A Spy's Honor

by Russell, Charlotte

  He laughed—at her own teasing, at the glow in her cheeks, at the fact that they could finally speak comfortably after so many wretched days. Then he asked, “Do you mean to say you find your own life tiresome?” He masked the serious question with a smile, attempting to keep her off-balance and open.

  She mumbled something that sounded like, “Not the last four days.” But then it was as if she threw her cloak of courtesy around her shoulders once again. “Of course not. I am to be married to a viscount in a month. What girl wouldn’t find such a life thrilling?”

  A girl who wasn’t in love with her fiancé. But that was merely wishful thinking on his part. Kensworth seemed to have every advantage a woman could want: fair looks, wealth, a title.

  Claire must have decided he wasn’t going to answer, for she said, “Thank you for the recommendation. If I have the time, I might give it a try.”

  She was lying, and again it irrationally bothered John, but for now he would drop the matter.

  Claire swept up the volumes, but in her haste to rush past him the books tumbled to the carpet. John went down on his haunches to retrieve them, as did she. Ignoring the novels, he drank in the sight of her, as refreshingly pretty as a cherry tree in blossom. Leaning closer, he whispered her name.

  She jumped up. John gathered the books and held them out. When she reached for them, he didn’t let go.

  “Might you save a dance for me this evening?”

  Her eyes grew wide with horror. “No!” She yanked the books away and rushed to the door. “That wouldn’t be—”

  He didn’t hear what their dancing together would not be, because she banged the door shut.

  With a grunt of disgust he strode across the room and jerked a chair back. Once he sank down next to the Debrett’s, he pulled his spectacles off and rubbed his eyes. What the devil had he been thinking? Well, that was easy. How heavenly it would feel to touch her. How her scent—whatever it was—drove him mad. How he didn’t care; to be near her, he’d gladly trade his sanity. Living with Claire would leave him with a screw loose. She was wise to decline his offer of a dance.

  Reluctantly he replaced the spectacles. The government’s initial clue about the assassination attempt had come from an unsigned note dated the sixth day of April, found by an honest man and turned over to the proper officials. John had memorized the words he’d read in the file:

  In Lords today—HC discussed as if a threat of epic proportions. The damned Tories were in a dither about the evil plotting that must go on at these meetings. Isn’t that the bloody pot calling the kettle black? Come May, the common people of this nation might wear black for the PM but they will cheerfully thank us for the privilege! I’m spending tomorrow morning in Town and then I’ll ride home. Join me for dinner at four.

  HC undoubtedly stood for Hampden Club. The writer, if he was a member of the House of Lords, most assuredly was a Whig since he readily disparaged the Tories, the more conservative party. The nation might wear black for the PM could refer to the prime minister’s funeral following an assassination by this mysterious us. Or this could all be nothing but the ramblings of a servant or someone else who had overheard a lord discussing the Hampden Clubs.

  In a casual conversation with Allerton, John had asked if the Hampden Clubs were debated in the last few days. His brother had said no, leading him to believe that the referenced discussion must have taken place either in a committee meeting or in a private conversation.

  Regardless, he had best start with the peers, as Sidmouth had averred, and see where that might lead him. If the writer of the letter intended to be home by four o’clock after a morning in Town, John could only surmise that said person’s estate must be within a few hours’ ride of London.

  He opened Debrett’s, intent on researching all the dukes, marquises, earls and barons who resided within thirty miles of London and immediately slammed his fist onto the open page. Lord Kensworth, whose estate lay only twenty miles away in Hertfordshire, would make the list. As would John’s brother. But he had no suspicions there. Allerton was a Tory through and through.

  John had spent the last few evenings at his old club, renewing acquaintances and gathering information on Whig members of the House of Lords, of which Kensworth was a rising member.

  For the next hour he paged through Debrett’s. Kensworth’s entry somehow didn’t surprise him. Of course the man had served in the army, fighting against Napoleon, and of course he had risen to the rank of captain despite no currency to purchase advancement.

