Regency Spymasters 01 - Spy Fall

by Diana Quincy

The barn roof creaked beneath his weight as he edged closer to her. “I only said that to get you onto Icarus.”

  “You lied to get me to ride a horse?”

  “Of course.” Reaching her, he grabbed her ankle to assure himself that she wouldn’t tumble off the roof. “Surely you know by now that I cannot be trusted.”

  She emitted a humph that had no heat as he gingerly knelt behind her to untangle the netting. Sliding one arm around her waist to hold her steady, he relished the scent of lemon and cloves, and the feel of her warm, alive body snug against his. “It seems Icarus flew too close to the sun.”

  “No.” She leaned back into him as though seeking the comfort of his warmth. “Someone clipped Icarus’s wings.”

  He stilled. “Are you suggesting sabotage?”

  “How can you be certain?” Marcel asked as he hoisted himself onto the roof from the loft window. “Most of the evidence burned up.”

  Maxim’s head popped up from behind his brother. “It’s possible you left a gas valve open. That could have allowed sparks to ignite the gas.”

  She stiffened in Cosmo’s arms. “I did not leave the valve open. I am not a fool.”

  “Why do you deduce it was sabotage?” Cosmo asked.

  “Gas was escaping throughout the ascent,” she said. “That is likely what caused the sparks that lit the fire.”

  “Impossible,” Marcel said. “I checked the balloon myself. There were no holes.”

  “Someone could have put a hole in the balloon after we checked it,” she said. “It is the only explanation.”

  “I don’t follow,” Cosmo said. “If someone did put a hole in the balloon, how would that cause a fire?”

  “The blue discharges we saw from the ground were likely static electricity,” Maxim said.

  “It is a phenomenon that occurs naturally,” Mari added while trying to help Cosmo loosen the ropes binding her. “A spark such as that could have ignited the leaking hydrogen.”

  “Hence the term flammable air,” Cosmo said grimly. Understanding hit him anew that he was hopelessly in love with a woman who put her life in danger as easily as most chits chose a new gown. “That theory suggests our villain has a great deal of knowledge about ballooning and hydrogen.”

  “Not necessarily,” Maxim said. “He might have assumed Mari would run out of hydrogen and have nothing to keep her aloft.”

  “In that event, the fire is an unexpected bonus,” Cosmo said.

  Marcel reached them. “Dunsmore, you hold on to Mari while I untangle the rope.”

  “Gladly,” he murmured in Mari’s ear, so only she could hear. She placed her soft hand over his where he held her at the waist and gave it a slight squeeze, a silent communication, which nudged something warm and joyous in his chest.

  Marcel’s face was grave as he worked at unknotting the ropes binding Mari to the roof. “Who would have a motive to kill you?”

  “Someone who knew about the balloon demonstration,” Cosmo said. “It was a surprise to all of the luncheon participants. Including me,” he added a bit sharply.

  Mari’s tapered fingers feathered over his hand, a soft, soothing motion that almost felt like a whispered apology. “It was a surprise to Aldridge, Dunsmore, and the other guests,” she said. “However, I told Rosie, and also mentioned it to Sarah this morning while she helped me dress.”

  “You think Miss Chalcroft or the servant girl tried to do away with you?” Maxim asked from his perch outside the loft window.

  “It is possible they shared the news with the others. Sarah might have mentioned it to the servants.”

  Marcel pulled a rope from around Mari’s hips. “One wonders what motives the servants could have.”

  “Or who is paying them for information,” Cosmo said. The idea of someone trying to kill Mari made his blood boil.

  “There.” Unraveling the last knot, Marcel stared hard at Cosmo. “You can unhand my sister now, Dunsmore.”

  Mari started to move, but Cosmo held her tight. “Not so fast.”

  Marcel glared at him. “What are you about?”

  “I have one more question.”

  “What is it?” Marcel asked curtly, a thunderous expression on his face.

  “Not for you.” From his place behind her, Cosmo edged his head around Mari’s shoulder so he could see her face. “Who is Pascal?”

  Marcel’s dark expression twisted into a satisfied smirk. “I see you’ve heard of my sister’s betrothed.”

