The Viscount's Seduction: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 2)

by Alina K. Field

  A great loss to him, since he is dead. Bakeley felt Sirena’s hand jump under his grip and he relaxed his hold.

  Father’s eyes tightened. “So you’re Glenmorrow now, and yet I hear you’re entering the Commons.”

  “Indeed. Happy to serve king and country.”

  Shaldon nodded. “Tell me, how do you find London?”

  The conversation that followed diverted Hollister, yet Bakeley could see the man bending one ear to eavesdrop on them. Best to make the most of that.

  He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “Have I told you today how lovely you look? That dress is very becoming.”

  “Thank you. Did your morning’s business go as expected?”

  “Yes, it did. And how was your morning?”

  “Delightful. Your head groom—”

  “Our head groom.”

  Her face broke into a smile, some of the tension easing. “Yes, oh, thank you. He does seem a competent man. Well, and we were discussing taking the new mare up to Cransdall a little later in the spring and see how her temper fares. Plus, ’twill be the proper time for most of the mares, he said, perhaps her also. Spirited she is, but your man thinks she’ll do well, Bakeley, and so do I.”

  Hollister broke mid-sentence and turned his head their way. “You mean to allow her to take an active hand with your equine business?”

  Bakeley gripped Sirena’s trembling hand and channeled his own anger into cold boredom, or at least tried. It would be his sincerest pleasure to wrench the Glenmorrow title from this wretch. He managed a smile. “What say you, Father?”

  Shaldon answered with his own rare smile. “The world is not aware, Glenmorrow, that it was Lady Shaldon who managed that enterprise, most ably, I may say, and Bakeley here after her. I heard tell you had that mad horse eating out of your hand today, daughter.”

  Her mouth softened and she blinked, eyes shining. “She reminds me of one my father’s more recent mares and two of her foals. Have you sold all of the horses, Lord Glenmorrow?”

  “I fear that I had to.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “That was probably wise. Especially if you won’t be there to manage.”

  Perry came in then, followed by Lady Hackwell and two other ladies of their acquaintance, and Hollister took his leave.

  While Shaldon made polite conversation with the ladies, Bakeley drew Sirena aside. “Good God, Sirena. After I picked up Father, Lloyd had sent a footman to tell us Hollister was here. But now we must leave. I’ll explain everything later.”

  “Will you be back by dinner?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You weren’t back yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry. I told you, I was out with Charley, trying to run into that ass.”

  “And where are you off to now?”

  “I’m off with Father for another meeting. All is shaping up. We’ll talk tonight.”

  She frowned, studying him. “Will we then?”

  He towed her out into the hall into a dim corner and locked her against him.

  “Yes,” he said, bending in close. “We’ll make up for last night. And here’s the proof of my good faith.” He tugged her closer and kissed her until both of them were out of breath.

  “There. Now, please trust me.”

  Her glassy-eyed look cleared and darkened. “I’m to go on kisses and good faith, then? And share information later?”

  He heard Shaldon’s voice speaking with the footman, and he stepped back, cupping her shoulders. “Yes. Keep the ladies nearby.”

  “Very well then, Bakeley.”

  Minutes later Shaldon sat frowning at him from the front-facing seat of the coach. “What do you suppose Hollister told Sirena before we arrived?” Shaldon asked.

  Bakeley glanced out the window, his nerves prickling. And we’ll share information later? All he’d been able to think about was comforting her, protecting her, kissing her. He’d not thought to ask her what she’d learned.

  And, good God, he’d not taken the opportunity to talk to her about Jocelyn before Barton got to her.

  He swiped a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

  A long silence followed, and finally Shaldon spoke. “We shall fix him, my son.”

  He let out a long breath. “Indeed we shall, Father. And where are we going today?”

  “Today we visit the Home Office.”

  And, he prayed, they’d make quick work of it.

  Sirena picked her way through the dinner courses, barely listening to Perry and Lady Jane as they discussed the preparations for the ball.

