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

by Alina K. Field

  His heart almost burst. “I should haul you off to bed right now,” he whispered.

  She took a deep breath and shook her head. “If Jamie is making a grand appearance, I must be there.”

  Madam stepped up. “My Lord. Your neck cloth is ruined. Will you go now and change it?” Her eyes swept over him. “And perhaps your coats and shirt. Your valet is just in the other room. Madame Barton, please bring out your lovely golden dress. These blood stains are fresh. If Mademoiselle Jenny starts on them tonight, perhaps they may be removed. The slash we shall mend, as though it never happened, you will see. Bring a wet cloth for these new cuts, Jenny and another length of that ribbon. Please to stand now, and turn around, my lady.”

  He left her in good hands and went down the hall to where the new, true heir of Glenmorrow was dressing.

  Jocelyn had been lolling in a chair near the fire. She sat up when they entered.

  “Is Hollister dead?” Bakeley asked.

  “Yes.” She lifted her glass in a toast. “He’ll be discovered tomorrow, right after his treason is publicized. A suicide, don’t you know, though I’m not sure how they’ll explain the knife wound.”

  “He fell backwards onto his sword while shooting himself in the head," Sirena’s brother said as he tied his neck cloth.

  He did not entirely like Roland James Hollister, nor, he decided, Lady Arbrough. They were well matched.

  "This was very troubling for Sirena,” he said. “I doubt she’s ever stabbed a man before.”

  “Of course.” Jocelyn set down her glass. “Roland, we’re both too hard. We’ve seen too much. We’re sorry, Bakeley.”

  “We?”

  She pursed her lips and looked at Sirena’s brother.

  “So, Glenmorrow, have you a wife somewhere in the Americas? It does matter to your sister.”

  A glint of humor entered the man’s eyes. “You do love her. I’m happy for that. And no, I have no wife.”

  “That will please Sirena.” It didn’t matter a whit to him, but he wanted Sirena’s happiness. “A wedding would please her even more. I’ll see you in the ballroom.”

  He found his way back to his chamber where his valet was waiting and groaned. A wedding would make Lady Arbrough his sister-in-law.

  Roland Hollister could take Jocelyn to America and keep her there. He and Sirena could find a good steward to run Glenmorrow for the man.

  Sirena had finished changing her gown, freshening her face and tidying her hair when Bakeley barged in to retrieve her. He seemed angry. She was shaking with it herself.

  After all they’d gone through, he’d held things from her.

  “Here it is my lady.” Barton held the length of new ribbon for her to see. She’d stitched Gram’s Queen Brighid’s knot to the ribbon.

  Her stomach fluttered as Barton fixed it around her neck, and she pressed a hand to her waist, the steel stays still firmly in place. Surely the good luck had been restored and ’twas safe to wear Gram’s charm.

  “Are you well, Sirena?” Bakeley asked.

  She fingered the quaternary knot. “I’ve lost your mother’s diamond brooch.”

  “To hell with the brooch. At least I didn’t lose you.”

  She let out a breath. “You’ve no need to shout at me.”

  He looked at Barton and she hurried out.

  “I’m not angry with you,” he said.

  “What else are you not telling me?”

  He led her into the corridor and stopped on the landing, pulling her to him in a fierce, too short kiss. “I’m not angry with you. Blast this ball. I want it to be over. I want to well and truly ravage you tonight, Sirena, if you’ll allow it.”

  A giggle bubbled up in her. She couldn’t hold onto the anger. Not tonight. She could still hear the music below, the orchestra blaring, the jumble of voices carrying up the stairs. Had they been back at Glenmorrow, the ballroom would have emptied and the guests would have been wagering about her survival. These English had gone on as if nothing had happened in the garden. “To hell with Jamie. Let’s go back to the bedchamber,” she whispered.

  He kissed her then, a long passionate melding like he was taking her into his soul.

  And then he stopped and set her back.

  “Another promise for later?” she asked, breathless.

  “Yes. For now, we must see this through.”

  And what else was to happen that he hadn’t told her about?

  Lord Shaldon’s face transformed when he spotted them, a look of relief sweeping away tension. She was starting to be able to see his moods.