  Late that evening, after she had bathed, Mari sat on a stool before the hearth, combing out her unruly dark hair and drying it before the fire. The subtle rap at her bedchamber door, well after most of the household had retired, did not surprise her.

  “Enter,” she said, knowing full well who to expect.

  Letting himself in, Cosmo closed the door softly behind him. Although he’d dispensed with his tailcoat and cravat, he still wore breeches and a linen shirt that bared the wisps of dark chest hair licking his throat.

  He came to sit on the large comfortable chair behind the footstool. Taking the brush from her, he pulled it through her hair in long, soothing sweeps.

  “Mm.” She settled against his knee. “That feels heavenly.”

  “How are you?”

  “Frustrated.” Closing her eyes, she relaxed her head back. “I am trying to determine who wants to hasten my journey to the grave.”

  He swept the brush through the length of her hair. “I confess to wanting to kill you myself when I learned of your affianced husband.”

  She stilled. “Who told you about Pascal?”

  The brush paused, and then resumed the rhythmic, sweeping strokes. “Does it matter?”

  “No, I don’t suppose it does.”

  “Where is he?” His voice grew tight. “Does he not mind sharing you with other men?”

  Other men. There it was again, that bland assumption that she spread her legs as readily as she ate strawberry tarts. “He is in a Paris graveyard.”

  The brush stilled. “Dead.”

  “Yes.” She nudged her head against the brush. “Don’t stop.”

  He resumed his task with increased gentleness. “I am sorry.”

  “No, you are not.”

  “You’re right. I don’t want to share you with any man.”

  “Please, let us not forget you are an aristocrat and a rake, and I am a woman who never intends to marry. We also have conflicting goals that make any emotional attachment between us impossible. You are just feeling tender because of today’s mishap.”

  “Yes, we mustn’t forget our roles. What happened to your Pascal?”

  “He died in a ballooning accident outside of Paris after setting down in what appeared to a safe landing spot, only it was a marsh.” Her lungs ached at the memory. “He became entangled in the rigging and fell into the water. He drowned.”

  “Did you think of him when you almost met with disaster today?”

  “No, I felt confident I could land the balloon. If the wind hadn’t pushed me into the barn, the descent would have occurred without incident.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “Pascal?” She had loved him, deeply, but now her feelings for Cosmo confused everything. She and Cosmo shared an astounding physical connection, a passion beyond anything she’d felt for her intended husband. She’d never before experienced the same level of carnal urgency, nor the powerful releases, that Cosmo wrought from her. The base part of her attraction to Cosmo she understood; what confounded her was the warm, joyous glow in her chest whenever he was near.

  “Did you?” Cosmo’s words were strained. “Did you love this Pascal fellow?”

  She realized he awaited her answer. “Yes.”

  Pulling the brush through her hair, Cosmo quieted. Both his rhythmic movements and the warmth of the fire had a lulling effect. Weariness overcame her, the excitement of the day’s events finally taking its toll. Her lids became heavy, and the next thing she knew Cosmo had settled her against the soft, e
nveloping mattress of her bed.

  “Je suis fatiguée,” she sighed, snuggling under the counterpane he pulled over her.

  “Sleep, my Angel,” he murmured. The warmth of his lips settled against hers for a brief, tender moment, and then he was gone. Her eyes closing, she mumbled a protest at the loss. She drifted off, waiting to hear the door open and click shut. When it didn’t, she dragged her eyes open to catch sight of Cosmo settling back in the chair before the fire, his ebony eyes watchful and contemplative. Feeling protected and soothed by his presence, she gave in to her fatigue.

  After leaving Mari’s bedchamber, Cosmo went to the marquess’s study, where he poured himself a drink and settled into a worn leather chair across from his father’s desk.

  Learning about Pascal gave him a new perspective on Mari. She must have loved the man a great deal, given that after his death she’d vowed never to marry. In all likelihood, she still loved him. It was obvious that discussing the man even now, several years after his death, remained painful for her.

