and wakefulness, she fancied she was home in London and wondered who could possibly be calling at this unearthly hour. And why didn’t they use the knocker instead of the bell? She’d have to complain to the butler. She turned over, only to fall out of her cot and clunk onto the bare floor. At once her eyes flew awake, though it took several seconds to recall her whereabouts.

  Shivering from the cold, for there was no fireplace in her room. She rose and groped her way to the candle on the desk. Her fingers shook as she lit it and surveyed the room. It took her two steps to reach the washbasin, for her room was so small, she could almost touch it from wall to wall.

  Olivia turned the latch to her door and pulled it open as an under maid hurried by. “Excuse me? If I paid you, would you fetch me some hot water?”

  “You one o’them trainees, an’t you?”

  “Yes. I’ll pay you a crown if you bring me some hot water. Please?”

  The under maid called out from the stairwell, trying to be helpful. “I’d lose me job if�
�n y’paid me a guinea. Y’ave to fetch yer own water, miss. The pump’s just outside the kitchen door. Kitchen’s in the basement. Follow this staircase till you reach bottom.”

  “I know bloody well where the kitchen is,” she grumbled as the young woman hurried off to her duties. Olivia shut the door and reached for her silk chemise and knickers. She cast a disgusted eye on the outer clothing left for her. With considerable distaste, she stepped into the pantaloons, but they slid down to the floor. She removed another of her new bonnet’s ribbons to tie round her waist. The coarse shirt was far too large for her small frame, but when she buttoned the thick warm vest over it, it kept the shirt from slipping off her shoulders. She rooted around in her portmanteau until she found stockings and undergarments to stuff her boots with until they fit well enough for her to walk and not wobble.

  She grasped her pitcher and hurried down the stairwell until she reached the kitchen. A kitchen maid coming out of the pantry nodded her head in the direction of the door at the end of the kitchen without stopping her work.

  Olivia hurried outside, a blast of cold morning air causing her breath to release smoke. She filled the pitcher and trudged back upstairs to her room, for she didn’t have time to heat it. By the time she’d washed with the icy water, it was almost five.

  Another under maid, more accommodating than the first, showed her the way to the trainees’ dining room, two flights down the back stairs. Her stomach growled as she flew down the stairwell.

  But breakfast for her was not to be, for as soon as she reached the large room on the first floor, a stream of young men, dressed as she was, were making their way down the steps.

  “Where are we bound?”

  The last man crooked his finger. “Riggs here. Calisthenics. Follow me.”

  Olivia had to run to keep up with his long strides. By the time she reached the training grounds, her breath was short.

  The trainees lined up to face Hugh Denville, a young man—not more than thirty, Olivia guessed—who wore his black hair tied back with a ribbon. His weathered face held high cheekbones, a straight nose, brown eyes and a dimple in his cheek that deepened when he smiled. Denville, the spymaster’s aide during the war, also served as Sebastian’s secretary. It was well known that little could be said in his hearing that would not be repeated to Sir.

  “Morning, lads.” He acknowledged Olivia with a nod. “Fairchild.”

  “Morning, sir,” the men answered as one.

  “Morning, sir,” Olivia’s voice followed in a high squeak.

  “Warm-ups. Run in place. Five minutes.” Denville consulted his timepiece. “Begin.”

  Olivia noted the posture and began to pump her legs like the others, raising them as high as she could.

  “Chin up. Knees higher, Fairchild. You’re not at a picnic.”

  “Y…yes, sir.”

  To the casual eye, Wilson Academy appeared to be the country estate of a peer of the realm. A fine example of Renaissance architecture, the imposing facade was built of brick early in the seventeenth century. Inside, it boasted the most modern facilities in the world, perhaps.

  The ground floor was designed for offices, the staff dining room, a separate dining room for trainees, a reception room and a grand ballroom whose design was meant to accommodate large groups of government officials as a meeting place rather than as a space for the frivolous balls it once held.

  The spymaster’s quarters, consisting of three large rooms, were also on this level. The first was a dining room with two doors, one at the back stairwell for kitchen access and another leading into his bedchamber, which also had two doors, one leading out to the hall and the other leading into his office, the third room. A second office door admitted visitors.

  Below ground, the basement housed a full kitchen galley and below that, a storage cellar.

  The first floor held instructors’ chambers, a lounge for their leisure use, and additional chambers to accommodate visiting guests. As well, the trainees’ study hall was below the male trainees’ rooms. Servants and trainees alike used the narrow back staircase to reach all their activities.

  The second floor was designed for classrooms, the largest space outfitted for fencing on one end and boxing on the other. The spymaster designed two hidden walkways on either side of this floor, their entrances rendered invisible by the same wood panels adorning all the hallways. Slivers of rectangular windows, placed at eye level, enabled him to observe indoor and outdoor training activities without being seen.