  He left the imposter prime minister and came to greet them.

  He took Sirena’s hand. “You’re well?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. The supper dance can now start.”

  He waved to the musicians.

  Bakeley led her onto the dance floor. The violinist pulled a note.

  Lloyd’s voice rang out over the crowd announcing an arrival. “Lord Glenmorrow,” he intoned.

  The crowd murmured, of course they did, having listened to Hollister droning at the start of the ball.

  She teetered against Bakeley. Her cousin was dead. Donegal was missing, but what of that? With the full force of the English government, they’d find him. They must get this evening over, before all her loose threads unraveled.

  She needed Bakeley’s arms holding her, tonight and every night. Forever.

  She was in love with this English lord.

  The murmuring all around them turned to stunned amazement when Jamie appeared, looking magnificent in his coats, his hair brushed into fashionable disarray, the ugly fake scar washed away.

  Whether he was true, or whether he was black of heart, she didn’t know. He was her brother, and Bakeley was right—they must see this through.

  Whispers started, the guests looking around, for Sterling Hollister perhaps, the other Lord Glenmorrow. Sirena latched onto Bakeley’s arm and tugged him across the floor, pushing through the hushed conversations.

  The talk of the Season they would continue to be, at least in the scandal sheets.

  Jamie stood alone when they reached him. She reached for his hands, and then wrapped her arms around him. Shorter than Bakeley, he was, but still taller than her own self.

  The gasping and whispers took her own breath away.

  She released him and stepped back, next to Bakeley. “One for the ages, you are, brother,” she said.

  He smiled, and she saw her father before the drink had got to him. She squeezed back a tear.

  “’Tis a warm welcome home, sister. Lord Bakeley, I am most pleased to meet you.” They shook hands. “And, ah.” He bowed. “Lord Shaldon. We meet again.”

  She stepped back and let Jamie be introduced to Lord Liverpool, and couldn’t help but grin like a ninny.

  Bakeley signaled and footmen scurried with trays, passing glasses all around.

  Shaldon raised a glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, a toast. A brief toast.”

  The crowd tittered.

  “A toast to my heir, Bakeley, and his new bride, the next Lady Shaldon.”

  “Here, here,” Charley said.

  Shaldon fixed him with a look, and he took the glass away from his lips.

  “And,” Shaldon said, “We’re not only celebrating an heir’s wedding. We are celebrating an heir’s restoration. Raise a glass with me to the true heir of Glenmorrow, Roland James Hollister. God save the King.”

  Around her the room buzzed, and she found herself squeezed amongst these men, her husband, his brother, his father, and Jamie.

  Bakeley handed off both their glasses and his arm came around her.

  “No swooning,” he said. “We shall leave that to Father.”

  She laughed heartily and looked up. Shaldon was laughing too.

  Sirena stifled a yawn, as she and Bakeley saw the last guest out.

  “Finally,” she whispered. The rest of the family and Lady Jane had already gone up. “I thought they would never
leave.”

  Bakeley bent for a kiss, and a throat cleared near by. Kincaid stood in the door, now dressed in shabby dark coats.

  “What news?” Sirena asked.

  A footman passed by within hearing distance. Kincaid’s gaze tracking him sent a shiver up her spine until she recognized him. Phillip was one of the Shaldon regulars. The man passed down the corridor and she pressed a hand to her neck where the knot rested, where the bruising had begun to ache.

  “Father is in the study,” Bakeley told Kincaid. He held out his arm to her. “We’ll follow you there.”

  “My lady.” Phillip appeared again. “One of the grooms thinks he’s found your brooch.”

  Lady Shaldon’s diamond brooch. She pulled away from Bakeley. “In the garden?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s waiting by the ballroom terrace door.”

  “Get it from him, Phillip, and give it to Lloyd,” Bakeley said. “Come with me, Lady Sirena.”

  Order her around, would he?

  “No,” she told the footman. “I’ll be right along.” The man nodded and stepped back.

  Bakeley cupped her shoulder in his big gloved hand. “You want to be included.”