  It made perfect sense that Mari would adore a man who’d shared her passion for aerostation. Unlike him, whose greatest talent was bedding women and making sure they enjoyed it. More than ever, he understood that, at best, he was a passing fancy for her or, at worst, a tool she hoped to use to hasten his father’s destruction.

  Eyeing the portrait of his sister, Cosmo threw back the entire contents of his glass, relishing the burn down his throat. “What do you suppose it is, Ellie,” he spoke aloud to the portrait, “about these French, who ensnare our hearts so completely that we would follow them anywhere?”

  The brandy seared into his chest, masking the ache that lodged there, where contemplations about Mari intertwined with thoughts of Ellie. He seemed to be thinking about his sister a great deal these days.

  He studied the portrait. The artist had done a remarkable job; he’d captured more than just Elinor’s physical likeness. Her essence shone in those light-filled gray eyes that glinted with banked laughter, just as they had always done in life. His sister had been the bridge between him and Aldridge, the subject of their mutual adoration. Without her, they’d gone seriously adrift of each other.

  She’d posed in a white dress, standing with one elbow resting atop a low dresser, looking away from the artist, toward a window. The light shone on her, making her skin glow, emphasizing the glimmers of gold in those honey-colored curls, lending her an air of fragility. Funny. He’d never thought of Ellie as delicate. But in the end, she’d hadn’t been hardy enough to survive the birth of her child and the death of her husband.

  Would she have been better off with Darling? He certainly appeared to be a doting father to Anna. No doubt he’d have been devoted to Elinor as well, if only she hadn’t insisted on following her heart. His sister’s tragic end was proof enough that nothing good came of giving your heart away.

  Pushing thoughts of Ellie aside, he exhaled, dreading what he might find when he searched the lone hiding place he’d deliberately kept from Mari. One even his father wasn’t aware that Cosmo knew of. He stared at the portrait, wondering, absurdly, what his sister had seen out the window. “What do you say, Elinor? Are you hiding it?”

  He could delay no longer. If Aldridge had the list, Cosmo would find and destroy it before this mess went any further. Pushing to his feet, he ambled over to the painting. “Excuse me, dearest,” he said, lifting the portrait slightly away from the wall and sliding his hand up the back of it. Lifting the false back, he ran his hand along the inside of the secret compartment, relieved to find nothing out of the ordinary. Then his hand snagged on something. A packet. One that could easily hold a damning document.

  Dread coated his lungs and he prayed the packet didn’t contain what he feared it did.

  It could be anything, any confidential papers Aldridge wished to keep private. He pulled the packet out. Laying it on the desk, he ran through the papers, seeing they pertained primarily to estate business: markers, tenant agreements. And then he came to one with a list of names.

  The air froze in his chest. Running his gaze down the list of French names, he scanned for the one he would recognize. And found it.

  Mari Lamarre.

  And below, Marcellin Lamarre. Then Maxim Lamarre. His knees wavered; he grabbed the desk’s edge to steady himself. It couldn’t be.

  The door scraped open. He looked up with unseeing eyes to find his father stepping in and closing the door behind him. Aldridge’s gaze went to the paper in Cosmo’s hand, then back to his son’s ashen face.

  “I see you’ve found the list.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Aldridge released a labored sigh, the lines in his face deepening. “I do wish you hadn’t gotten involved.”

  “Involved.” Cosmo’s mouth could barely form the words. “In treachery.”

  “I don’t want you soiled by this unsavory business. You have your entire life ahead of you. Mine is nearly at a close.”

  Disbelief pounded through him. “Have you given this information to the French?”

  “Not as of yet.” The words were quiet, devoid of emotion. “I’m awaiting instructions.”

  “But you plan to deliver the list.”

  “Yes. I have no choice.”

  “Of course you have a choice. Why do it?”

  Aldridge’s steady steel-colored gaze held his. “It is best you stay out of it.”

  Nausea percolated in his gut. “I most certainly will not. Tell me the truth now, damn it. I deserve that much.”

  “The truth is that I’m not well, Cosmo. I must make things right for Elinor while I still can.”

  “Elinor?” Confusion stole his words. “She is dead, Father.”

  “Yes, but her son is not.”

