A Spy's Honor

by Russell, Charlotte

  Claire laughed. She did so detest kippers. “You are persuasive, my lord.”

  Stephen was offering her the things she wanted most in the world. Still, she was not wholly convinced. Her stubborn heart was holding out. As a young girl she’d intended to marry her True Love. And she’d found him, she’d believed: the tall, quiet man who heroically offered to marry her when her father tried to pawn her off on an abusive letch. Then their secret trip to Gretna Green came to an abrupt end, she no longer needed the protection of marriage, and her hero jilted her and fled England altogether.

  As far as she knew—and well she knew, living with his brother—he had never since set foot on English soil.

  Her silence must have unnerved Stephen. He squeezed her hand and drew her close. “You know I am fond of you. I would rather marry you, my friend, than some girl I don’t know from Eve. We will make a great match.”

  He offered everything except romance, which was fine with her, but she had to ask, “What of love? What if, years from now, you find the woman of your heart and fall head over ears in love with her?”

  Stephen stared for a moment and then shook his head. “I have never known you to be so romantic. Where is my practical Claire? I am certain we’ll grow to love each other. Here.” He pulled her against his chest and lowered his head, taking her mouth in a decidedly non-brotherly manner.

  The kiss surprised her—in the unexpected way, not the pleasant way. Not that his kiss was unpleasant. However, his lips were cold, and this was Stephen. Not him.

  Claire broke the kiss. This was ridiculous. She had a fine-looking, dependable, considerate man standing right here offering her marriage. Where was the one she’d thought was her True Love? She had no idea. He had left and wasn’t coming back, just like her father had always done.

  Why was she allowing a small thing like the absence of love to stand between her and a good man? Stephen had to be right. Passion and love would come for them in good time.

  More importantly, Stephen wasn’t going anywhere. He’d traveled with the army during the war, but now his feet were firmly planted in England, doing what he could to make the country a better place to live. And she could help him.

  He smiled down at her. “Well, Claire, shall we give marriage a go?”

  Chapter Three

  London, six weeks later

  Dashing between the raindrops of a sudden April shower, Lord John Reyburn raced up the steps of the ramshackle building on Downing Street that housed the Foreign Office. He had once done so nearly every day, and as he pulled open the heavy oak door the familiar smells of tobacco and ink washed over him. He had enjoyed the time spent working here as a translator but didn’t miss the sedentary nature of the position one whit.

  After giving his name to the clerk, he sat down to wait. He tugged on the specially made glove of his left hand to ensure that his disfigurement didn’t show. While the old injury didn’t hamper him in the least, he didn’t want anyone to think less of his abilities because of it.

  His stomach gave a small, uneasy lurch. Why had his superior, Parker, summoned him from the Continent for the first time in five years? Ordinarily he and Parker, if they met at all, did so in some obscure tavern in the Iberian countryside or a darkened passageway in Vienna. Could this change in procedure signal the end of John’s spying career? God, he hoped not. What would he do with himself? What excuse would he have to stay away from England?

  “Lord Castlereagh will see you now,” the junior clerk called.

  “Lord Castlereagh?” John rose automatically but adjusted his spectacles and stared at the young man without moving. What could the head of the Foreign Office possibly want with him? Parker hadn’t mentioned any meeting with Castlereagh.

  The clerk nodded and pointed at another baby-faced young man who appeared. “Dickson will show you the way.”

  John was led down a long, paneled corridor lined with portraits of previous Foreign Secretaries. Dickson chatted amiably, and John realized the man probably wasn’t much younger than his own twenty-six years, but the gulf in their world experience made him feel he could be Dickson’s father.

  Dickson led him into a small anteroom. “If you’ll wait here, my lord.”

  With a nod, John turned and looked around. Rich oak wainscoting covered the lower half of the walls while the upper portion was painted a deep red, offset by gold crown molding. Two brocade sofas stood on opposite sides of the room. The sumptuousness was in stark contrast to the small, dim chamber he had once huddled in to copy out translations.

  Dickson had disappeared for a moment but now held an ornately carved door wide open and beckoned John forward. Stepping inside, John noted with surprise that the Foreign Secretary’s office was much more simply decorated than the anteroom.

  There was an older man seated off to the side who looked vaguely familiar, but John ignored him and bowed toward the man behind the desk, Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh.

  “John Reyburn at your service, my lord.”

  “Thank you for returning to England with all due speed,” Castlereagh said with a restrained smile.

  With his light brown hair and smooth features, the Secretary didn’t have the look of a man in his middle years. As he came around the desk, however, his mouth settled into a grim line and John noticed the careworn wrinkles near his eyes.

  While John stood with his hands behind his back, Castlereagh gave him the once-over. “His Majesty’s government requires an agent for a special assignment. Parker recommended you, and after checking into your background I am inclined to agree that you are the ideal man for our needs.”

  “I will assist you in any way I can, sir.”

  Castlereagh nodded. “Let me start by introducing you to Lord Sidmouth.” He gestured behind John, and with surprise John turned to acknowledge Henry Addington, Viscount Sidmouth, the head of the Home Office, with another bow.

  “My lord.”