  I wonder if they’ve begun erecting his statue yet.

  He finished memorizing what details he could about each peer, for he planned to begin his investigation that evening, at his first ball. His mother and Emily had at last deemed him ready for Society. He’d been fitted with a new evening kit, received a haircut from his brother’s valet, and practiced the waltz and the quadrille with his sister-in-law while his mother played the pianoforte. Unfortunately he had not learned the steps as well as he should have, because most of his attention had been focused on the drawing room door, willing Claire to walk through it and partner him.

  She hadn’t, of course, and now it looked as if she would never dance with him.

  “Which is for the best,” he muttered savagely to himself. Was he so lost to sense he could not recognize the broad hints she’d thrown his way?

  The door to the library slammed open as loudly as it had been shut. “Uncle, Uncle! Save me!”

  John turned in time to catch up little Olivia in his arms. Behind her, his nephew Lord Marden crashed into the room brandishing a wooden sword.

  “Arrrr! She’s led me right to you!” the boy cried. “I’ll ransom you both to the queen.”

  Facing the pointed end of the weapon, with a squealing three-year-old hanging on him, John gave himself up. “Fear not, Olivia, the queen will save our necks.” After snatching up his list and stowing it in a pocket, he whispered slyly in her ear, “If we do not escape first.”

  ***

  Claire stood in front of her mirror, not entirely satisfied with the flattering appearance of her Bristol red gown. Her recent restless nights and distressed days had sapped some of the color from her skin, enabling the dress to complement her complexion in a way it usually wouldn’t, and the cut of the gown showed her too-plump figure to an advantage she’d never noticed before. But why did she have to look so pleasing tonight of all nights? She wanted to look as she felt, blue-deviled.

  As she slipped a gold chain around her neck, she thought about begging off the ball. But she didn’t want the family or Stephen speculating that she was avoiding John. Because she wasn’t. She had already turned down his absurd request for a dance, so she had nothing to fear on that front. An ill-humor had taken hold of her, however; perhaps her monthly courses were about to begin.

  She wanted to be married to Stephen sooner rather than later. If there was anything she had learned over the past few months, it was that he was the perfect man to marry, even if he didn’t love her. He was charming enough to amuse her when she needed it, interesting enough to prevent their marriage from ever going stale, and caring enough to treat her with respect. They’d formed an attachment as friends and the passion would come later. The viscountcy had come to him unexpectedly, but he was serious about his responsibilities, both on the estate and in Parliament. Oh, how she admired a responsible man.

  She would not give him up for a wish and a prayer.

  “Claire?” A soft knock preceded her sister’s voice. “We must be leaving now. Everyone’s ready.”

  Claire grabbed her shawl from the bed and opened the door.

  “Well!” Emily exclaimed. “That gown is much more becoming than we anticipated. Still, I thought you swore never to wear it?”

  “It looks well enough, but I am still fat.”

  “Don’t spout that man’s hateful words.” Her sister cupped a hand around Claire’s cheek. “Do you love me any less because I am not as sharp as you?”

&nb
sp; “No, but—”

  “Do I love you any less because you aren’t as thin as I?” Before she could speak again, Emily answered her own question. “No, I don’t. You have a wonderful fiancé who cares for you exactly as you are too. Stop thinking so poorly of yourself.”

  Emily had tried different variations of this conversation over the years but Claire still had a difficult time convincing her brain to accept her sister’s sensible words and shut out her father’s.

  All she could do was nod, as always. Someday, soon she hoped, her father’s taunts would fade into the past and she’d see what everyone else saw when they looked at her.

  Emily hugged her. “You’re beautiful, Claire, no matter what you wear. Come, our audience awaits us.”