  “Her son?” A horrible thought struck him. Could dementia be behind Aldridge’s apparent treason? “There is no son. The child died at birth, along with his mother, our Elinor. As you well know.”

  “That’s what we were told.” Although Aldridge spoke nonsense, his grave, calm demeanor suggested he had his wits about him. “None of us was there to witness it.”

  “Darling was there,” Cosmo said, incredulous. “Surely you believe him.”

  “He arrived after Elinor died.”

  “He must have seen to the burial.”

  “But did he bury the child?”

  Cosmo paused. “I never thought to ask.”

  Aldridge moved to his chess table and eased himself into his usual chair. “The message came several weeks ago in London,” he said. “If I give them the names in that document, they give me my daughter’s child.”

  “Who delivered this message?”

  “Some street urchin.”

  “Did you receive it at Aldridge House?”

  “Yes, although I was not at home when it came. The missive was waiting for me when I arrived much later in the evening.”

  Cosmo shook his head. “You cannot possibly believe this.”

  “They gave me Elinor’s ring as proof.” Aldridge looked beyond Cosmo to the portrait. “The blue sapphire she wore in the painting. Your mother’s ring.”

  “They could have stolen it after Elinor died.” Cosmo swallowed against the painful pressure in his chest. Ellie’s child couldn’t possibly be alive. “How can you believe this folly?”

  “They were watching Elinor all along, the French government, because she was my daughter. They placed an agent in the house who acted as a servant. This woman was present when Elinor gave birth, and delivered the child to her superiors.”

  A horrible possibility struck Cosmo. “Have you been working with the French all along? For years?”

  “What?” Aldridge frowned. “No, as I said, they contacted me only a few weeks ago.”

  Will had referred to a high-level informant who’d been passing information to the French for at least four or five years. “And that is the first interaction you’ve had with them?”

  “Yes, of course. What are you getting at?”

>   “Nothing.” Cosmo forced his leaden legs to move. “Do you want a drink? God knows I need one.” At Aldridge’s nod, he poured for both of them. “Even if Elinor’s child did live, why ever would they keep him this long? It’s been years.”

  “They waited until they needed something from me,” Aldridge said, taking his brandy from Cosmo.

  “Something that only someone highly placed in His Majesty’s government could deliver.” Cosmo took a fortifying drink, but it only made him queasier. “They could be lying. It’s likely a ruse.”

  “I’ve made clear I won’t make the exchange until I see the child and am convinced it is Elinor’s.”

  Cosmo dragged a hand over his face. Could it be? “How will you ever know if the boy is Ellie’s?”

  “I can only hope I know my own grandson.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “How can I not try?”

  Pain lacerated Cosmo’s insides at the thought of Elinor’s child in the hands of the French, with strangers who didn’t have a care for him, except as an instrument of extortion. “But what if it isn’t Elinor’s child?”

  Aldridge’s tortured gaze held his son’s. “What if it is?”

  The marquess peered out the window as the carriage pulled to a stop in front of Kenwood. “Are you certain this is a good idea?”

  “Most definitely.” Cosmo alighted, then turned to help his father down. “Darling is in the best position to know what happened to Elinor’s child. He expects us for luncheon.”

  He glanced up at the fifteenth-century manor house with sweeping mullioned windows and distinctive rooftop turrets, where his sister might have been mistress. The original wing was built in the shape of an L, in the Elizabethan style. Ellie had always viewed the archaic structure with distaste, its dark brick and freestone façade far too somber for her sunny nature.

  If she’d married Darling, she might still live. Sorrow lanced through him. The grief of losing his sister was fresh again since Aldridge’s revelation that her child could still be alive. At the same time, his heart rejoiced at the thought of a living part of Elinor inhabiting the earth. For a moment, he allowed himself to pretend his sister resided at Kenwood and that they’d come to visit her and the boy. He imagined his sister greeting them with that ever-present smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. But of course it was not Elinor who greeted them when the massive door pulled open. Fellowes, the ancient butler who’d presided over Kenwood throughout Cosmo’s boyhood, welcomed the men with apparent pleasure before directing them to the parlor, which overlooked Kenwood’s impressive gardens.