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

by Alina K. Field

  “Well, I do have a blade in my pocket. Madame gave it to me.”

  And it was his job to make sure she didn’t have to use it. He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I wonder, will the blade be on her bill? Now smile and stop watching the crowd.”

  She pulled her lips back dutifully. “We can’t have Barton take business away from her.”

  “Hmm. Would they be amenable to a partnership, do you think? Ah…a real smile. Very good. Now, keep looking at me like I’m the center of your universe.”

  If only Sirena would truly see him that way. He spun her into a series of energetic turns.

  Sirena danced with Charley, with Bink, and even with Fox, dreading the moment her cousin stepped up. At the edge of the ballroom, Shaldon mingled with Liverpool and the few of his ministers who were attending.

  Hollister hadn’t disappeared to pick up Lady Arbrough’s list. He still roved about, chatting and mingling, angling for introductions to the rich and the powerful.

  He was waiting for something, and it made her uneasy. Lady Arbrough was nowhere in sight. Her brother would be outside somewhere, ready to confront their cousin when Lady Arbrough led him out.

  When a dance with one of Charley’s friends ended, she let him escort her over to where Lady Jane sat with the older ladies.

  A dowager countess studied her through her glass. “You are overheated, my dear. Red as a beet.”

  The lady next to her cackled. “And with that handsome Bakeley, who would not be?”

  “It is the curse of fair skin as lovely as hers,” Lady Jane said.

  “Are you thirsty, cousin?”

  The hair on her neck rose. She fixed a smile on her face and turned. Sterling Hollister’s eyes gleamed.

  “Parched, of course.”

  He snapped his fingers and a footman approached carrying a tray with two glasses.

  Ripples of fear ran up her spine. This footman she didn’t know. A bit older, a bit coarser than the usual strapping young men hired for that sort of work, he was not one of the regular staff. She hadn’t met all the runners and agents dressed up to play footmen though.

  She thanked him and took the glass. “And what are we drinking, sir?”

  “Wine. What sort, you should know, as this is your ball. Come, cuz, a toast.”

  The old ladies tittered. She waved the glass under her nose and winked at them, stalling.

  Any drink presented by Hollister could well be tainted.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a maid and a young footman hurrying her way. Shaldon’s people. “I think not. My husband forbade all toasts until after his. Will you excuse me, ladies?” She curtsied without spilling a drop of the wine.

  Hollister’s hand clamped her arm and the wine did spill. The maid reached for her glass and signaled someone.

  “We’ll get this cleaned up, my lady.”

  Hollister still gripped her arm.

  “Where did your footman get off to, cousin?” she asked. “He should be helping with this cleaning.”

  He smiled a fake smile. “He was not my footman.”

  “Of course not. But he was not one of ours either.” She smiled back, and watched his eyes tighten.

  The young footman stepped closer.

  “Clean this up and stop staring at the lady,” Hollister said. A country dance started up. “This is my dance, cousin.”

  His hand still clutched her forearm. She lifted her elbow and set some distance between them, allowed herself a frantic look around the ballroom. The footman followed her as far as the dance line forming. Lady Jane had stood up and was wringing her hands.

  Bakeley moved quickly in their direction, bowing and ignoring attempts at conversation. Hollister nudged her into the line and stood next to a man she’d been introduced to earlier, one of Charley’s friends. As the dance started, Bakeley tweaked the man’s elbow and pulled him out of the line. “I’ll fill in here, Penderbrook.” He bowed to the lady across from him.

  Hollister scowled, and Sirena’s breath eased.

  The dance began and they circled each other. “He’s very protective of you, I see.”

  “He’s a man of honor.”

  “Indeed. I was counting on it.”

  They separated, went to the corners of their group and did not join up again until the promenade.

  “Though you will find, he cannot be with you every moment.”

  “Is that a threat, cousin?” She kept her tone sweet trying to catch this great ugly fly.

  He laughed. “Will he call me out?”

  “Duels are foolish, do you not think?”

  “Very.” He smiled.