  She fingered the ribbon. She did.

  And yet, she’d lost a brooch with diamonds that would feed all the Glenmorrow tenants for five years, one that had belonged to her husband’s mother. She couldn’t just let that go. What if the groom ran off with it?

  “Will Shaldon and Kincaid talk freely in front of me, Bakeley? No. Not likely. Can I count on my husband to tell me the news?”

  His brows furrowed, his lids worn down by fatigue. “Of course.”

  Truth to tell, she was just as tired, and with her cousin dead she wasn’t sure she wanted to sit through Kincaid’s blathering about Donegal. Find the man and be done with it.

  “You go. Lloyd has a crew at work in the ballroom. I won’t be alone. I’ll just get that brooch and meet you in the bedchamber.”

  His eyes darkened. “Hurry then.”

  “I will. You do the same, or I’ll come fetch you in my nightrail.”

  He leaned in and touched his lips to hers.

  Her breath froze. Fear laced through her, and a vision of Bakeley, trapped.

  Her hand went to the knot and she steadied herself.

  “Are you well?” he asked.

  Was she? She fingered the knot. The vision was gone.

  She was tired. The evening’s events were working on her. Bakeley would be with his father and Kincaid. He’d be safe.

  “Yes,” she said. “But, Bakeley, no more secrets. No more surprises.”

  “None,” he said. “You’ll know everything.”

  “You there. Phillip,” he said. “Stay with her.”

  He kissed her again and hurried up the stairs.

  She followed the footman through the ballroom, where lanterns had been brought in for the servants tending to spent candles.

  The groom waiting at the terrace door was none other than the slender young man who’d saddled Lightning for Bakeley the morning before.

  How had he fared in the wild melee earlier? An uneasy feeling settled over her. Her neck ached under the Brighid’s knot. She didn’t remember seeing this lad among the crowd outside, but then of course, she’d fainted, hadn’t she?

  “You’ve my brooch?” she asked.

  “Aye, miss. That is, er, one of the boys from Kent found it when they were bringing the…er…new horse in.” He reached a hand into his pocket and pulled it out empty, a look of consternation on this face. “Beg pardon, my lady. In all the excitement, I must have set it down and left it there. As bad as that Banshee, is this new mare—”

  “Mare? From Kent?” She looked back. The footman had disappeared. She should tell someone she’d be in the mews.

  But…a new mare from Kent with a wild disposition. That could only be Pooka.

  Her heart filled with love. Bakeley had brought Pooka up as a surprise.

  And her cousin was dead. She shoved past the boy and headed down the walk, heart pounding.

  No more secrets she’d told him. No surprises. And all the while he’d had this one up his sleeve, and the joy of it bubbled up in her, making her laugh out loud.

  She was going to visit a hobgoblin.

  Chapter 27

  Kincaid was already reporting when Bakeley entered the study. Farnsworth was there also.

  “Dunchatel,” Kincaid said.

  Farnsworth nodded to Bakeley. “The brigand’s true name. Not Irish at all.”

  Father’s face was grim. “Swiss. Had an English mother.”

  A chill went through him. “You know him.”

  “Yes.”

  “A cagey, traitorous weasel who’d go to the highest bidder,” Kincaid said. “Worked with the Royalists in France until he started working against them. Ran off to Ireland when things got too hot.”

  “A wizard with explosives,” Shaldon said. “Cadoudel employed him to build a bomb, a barrel packed with gunpowder and metal fragments that almost killed Napoleon.” His mouth firmed. “And didn’t.”

  He let out a breath. “The Infernal Machine.”

  “Yes,” Kincaid answered. “And didn’t kill us tonight, either, thanks to Bakeley’s attention to the sewers. Nice and clean for the boys who crawled in there to remove Dunchatel’s barrels.”

  “Where is he now?” he asked.

  Kincaid frowned. “Still missing. We have men down at the—”

  A sharp knock at the door silenced him. Bakeley opened it and recognized the footman they’d seen in the hall downstairs.

  “Yes,” Bakeley barked.

  “It’s Lady Bakeley, my lord.”