  They stepped carefully down the grand staircase dominating the hall, and Claire saw the rest of the family assembled at the bottom watching their descent. One pair of gleaming blue eyes snagged her attention. John. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles, and she grasped the rail as her feet suddenly forgot which way to move. Not that she didn’t find him devastatingly handsome with his spectacles, but without them his eyes were so clear it was as if she could see into—

  Humph. She had no business thinking about the handsomeness of a man other than her fiancé. She maneuvered down the last two steps and slid behind the dowager duchess, pretending to rearrange her shawl.

  “Claire, I never thought it was in your nature to be so cruel,” Allerton exclaimed.

  Bewildered but forced to show herself, she stepped around the duke’s mother.

  Allerton’s smile could have even charmed the Corsican monster into surrendering, but Claire couldn’t keep her gaze from John, who stood beside him, equally as tall now, just as dashing but infinitely more solemn. His newly-tailored coat, as dark as the midnight sky, stretched across his shoulders in perfect proportion, narrowing down to encircle his lean waist.

  Beneath her shawl she pinched herself in disgust and turned to the duke. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Shame on you. As striking as you are in that dress, the unmarried ladies present tonight will have the devil’s own time snaring even the slightest attention from the gentlemen.”

  The heat that crept up her cheeks surely ruined the harmony her skin had achieved with the dress’s hue. “Thank you. I think.”

  The dowager duchess, muttering something about “appalling encomium,” headed for the front door, spurring everyone else into motion.

  After Emily was handed into the carriage, Claire followed and deliberately chose to sit next to her sister. Allerton and John clambered in after them, flanking their mother.

  The experienced coachman set them off without a jolt, and Claire tried to relax. After they arrived at their destination, she would not have to see John for the rest of the evening.

  Emily turned to her. “Kensworth is coming, isn’t he? I know how the two of you enjoy dancing.”

  Claire avoided looking at John and answered quickly, hoping to dispel the topic. “Yes, of course, he will be there.”

  “You cannot dance with your fiancé all night. Undoubtedly you can spare one set each for John and me?” Allerton asked.

  Desperate, Claire tried to think of how to decline both brothers, for she couldn’t dance with the duke while refusing John. But she didn’t want to beg off dancing completely; it was one of her favorite activities.

  “I… Well, I…,” she began, but still couldn’t think what to say.

  John interrupted her, saying, “I do not anticipate being in want of a dance partner.”

  His remark stung like the prick of a needle, but there was no malice in his tone and he refused to look up from the hat he held between his legs.

  He’d said it, she realized, to spare her from answering the question.

  “Ho-ho! Can you believe the confidence of my little brother?” Allerton caught Claire’s gaze. “Do you not think he’s much changed since his return?”

  John was staring at his fingers as they skimmed the rim of his hat, and Claire could not see his face. He had changed. He was more comfortable with himself and with his place in the world. He still spoke infrequently in groups, but when he did have something to say his voice held more certainty. And while his family had often complained about his past preference for secluding himself away with his books and his work, he had spent the last few days in constant company with them.

  But where it really mattered—to Claire—he hadn’t changed at all. He still played with her emotions. Before he’d gallantly offered his help, flirted with her, kissed her and then left her. Despite her engagement, he still flirted with her and asked her to dance.

  Claire stared out the window, recalling her vow to be civil. “I should like to think we’ve all changed. I do not doubt that, if he so chooses, John will be the toast of Society and will have a wealth of young ladies from which to choose a bride.”

  The carriage grew tensely silent. John was staring at her, his expression that of an irritated wolf.

  She was ever so glad when the carriage came to a gentle halt in Berkeley Square.

  Chapter Nine

  After they were announced, Emily offered to help Claire find Kensworth, leaving John and Allerton to survey the colorful, shifting crush of people before them.

  “Are you certain you want to wade into this to find a bride?”

  “I’ve nothing else to do at the moment.” And Claire is not available.

  Enough. While he was pretending to look for a bride, he should look for a bride. Or at least give another woman a chance. Focusing on Claire was leading him nowhere.