  They were nearing the end of their march, and she was nearing the end of her patience. This dragon needed to be poked to produce his fire. “Papa used to say, a duel resolves the disputes of men of honor. For everyone else, there’s the horsewhip.”

  His ugly smile froze in place.

  Trouble ahead, Sirena.

  Blood lust coursed through her. Trouble, be damned. She kept her smile fixed and felt for the shiv in her pocket. At a turn, his foot went out, and she stumbled. When she looked down she saw the last quarter of Queen Brighid’s knot. The three others had been smudged out.

  Bakeley watched the interaction from his now distant place in the line. He and his young partner stood waiting to go through a new square one more time, and then down through the ranks to where Hollister’s eyes bored holes into Sirena.

  Something was wrong. A footman approached and hovered nearby, catching Bakeley’s eye. He nodded to the man. Until he could get through the next wretched steps of the dance that would have to do.

  He and his partner circled around and started down the middle.

  When they reached the end of the line, she was gone. Hollister, too, and the footman.

  Chapter 26

  Panic raced through him. He scanned the crowd. Kincaid hurried toward him, Bink on his heels, footmen handing their trays off and scattering to get out of their way.

  “Out the door,” Kincaid mouthed, flying past him toward the flapping French door near where Sirena and Hollister had been standing.

  They sped out to the small terrace and down the steps to the back garden, and stumbled over a man on the ground.

  The footman who’d signaled to him.

  “The stables,” the man groaned. “Hurry.”

  This should not be happening. It was Jocelyn’s job to lure Sterling Hollister, not Sirena’s.

  A streak of gold flashed in the lamplight. Bakeley vaulted the concrete railing and raced toward her. Someone burst out from the shadows, but another body tackled that one.

  Shaldon had men all throughout the garden, but so did Hollister.

  The golden streak stopped and he caught up with them.

  “I’ve got your back,” Kincaid whispered.

  Hollister had a hand clamped over Sirena’s mouth and a knife to her neck.

  Behind them, the music played on, the orchestra striking up a brisk Scottish reel. Whether the attendees noticed the commotion and poured out of the door, he didn’t know. He couldn’t take his eyes off the pair in front of him.

  In the dim light from a garden lamp, Hollister’s eyes glinted wildly, sending Bakeley’s pulse racing. Sirena groped at the hand gagging her, her eyes wide as two pale gray moons. His own heart had climbed high into his throat.

  Bink trundled up with a liveried man in tow, an older fellow whose face had been battered into a pulp. “Not one of your servants, I think, Bakeley.”

  “No, indeed.” He made himself drawl the words. Hollister’s blade was too close to that lovely neck. “I see you still have a way with your fists, brother.”

  “As needed, Bakeley. As needed.”

  He had a pistol tucked away, but there were other men here in the shadows, surer shots than he. Especially Kincaid. He needed to get Hollister talking.

  “Are you all right, my love?”

  Sirena blinked determinedly several times. In the corner of
his eye, he saw her hand slip to the hidden pocket she had whispered to him about.

  “Lord Glenmorrow,” he said, “uncover her mouth. She won’t scream, will you, my dear? What would be the point?”

  She shook her head. Hollister released her mouth but slipped the hand down to fondle her breast. “Let her scream if she will.”

  She writhed and unleashed a stream of epithets that would have burned the ears of a stable lad. Her cousin jerked her in tighter, his hand now at her waist.

  “Ah, what a fine lady she is, with a mouth like a guttersnipe.”

  The lamplight around him was charged with red. Bakeley took a step closer.

  “No.” Hollister slipped the point of his blade under the ribbon. “This brown is a good color, Sirena. It will not show the blood.”

  “You have no honor, Sterling,” Sirena said.

  The knife pressed and sweat poured down Bakeley’s back. “Ignore the chit,” Bakeley said. “What do you want, Hollister?”

  “What I want? You shall soon see. You with your muck men. There’s enough powder under your ballroom to take out both your near neighbors and the mews in back.”

  “You would kill our horses?” he drawled.