  From this vantage point, he watched Olivia’s pathetic attempt to keep up with the other trainees at calisthenics and wondered how long it would take for her to give up and go home where she belonged.

  “Fifty push-ups. Hit the ground, lads,” Denville said when they had finished running in place. When he noticed Olivia still standing, he added, “You, too, Fairchild.”

  “Yes, sir.” She observed what the others were doing and lay down on her stomach. She put her hands on the ground and pushed hard, but when she raised her head, her stubborn body refused to follow. On the third try, she caught sight of a pair of boots close to her face and turned her head up to face Denville. “I’ve never done push-ups before, sir. I don’t know how.”

  One of the men snickered.

  “There’s no call for that!” Denville said sharply. He turned back to Olivia. “Lie back down, Fairchild. Elbows bent, but stiff, hands flat, in line with your brea—er, chest. Not too near your shoulders, mind. Keep your body stiff as a board, toes pointed down. Now push as hard as you’re able.”

  To her astonishment, Olivia succeeded in lifting her upper body a few inches off the ground. But not her torso. Perhaps women were not meant to do push-ups, she thought with despair.

  “Right, then.” He coughed to smother a chuckle and walked back to his place.

  By the time the other trainees had completed fifty push-ups, Olivia had wobbled through five. Triumphant at her small victory, she darted a glance at Denville, but he paid no heed.

  “Jumping jacks. Begin.”

  I can do this! Yet when she jumped apart, her arms would not follow, and when she raised her arms over her head, her feet turned to lead.

  Denville chose to ignore this, at the same time admiring her determination. “Time,” he announced, and strode away in the direction of the spymaster’s office.

  She trudged after the other trainees, relying on them to lead her to the next activity. She tapped the young man in front of her on the shoulder. “Where are we going?”

  He threw her a lopsided grin, his face covered with freckles. His light brown hair was stringy, but his eyes were lively. Rufus Riggs was the youngest of the trainees.

  “Codes and ciphers. On the second floor,” the young man whispered. And shot a gap-toothed grin at her. He added, “Name’s Riggs. Rufus.”

  The kindness in his voice nearly undid her. “Fairchild,” she whispered back.

  Sir Aaron Foster, a short, balding man with gentle blue eyes had been knighted by the Regent for code work that defied Napoleon’s staff. He’d meant to retire from government service after the war he helped win, but Viscount Sidmouth had other plans for him. The home secretary persuaded him to take his current post as instructor for future undercover agents.

  Once seated in the two-hour class, Olivia relaxed, though every bone in her body screamed in protest after her unaccustomed physical exertion. She enjoyed the mental challenge, thinking it very like solving intricate puzzles. Although she did not grasp everything the master teacher said, she was pleased with herself. Codes and ciphers class was far easier than calisthenics.

  When Foster dismissed them, the trainees moved across the hall to the fencing room on the same floor.

  Riggs appointed himself her guide. He helped her find a suitable vest, a glove and a wire mask. They were too large for her, yet not as ill-fitting as the clothing she wore.

  Olivia had been tutored in fencing when she was still in the schoolroom. The duke wished to share his favo
rite activity with her, for she threatened to be his only child at the time. She suppressed a giggle at the thought of her father. Little did he know to what use she would put it.

  Andre Fourier, a Frenchman with a thin mustache, black hair and a slight frame, swept into the room wearing his fencing vest. He carried his glove and his mask, and eyed his students as if he were inspecting sides of beef, a familiar task for him, for he was also chef for the academy.

  “I am Fourier, messieurs.” His Gallic eyes fell on Olivia and he bowed to her. “Mademoiselle.”

  “Bien! We begin.” He launched into an explanation of the art of dueling and paired the trainees off for practice, replacing one or another to illustrate his point when he thought it necessary. Which was often.

  “We commence wiz ze lunge and ze parry—Prime, seconde, tierce, quarte, quinte, sixte, septime, octave.”

  Olivia was partnered with Riggs, whose clumsy handling of his foil, rendered safe by the button at its tip, forced Fourier to stop him. He took Riggs’ foil, placed one hand behind his back and faced Olivia.

  “En Garde, sil vous plait. Prime.” The others stopped and turned to watch. Surprise registered on more than one face when Olivia acquitted herself well in her first parry. But when she dropped her foil in the second, silence rang in the air. Until Fourier laughed heartily.

  “I am saved from shame. Well done, Fairchild.”

  At the end of class, Fourier turned to Olivia. “Your fencing glove ees too large, as is ze vest and ze mask, eh? I shall order better equipment for you.” He waved his hand in the direction of the other trainees and turned to leave. “Dismissed.”

  The trainees replaced their fencing equipment and proceeded to the library on the ground floor. They were seated around a long table, when the other young men introduced themselves to Olivia.