  Fear slithered up his spine. “What then, Phillip? I told you to stay with her.”

  “I’m sorry. She…she ran off to the mews with the groom who found the brooch.”

  He swiped a hand through his hair. “Go and see that she’s all right.”

  “Yes, my lord, but she was going to see a horse just brought up from Kent. Pooka.”

  Pooka?

  Pooka was in Kent. He hadn’t sent for her. “Father, did you—”

  “No.”

  He grabbed the man’s arm, startling him, hauling him into the study.

  Close set eyes, and a spark of fear.

  His heart pounded inside his chest. He pulled the man up by his neck cloth. “How many years have you served us? That horse is in Kent.” He shoved him to Farnsworth. “Find out what he knows. Kincaid, bring your pistol. Dunchatel is in the stables, and this traitor is one of his men.”

  He took the pistol Shaldon passed him and ran.

  Sirena held her breath as she passed the place where Sterling Hollister had held her, heart buzzing, feet dragging, as if walking through a sucking bog, all of her lightness gone.

  Something was wrong.

  The groom came up beside her. “M-my lady?”

  Twitchy, he was. Perhaps he’d seen the troubles with Hollister earlier.

  She stopped and caught her breath. Her cousin was dead, Bakeley had said so. She’d slipped his noose. She needn’t fear him.

  And her husband had brought up her horse, her own horse, her Pooka.

  She pushed through the stable door, and the quiet alarmed her. The stalls were empty, except for the wild black mare who poked her nose through the gate of the loose box. The fear that had slithered within began to pound through Sirena’s veins. She touched Gram’s good luck knot and let her senses roll out in all directions.

  Pressure built in her nerves. Evil was here.

  Banshee squealed and kicked at the slats, fear echoing.

  She needed out. They both needed out.

  She lifted the latch, pulled at the gate to free the horse, but a hand came up and banged the gate on Banshee’s great nose, and Sirena found herself locked in a man’s grip.

  Fear choked her. Oh, God, his smell. Two nights in a row. This couldn’t be happening.

  Bam. Let me go le
t me go let me go.

  Bakeley? Where are you Bakeley?

  Banshee whinnied and thumped on the wood again.

  She took a deep breath. “Let us go.”

  A chuckle. “Us? The groom who fetched you is mine. He’s long gone.”

  Fool. She’d meant the horse.

  Bam.

  Banshee’s eyes rolled wildly. She couldn’t calm the mare if she couldn’t calm herself.

  Mid-breath, he jerked her hands back making her gasp. Ropes cut her wrists as he cinched them together.

  Bam, bam, bam.

  Bakeley. I need you, Bakeley.

  Her cheek hit the box’s gate and mashed against the wood, and another rope laced her waist through the slats until she was firmly tied. Chest heaving, she opened her eyes.

  Banshee stared back at her, nostrils flared, ears and lips pulled back.

  She closed her eyes and breathed out a moan. “We’ll get out.”

  The mare lowered her head and pawed the scattered straw, fear momentarily calmed, and Sirena’s with it.

  “What do you want, Donegal? Sterling Hollister is dead. Why not go home to Ireland? Run away now, I’ll not turn you in.”

  “Ireland is not my home. The Irish are pigs.”

  She heard the sharp scrape of a flint striking.

  A fire. The words shrieked in her. Banshee raised her head, ears twirling and squealed.

  A pungent smell sent the horse’s nostrils flaring. Sirena craned her head around and spotted the lit end of a long piece of string that coiled in a wide circle around a barrel.

  Terror washed through her and the mare. They were drowning in it together.

  Bam. The wood slat burned her cheek. She tugged at the ropes, tied through the horizontal slot and tried to slide away from the latch.

  Again. Strike it again. We’ll leave together. Strike it again.

  Bakeley, I need you.

  A door crashed and a shot rang out, sending the horse into a frenzy. She felt a sharp pressure at her waist at the back.

  Another knife.

  “Let her go.”

  That low growl was Bakeley’s.

  “Try that again and I’ll cut her.”

  Bam. Bam, bam, bam, bam.

  “There’s a fuse, Bakeley,” she called. “Put it out.”