  “I suppose we should have a look,” Perry said. “What do you think, Sirena?”

  She lifted her gaze from her plate and sighed. “It’s sorry I am. My thoughts were diverted by this excellent cheese.”

  Lady Jane reached over and patted her hand. “Bakeley is out on Lord Shaldon’s business, else he would be home.”

  She hated to admit it—she was worried. Why had he not sent a message, after all his promises? This would make two nights’ separation.

  Perry smiled and glanced at Lady Jane. “He’s completely besotted, so you have no worries. And the matter we were discussing was the floor. You’ve already snooped on my surprise, so we might as well all go and have a look at it. The artist is at work, I hear, and if we bring these candles we’ll have enough light. And I know you’re finished since you stopped eating at the first course.”

  Her hands tingled. She wanted more than anything to get into that ballroom and speak to the man at work there.

  But if Perry was suspicious—no. He could stand in the shadows while they perused the art, and she would divert her friends. She would go back later and speak privately with this man who might know where Jamie was. Irish traitor, radical, what did she care? In Shaldon’s home, there were plenty of servants to protect her.

  She rose, took a sconce of candles, and followed Perry.

  As they rounded a corner, the footman straightened up from his tired slouch.

  “How goes it, Phillip?” Perry asked. “Did you draw the short stick over one of the new men?

  “He’s still at work, my lady,” he said. “Lloyd wanted one of the old staff here, so I offered.”

  The doors to the ballroom were open, the light pooling in another corner of the room where a figure knelt.

  In the dim light, the designs were mere lines and sweeps of shadings.

  “The chandeliers and girandoles will brighten this entire room, you will see.” Perry had read her concern, as usual. She was a cagey one.

  Perry held out her branch of candles and Lady Jane peered closer. “Oh, I do see.”

  “It was beautiful in the daylight,” Sirena said.

  “However will they ready the chandeliers?” Lady Jane tiptoed around a white horse in full gallop and paused to study the dark center of the ceiling.

  Sirena traced her path and sucked in a sharp breath. It wasn’t a white horse galloping through the ballroom—’Twas a white unicorn, its yellow horn catching a glint of the candle flame. Had she had her hands free, she would have clapped them together and shrieked.

  The artist had come to his feet and was waiting for them. He stood in front of his lamp, casting his own face in shadows.

  “We’ve come to inspect your work.” Perry advanced on him, her candles lighting his face. She stopped a good several feet away. “What is that you’re working on there?”

  Sirena’s pulse quickened. Perry’s voice crackled with an edge that said something had gone amiss.

  “It is a special Irish design, your ladyship. As you requested.”

  The smug tone of those otherwise servile words, the lack of his earlier accent, sent the pounding of her heart higher into her ears.

  “And quite a lovely one.” Perry angled her head only slightly to call over her shoulder. “Will you tell us what it means, Sirena?”

  An ache started in her chest and swelled into her throat.

  Tell us then, wee Sirena. Tell us the
story of the four points of this knot.

  ’Tis the four seasons, winter, spring, summer, and autumn, Jamie.

  No, ’tis not that. Now tell us, iora.

  ’Tis east, west, north and south.

  No.

  The four gospels then.

  Bah, you leave it again to me to tell, Sirena. Is it not then the sign of Brighid—hand, hearth, head and heart? Brighid, Queen of the Four Fires, Goddess of heaven, bringer of light, ruler of birth and new beginnings.

  She eased in a breath and steadied her voice. “It is for you to tell, sir, what the design means.”

  He shook his head, eying her warily. “It is Irish, connected to some legend or other. I was given it to draw by the master.”

  Was this then the same man she’d spoken with today? Aye, the scar still carved a path down his cheek, his tooth was still chipped, but the way his mouth firmed sharpened the pain in her chest. Jamie’s face had never been so hard. This was Donegal, and there was no softness in him.

  “Come then,” Perry said, “we hold the Irish in some esteem in this house. You must have some idea of the meaning.”