  The villain laughed harshly. “Everyone knows your horses are stabled elsewhere. But who cares about bloody horses? All the best of London, even the Prime Minister, will be killed in the blast and the fire that will follow. Except me. I’ll survive. And the King will come looking for people to run his government and I’ll be there.”

  Bloody fool. “You’ve enough powder to blow up all the witnesses, do you?”

  “Where I don’t have powder, I have men to finish them off. Except for this one. She shall give me what she wouldn’t surrender at Glenmorrow, before she’s rendered speechless. I’ll take care of her myself.”

  “Everyone will wonder at your miraculous survival after attending the ball.”

  “I’ll have left early. Everyone else will be dead.”

  “I think not,” Bakeley said. “Why not put down the knife?”

  While Hollister talked, Sirena was drawing her needle-thin blade.

  “What of this man?” Bink tossed the battered footman face-first to the ground and put a foot on his neck.

  Bink had seen Sirena’s blade and was making sure the man didn’t shout a warning. God, he loved his big brother.

  Hollister shrugged. “Just kill him.”

  “You bastard,” the man on the ground shouted.

  Hollister’s low chuckle sent more chills through Bakeley. Sirena’s mouth had firmed, her hand clenching.

  “Soon,” Kincaid mumbled. “Keep talking.”

  Sirena willed her heart to stop clanging and captured the knife in the folds of her gown, grasping for Madame’s instructions. Up. No Bone. Courage.

  Pain jabbed at her and she took in a sharp breath. The bastard’s knife pierced like a deep needle prick, and she could feel a trickle of moisture. Please God, let her not pass out.

  Her husband went on, his voice smooth and measured, with a crisp edge that threatened damnation. Perhaps only she heard that. Perhaps Hollister was too stupid.

  “Hollister,” a gruff voice shouted. “Look what I’ve found.”

  Her heart dropped. A big man in a workman’s kit shuffled out, Lady Arbrough trapped in his arms. His hat was drawn low, but even in the dark she could see the scar that traced a muddled path down his cheek. “Here’s your blackmailer.”

  No. Her breath caught. Jamie was supposed to show up. Lady Arbrough was to set the trap, but Jamie would bring the letter. They’d talked about it the night before.

  Their plan had failed. Donegal had returned, Hollister had not fallen for the ruse, and where was Jamie?

  Bakeley’s gaze caught her, his tension lighting up the air around him. He gave a little shake of his head. What the devil he meant by it, she didn’t know, but at least Hollister was too distracted to notice.

  “Donegal,” Hollister growled. “She was to stay in the ballroom with the rest. What are you about, you fool?”

  “Hedging my bets,” the man holding Lady Arbrough said.

  “Damn you, Hollister,” Lady Arbrough spat out. “You’ll both be sorry. If I die, or if I disappear, a copy of the list will be delivered to the Home Office tomorrow.”

  “The Home Office will be a shambles tomorrow,” Hollister said. “Is your fuse lit, man?”

  “Aye, minutes to blow,” the other man said darkly.

  Hollister’s arm tightened around her, his arm shaking with the tension.

  “Let the women go.” Bakeley had moved a step to the side.

  “You may have that whore, Donegal, and I’ll take this one. And before we’re done, I’ll show you the horsewhip, Lady Bakeley.”

  A trembling overtook her, but her fingers worked the blade out of its sheath, her hand stiffening upon the hilt.

  Bakeley leaned closer. “Your quarrel is not with Sirena. Let her go.”

  His eerie calm floated out, surrounding her. Her breathing steadied.

  “Let her go? No. She has a debt to pay. But if you keep moving this way, I’ll gut her in front of you.”

  Hollister took a step back, his arm at her waist firming, her feet skidding. The heels of her dance slippers scraped the sharp edge of bricks and hot moisture trickled down her chest.

  Bakeley stepped forward and stopped, constrained as if a force was pulling him back.

  She gasped. Someone had come up in the dark behind him. They needed more time.

  She writhed and squirmed and the sharp knife poked her. “Ow,” she cried. “Leave off the pricking and stop dragging me. I can walk.”