  Allerton shook his head, his unruly hair for once controlled by an old-fashioned queue. “Now that is a show of enthusiasm. I think you’d be better served by finding a new post. I can introduce you to someone in the Home Office if you’d like a change.”

  Big brother, always trying to run his life. “Alas, I am on a mission. I’m off to solicit Mother’s assistance with a few introductions.”

  Allerton shot him a disbelieving look but shrugged and headed off.

  John stared at the mass of revelers—boots, buttons and jewels all gleaming in the candlelight—and sighed. Deep down, he still felt awkward in these situations. But spying had taught him many things, not least of which was how to pretend to be someone he wasn’t. He had the perfect example of whom to impersonate tonight: his flirtatious and confident brother. Five years ago he wouldn’t have even been able to imagine doing any such thing. Now, it was a matter of focused thinking.

  It took him more than a quarter of an hour to find his mother, but when he did, she was most fortuitously surrounded by three young misses gowned in white.

  She wasted no time in introducing him. “Lady Helen Carwood, Miss Heffington, and Miss Milken, may I present my son, Lord John Reyburn?”

  He smiled widely at them all, remarked on the magnificent ball, and listened attentively to their responses. Miss Milken, a black-haired, chalk-skinned wraith, though seemingly pleased to meet him, shrank back and allowed the other two to command his attention for a few minutes. Knowing exactly how she felt, it was easy for him to make his choice.

  “Miss Milken, are you available for the next dance?”

  She started. “Yes, I… That would be most…most kind.”

  John offered his arm to her and nodded at Lady Helen and Miss Heffington. “Ladies.” They were both daughters of peers on his list. He would further his acquaintance with them later, killing two birds with one stone, pretending to look for a bride and investigating their fathers. But not yet. Not when he was still thinking about Claire.

  As he turned Miss Milken toward the dance floor, his mother caught his eye and winked. At least she and Emily would be happy seeing him squire the ladies about. Claire, too. She’d be glad to be free of him. Her refusing to dance with him chafed like fabric rubbing against a wound, but John forced aside his thoughts as he and Miss Milken joined three other couples to form a set for the quadrille. He needed to concentrate o
n the steps of the dance, and she deserved his attention.

  A while later John returned Miss Milken to her mother and then set off to find one of the lords on his list. Any of them would do, but luckily he found Lord Stretton first, a vocal baron with decidedly radical leanings whose estate in Beckenham was barely fifteen miles southwest.

  “My lord,” John said, hoping the man would remember him from some of his mother’s dinner parties years ago.

  The older gentleman’s hazel eyes expanded in surprise, and his wine barrel-shaped middle jiggled. “Lord John Reyburn! Well, how are you, my boy? By God, I can’t remember how many years it’s been since I saw you last.”

  “Too many,” John replied honestly. He’d forgotten how much he liked Lord Stretton and his hearty enthusiasm. The man was easy to talk to, and John enjoyed, probably more than he should as the brother of a Tory lord, Stretton’s outspoken disapproval of many government policies. “I’ve recently returned from the Continent. Are you still slaying Tories with your tongue?”

  “Every day that I’m able!” Stretton laughed loudly—he didn’t do anything quietly—drawing the gaze of a few others. “In fact, I’m just back from Scotland, and as my son-in-law would say, I canna wait to begin debating again.”

  “Scotland, you say?” John held his breath, more hopeful than made sense that Stretton couldn’t be the man he was after. The threatening letter had been written eight days ago, so depending on when Stretton returned, John might be able to eliminate him.

  The baron nodded, and his grey-streaked mahogany hair slapped against the sides of his head. “Two months in that godforsaken place! Returned Tuesday last. My Jennie had to visit our girl and her new baby.”

  Exhaling slowly, John replied, “Congratulations to your family.”

  If Stretton had been in Scotland for two months and returned six days ago, he couldn’t have been plotting against the prime minister—but he might still be able to help John. An idea sprang up in his mind, and he moved a step closer to Stretton and lowered his voice, improvising.