  He rubbed at his jaw, streaking it the white of the chalk. “Well then, ’tis a symbol of luck. A fancied-up, four-leaf clover.”

  Sirena’s heart fell. The dark room seemed to swallow the light, and fear filled her as it had that day at the docks. Though this was but one man, the odds seemed much worse than that day. And she couldn’t let Perry or Lady Jane be hurt.

  She made herself chuckle. “And ’tis luck we will be needing to get everything ready in time for the ball. Best let him get back to his work. Will you be much later then, sir? It appears you’re finished.”

  “I’m touching up where needed. It will be a while longer.”

  “Very well then.” Perry herded them toward the doors.

  Outside the room, while Perry spoke with the footman, Lady Jane linked arms with Sirena. Oy, but she was dying to hear what Perry was saying, impossible with Lady Jane drawing her attention away.

  The three went up together, parting ways with Perry at her bedchamber door. Sirena escorted her former benefactor to her room, bade her goodnight, and went back down the stairs, a sick rage building within her.

  The library, she had noted, was often Shaldon’s last stop of the day. She would wait there for him, and for Bakeley. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed their help. Lady Bakeley she was, a weak English thing.

  She found the butler and two footmen silently roaming the halls.

  She pulled the butler, Lloyd, aside. “What are you doing?”

  “We are just making some extra preparations for the ball tomorrow night. Do you not wish to retire, my lady?”

  That was a bit cheeky and quite out of character for Lloyd. She looked past his shoulder. “You have extra men in the ballroom?” she whispered.

  He blinked.

  “That is a capital idea. I shall retire to the library to await my husband.” He trailed behind her to the door, and she saw a glint of concern in his weathered face.

  “I’ll just add more coals to the hearth, my lady.” He entered and closed the door behind him.

  The butler himself feeding coal. Not the usual sort of servants.

  Perhaps she could impose a bit more. “I should very much like it if my husband and his father come home soon. I should send a note, if I but knew the destination. I am not at all at ease tonight.”

  “Yes, my lady. And perhaps we should send the artist home?”

  Send him home? Whoever he was, that would not serve Shaldon and Bakeley’s needs, nor, she feared, her own. How had her goals become aligned so much with theirs that she would trap a fellow Irishman in the web of this English spymaster?

  Only, perhaps he was not truly her sort of Irishman.

  “And incur Lady Perry’s disappointment? Let him work. Perhaps an extra footman on the door if any are still awake.”

  “As you wish.” He bowed and left.

  At the writing table, Sirena found a sheet of parchment and a pencil. Her hand began to trace the soothing form of the knot. Hand, hearth, head, heart. Every time her brother had come home from school or his travels, he’d told her the tale of it. And if the man in the next room did not know it, he was not Jamie.

  She took in a ragged breath. If he was someone sent here to hurt them, Shaldon and Bakeley would take care of him, of that she was certain.

  Perhaps being protected was not so bad.

  And if he had information about her brother, Shaldon and Bakeley would thrash it out of him.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. What had truly happened to her brother? And was he alive or dead?

  A breeze ruffled her paper and sparked the fire. The window was open.

  Fear galloped through her. She braced her fists on the edge of the desk. Too late, too late.

  “You liked my design?”

  The man with the scar, the man who was not Jamie, was looking over her shoulder.

  Chapter 23

  Bakeley clutched the edge of the carriage seat as they turned a sharp corner. “What was the note you received?” he asked.

  Across from him, his father remained silent, his face shadowed and unreadable.

  His nerves jangled, and frustration gnawed at his empty stomach. “Did it have to do with the missing gunpowder?” Bakeley prodded. “And where the devil are we going, Father? This isn’t the way home.”

  The meeting had been an interminable mix of waiting, talking, and speculating that stretched through the dinner hour. Radicals were gathering. Gunpowder had gone missing from a storehouse. Other matters were discussed, but Bakeley’s presence had turned the talk into coded innuendo, each official talking around his own interest. No wonder the common sewers wouldn’t work.