  Sidmouth rose and approached, waving a hand toward John. “You might as well sit so we don’t have to crane our necks to look at you.”

  John sat. Castlereagh leaned against the front of his desk, and Sidmouth slid into the seat next to John, his features pinched as if he perpetually smelled something malodorous.

  “Must be a relief to be returning home,” Sidmouth commented.

  Home? Amazingly, that didn’t conjure an image of a place but of a person. Silky hair of a walnut color, pretty brown eyes, a figure with perfectly rounded curves. Claire. John could even remember the way she smelled, but for the life of him he’d never been able to identify precisely what scent she used.

  Not that it mattered. She hadn’t wanted him then and she certainly wouldn’t want him now that he was missing a few fingers.

  Castlereagh cleared his throat, and John sat up straighter, saying, “Yes, sir,” automatically, even though a return to England might not be quite the godsend Sidmouth envisioned for him.

  “You will be working for Lord Sidmouth as this assignment involves—in so far as we suspect—only British citizens,” Castlereagh said. “I will let him explain.”

  Sidmouth’s expression turned, if possible, even more dyspeptic. “Someone is planning to assassinate the prime minister during the month of May.” He stared at John, clearly waiting for a reaction.

  “That’s reprehensible,” John said dutifully. But somehow, not surprising. While Spencer Perceval, the previous PM, had indeed been assassinated five years ago, that had been the work of one disgruntled, unbalanced man. John would bet anything this latest threat to the Tory government’s head was more politically motivated, given the rebellious undercurrents running through England at the moment.

  “I cannot honestly say I’m shocked, sir. Though I’ve been out of the country, I’ve stayed abreast of domestic events. This cannot be the first time the government has been threatened recently, can it?”

  “That does not concern you in any way,” Sidmouth said, looking affronted. “You need only worry about this current thre
at to Lord Liverpool.”

  Given his family’s decades of support of the Tories, any threat to the ruling party did concern him. Allerton, like their father before them, continued fighting for the Tory principles of landed tradition and religious conformity. John had been expected to do the same—until he’d run off to the Continent.

  Right now, if he intended to keep his position, he would have to mind what he said to Sidmouth. Mind, but not keep silent.

  “It might be helpful, sir, for me to know the nature and the number of threats the government has received. This threat to the prime minister could be the work of any number of foes, including European ones with whom I might be familiar.”

  “It’s the work of indolent louts given to violence! First there was the riot at Spa Fields last December. Then in January they attacked the Prince Regent’s carriage.” Sidmouth got up and stalked around the room on his spindly legs. “These damnable Hampden Clubs are sprouting up all over the countryside, inciting the people not only with outrageous Whiggish ideas about parliamentary reform, but also with violence. This country will not descend into anarchy under my watch!”

  No, it certainly wouldn’t. Not when Sidmouth, the staunchest of Tories, had clamped down with an iron fist by suspending habeas corpus three months before. The suspension applied only to those arrested for treason, but apparently much of the population wasn’t making the distinction. They thought their fundamental rights were being whittled away.

  John glanced at Castlereagh. The man was worried, if his furrowed brow was any indication. But John couldn’t discern if Castlereagh’s concern lay with the agitation of the populace or the abandonment of law.

  Catching a would-be assassin would certainly advance John’s career. Of course, he would need to work in secret, so perhaps he wouldn’t have to face Claire and the bitter reminder of her rejection.

  “We have got a lead on the bastard,” Sidmouth said, “and you are in a perfect position to hunt him down. No one will suspect the long-missing brother of the Duke of Allerton of being a government agent. Not sure why you ever decided to take up such an ungentlemanly profession, but I hope you’ve learned a thing or two over the years.”

  That was near enough to an insult that John couldn’t let it pass. “You wouldn’t have invited me here, sir, if my work for His Majesty’s government had been anything less than satisfactory.”

  After all these years, he should know he was never going to be lauded for what he’d done for England. Government ministers, army and navy officers, diplomats and ambassadors all received high praise, honors, even titles for their efforts. No one respected a spy because of the lying, stealing, and burglarizing he did, but they also didn’t refuse the results. John didn’t want the commendation, but neither did he need vilification when he’d been working toward the same goal as any other loyal countrymen. As to why he’d taken up spying…well, that had all started with Claire and her disparagement. He’d attempted to join the more “respectable” army, but they’d shunted him aside to the intelligence service upon learning how many languages he could speak.

  Sidmouth said nothing.

  Castlereagh spoke into the silence. “We are launching an investigation. There have been rumblings from the Hampden Clubs of the possibility of major uprisings. But more importantly, a letter was turned over to the government which seems to indicate the prime minister will be assassinated in May. The instigator of all this appears to be a peer with reformist ideas.”

  A peer? Fascinating. A peer had access to Parliament. Surely working from within the government would be the easiest way to revolutionize it—if one thought it needed revolutionizing, as some Whigs did.

  John ignored the growl of anger coming from Sidmouth and with growing dread leaned forward, resting his forearms across his thighs. “What do you wish me to do?”