  “How long is your fuse, Donegal?” Bakeley asked.

  “It’s a short one, then, isn’t it? Should’ve blown by now.”

  Her heart lurched again and behind her Hollister froze.

  He’d heard it too. This was not Donegal.

  Bakeley’s gaze stayed firmly upon her—he wasn’t surprised. He’d known.

  In the moment Hollister turned to look, she jerked away from his blade and swung round, driving her dagger into his waist. His hand flailed and struck her, and an explosion ripped through the air.

  She was suddenly free. Floating.

  Strong hands caught her.

  “Sirena.” That was Bakeley’s voice, close to her ear, and it was the last thing she remembered.

  “Up the backstairs, Bakeley.” Charley was clearing a path, scooting servants out of the way. “Sure you don’t need a hand?”

  “Shut up.” His heart was about to burst, not from the load in his arms but the load of almost having lost her. He’d promised to protect her and he’d failed.

  She’d had to protect herself. Jenny met them in the kitchen and ran up ahead of them, opening the door to Sirena’s bedchamber.

  He laid her carefully upon the bed, and Jenny waved the vinaigrette under her nose. She didn’t respond.

  He snatched the vial from the maid and clamped a hand over Sirena’s mouth. She sputtered, opened her eyes, and tried to sit up.

  “Shhh.” He stroked her cheek. “I’m afraid you fainted.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t—”

  “I know. But this time you did.”

  “Aye, milady,” Jenny said. “You were out cold.”

  She collapsed against the pillow, dislodging a braid.

  “It is these blasted stays. Hollister?”

  “Is dead. Or wishes he was.”

  Her eyes clouded. “I k-killed him?”

  “No. Kincaid shot him.”

  “And what of the gunpowder?” Her voice shook.

  “Was discovered and defused hours ago.”

  She bolted up. “You knew? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I…I…” He bit his lip. “In truth, I’d all but forgotten. We learned of missing gunpowder yesterday, in the meeting at the Home Office. Father had everything well in hand. I didn’t want to worry you.”

  She mumbled something and fell bac
k again.

  “Is the Prime Minister safe?” Jenny asked.

  “He’s been at home reading reports all evening. The man in the ballroom is an actor. Well paid for this performance.”

  Sirena’s eyes narrowed on him. “You didn’t tell me that, either.”

  He swiped a hand through his hair. “No.” Guilt gnawed at him. “But you are safe, and you were spared the worry.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Was I correct that the man holding Lady Arbrough—”

  “Is your brother. Yes.”

  “And Donegal?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A red flush spread over her. “Or you’re not wishing to tell me. You want to spare me the worry.”

  “As of a few minutes before the ball, we didn’t have him, and we don’t know where he is. Word is he may be looking for a ship. We have men on the docks.”

  She pushed herself up. “Well, and I thank you for sharing that bit of bad news.”

  “And I regret it already. You’re going pale again.”

  In fact, her cheeks had gone redder.

  “We’ll find him, Sirena. Meanwhile, your brother is donning his dress clothes to make a grand appearance. We need to complete the last part of this spectacle.”

  “The last part that you also forgot to tell me about?”

  “Your brother is coming back to life tonight. Do you not want to be there?”

  She extended her hand. “Help me up. Jenny, you must fix my hair.”

  “I must change your gown also, my lady. You have a gash here at the side, but the blood is on the bodice. Did you cut him then?”

  Bakeley fell to his knees and smoothed his hand over the long cut in the gown. “Dear God,” he muttered. Jenny was right, the speckles of blood were just under the neckline, and the ribbon she’d worn earlier was missing, revealing the bruise where Donegal’s hands had squeezed.

  Skirts rustled nearby, and he looked up into Madame’s dark eyes. Barton had entered also.

  “The corset worked,” Barton said.

  “It is like armor,” Madam answered.

  “Avoid bone. Slash up,” Sirena said in a shaky voice. She reached for him and he stood, gathering her up with him into his arms. “Oh, Bakeley. Never keep secrets from me again.”