  Hours into the ghastly event, a note was slipped into Shaldon’s hands, and here they were now, headed to God knew where.

  “Do you remember Fox?” Father asked.

  “The Whig politician?” Charles James Fox was long dead.

  “No. The American painter.”

  His skin crawled with memories and he blinked them away, not that Father could see in the dark. His memories of Fox were all tied up with his father’s capture by the French, his own quick trip to Ireland for that hobgoblin horse, and his mother’s sudden and tragic death.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “He’s come to London also.” Father’s flat tone belied an undercurrent of emotion, and damned if Bakeley could identify what that emotion was.

  He’d soon find out, so he held his peace.

  Bakeley set down the tumbler and rubbed his hand on his trousers, then stopped. It was the move of a green schoolboy, and rude to boot. Their host had fallen on hard times, but the drink was good, though the rest of the room was shabby.

  He studied the glass again in the dim light of two candles and a smoking lump of coal. Perhaps it wasn’t quite as dirty as he’d thought. He lifted it and let the amber liquid warm his throat.

  Fox had excellent brandy, but it was a pity he hadn’t more coal. The wall of tall windows in this strange little chamber had no covering to keep out the chill late winter wind that seeped through loose seams in the window caulking.

  “Fox, you must let me help you.” A fatherly kindness warmed Shaldon’s words, one that Bakeley did not often hear.

  Fox raised bloodshot eyes. Hell, he wasn’t much older than Bakeley, but he looked it. His coat was worn, his neck cloth rumpled. Ten years earlier, he’d been better-dressed, healthier.

  Ten years earlier, the man had gone from patron to patron, never keeping regular rooms. Now, he lived in this one room and another through a narrow door, left slightly ajar.

  They’d startled their host, who was well into his cups. He’d not expected to see such a fast response to his note.

  Now Father was dragging his feet. Why?

  Bakeley glanced at that open door. “Is there someone else here with you?”

  Fox laughed. “So you’ve grown in
to Shaldon’s son, I see. Go and have a look, Bakeley.”

  Shaldon nodded. Bakeley took a candle and poked into the adjoining room, one hand upon the pistol in the pocket of the great coat he’d decided not to shed.

  The room held a narrow bed and some neatly folded clothing and the acrid odor of paints.

  Fox had spent months at Cransdall, painting portraits, a grand one of their mother, and one of the heir, the spare, and Perry together. Then he’d disappeared, shortly before Lady Shaldon’s fatal accident. He’d gone to the Continent on the King’s business, some whispered. Or he’d gone there to paint.

  He ought to have earned enough commissions as a portrait artist to live better than this.

  Though, perhaps this wasn’t the artist’s life. Perhaps this was the spy’s life. One could never be sure with his father’s acquaintances.

  The men murmured in the adjoining room, their voices lowered now that he’d left them.

  He raised his candle higher and strained to hear words while he looked around. Canvases lined the wall, a box of oils and brushes propped to keep them from falling.

  No work in progress had been set upon an easel in that outer room with its uncovered windows, and he saw no easel here. Bakeley scooted the box with his foot, slid out a canvas, and held the candle close. It was a rough of a landscape, hills stretching in the background, a few scattered trees around a river.

  His skin prickled. Fox had sketched out a view from the terrace at Cransdall. The next one was a similar country scene, with the figure of a distant woman, her features indistinguishable except for the spectacles she wore.

  When Fox had spent those months at Cransdall, Perry had not worn spectacles.

  His hand tightened around the candle holder. Fox had seen Perry, here in London, in person, perhaps in these very lodgings, while Bakeley was too preoccupied with Sirena to look after his sister.

  He made a circuit of the room and found a battered round table piled with books. A loosely rolled paper lay on top.

  “…Infernal machine…,” Fox said, catching Bakeley’s attention.

  That term snagged at his memory. He shook his head. The rest of their discourse was unintelligible. He would look into it later.