  “Find the bloody traitor! Whether he’s a duke or an earl or a costermonger. No punishment will be too great for the filthy bastard who proposes such treason,” Sidmouth avowed, his jowls quivering.

  John looked to Castlereagh, hoping for a more explicit explanation of his role.

  The Foreign Secretary moved to sit beside him, his expression blank. “You will return home, after what you will say was an extended tour of the Continent, and resume your life in Society. Amidst the social whirl of the Season you can covertly investigate the members of the aristocracy who seem to be most implicated by that letter and discover who among us is turning onto such a treacherous path.”

  So much for avoiding his family and Claire. How would she react to his return? Would she be chagrined—or worse, indifferent?

  “Damnation, Reyburn! Do you always go off into these brown studies?” Sidmouth didn’t wait for an answer. “It is a wonder you’ve come out of your missions unscathed.”

  He’d come out alive but not necessarily unmarked. He flexed the three remaining digits on his left hand. One of his first missions had definitely got the best of him, thanks to the same spinelessness that had nearly got Claire killed. But never again since.

  The Home Secretary finally asked with obvious irritation, “Castlereagh, are you certain he’s the right man?”

  “Of course I’m the right man,” John interjected.

  Castlereagh nodded. “Lord John has proved invaluable to the Foreign Office, sir. He’s uncovered enemy spies, provided vital information to our army as well as the armies of our allies, and rescued numerous citizens who were caught behind enemy lines. Obviously his linguistic skills will be of little use on this mission, but he’s adept at not only acquiring information but analyzing it. And he has a keen talent for playing whatever role necessary to fulfill his duties.”

  Which he would have to do now. He’d rarely gone about in Society in his younger days, preferring books to balls and being alone to making a cake of himself amongst the ladies of the Beau Monde. He shuddered at the thought of playing the duke’s carefree younger brother, but over the years he’d learned to do many things he didn’t like, all for the sake of England.

  “My lord,” John said, before Sidmouth thought him an utter idiot. “I will do whatever you think is necessary to stop this assassination.” And he would. He couldn’t turn down an assignment from top government officials and expect to continue his career. Besides, he no more wanted to see the country devolve into chaos or anarchy than Sidmouth did. He hadn’t toiled for England’s security during the war just so she could go up in flames now.

  Sidmouth eyed him for a long moment before handing John a file. “The letter Lord Castlereagh mentioned is in here, as well as the rest of what we know. The note should narrow your investigation down. You have one hour to read and memorize this information. You will not speak of it, or this mission, to anyone. After today you will not meet again with either Lord Castlereagh or myself. Your liaison will be in the card room at White’s more often than not, wearing a cravat pin in the shape of a serpent.” He hesitated and then added grudgingly, “If you want to view the file on previous threats, meet me at the Home Office in two hours. Is anything unclear?”

  “No, sir. You may be assured I will do my best to prevent this tragedy.”

  “See that you do,” Sidmouth replied and then disappeared through a side door.

  Castlereagh raised a hand to indicate the exit behind John. “Dickson will show you to a room where you can review those documents. Please know in advance I appreciate your assistance, Lord John.”

  John nodded and followed the clerk out, his thoughts churning. If left to his own devices, he probably would have remained on the Continent indefinitely. Now he would see his brother and his mother again, a suddenly welcome prospect.

  And Claire.

  Seeing her would be awkward. Thoughts of the girl he’d let go still beguiled him. He’d had a few quiet affairs over the years, but these never lasted more than a few months and he never dwelled on them overlong once they ended. But Claire had burrowed into his heart in a matter of days. Even after all this time, he’d never been abl
e to dislodge her completely. With every letter his family sent he had waited with the dreaded anxiousness of one anticipating bad tidings for news of Claire’s marriage. It had never come.

  He was a different man now, different from the weak, hen-hearted youth who disappointed her, and he consoled himself with that. He’d left England with the express intent of making himself better; and he had, except for the irony of his disfigurement. Would Claire think differently about him now that he’d matured and experienced the world, or would his past failure forever color how she saw him?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Chapter Four

  Working carefully to undo a knot in her sewing, Claire did not hear Stephen approach the silver salon as she usually did. But she heard the door click open. Head bent over her task, she murmured, “Good afternoon. Just give me one…moment. Aha. There, I have it.”

  She grinned up at him.

  Him. Not Stephen, but John.

  “Claire!”

  The grin slid from her face. She tried to stand but couldn’t, instead sinking back into her wing chair. Her sewing—needle, knot, and all—slipped to the floor.

  She closed her gaping mouth and drew in deep, restorative breaths through her nose. Fainting was unthinkable. Lord John Reyburn was not worthy of a fit of the vapors.

  He’d changed considerably. She frowned, though who could be displeased with the lean, bespectacled, in-need-of-a-shave sight of him? On his left hand he wore a black glove. Ah, yes. Years ago, Allerton had mentioned that John injured his hand while abroad, but she did not know the details. He was taller and no longer looked like a slight almost sickly boy. His drab coat might be rumpled and his tan breeches wrinkled, but he now exuded the air of a composed yet reserved man.

  His expression of surprise transformed to one of…well, she couldn’t say. His blue eyes had shuttered at the sight of her.