A Spy's Honor

by Russell, Charlotte

  “Sir, I’ve been considering entering Parliament. While I have the greatest respect for Allerton, I am not certain I wish to stand as a Tory.”

  Stretton might be loud, but the man did have one thin vein of circumspection running through his body. He gave John a long look and then led him farther away from the crowd. “I’m sorry, my boy. I’m afraid I have no boroughs with empty seats right now.”

  “Perhaps you know someone who might?” John prompted. Any crony of Stretton’s was likely to be a progressive thinker, possibly even the peer he was looking for.

  The baron puffed up his cheeks and then loudly exhaled. “Try Dundell, Kensworth, or Gorley. Dundell’s likely to be suspicious of your connection to a Tory, but then he’s suspicious of his own mother. Kensworth doesn’t have much clout—yet—but I admire his ideas and his tenacity.” Stretton suddenly snapped his fingers. “One moment! Isn’t Kensworth marrying into your family?”

  “Yes,” John replied. Obviously no one had a bad thing to say about the man. Leave it to Claire to choose a paragon. “He’s marrying my brother’s wife’s sister.”

  “Family’s family. Use what connections you have.”

  John leaned against the nearest wall and folded his arms over his chest. “Mightn’t be such a good idea to associate myself so blatantly with Kensworth. My brother might have an apoplexy.”

  “You have been gone a while,” Stretton commented. “Allerton isn’t nearly as conservative as he used to be, especially for a Tory. An alliance between you and Kensworth might be just what we need.”

  Might as well canonize the man right now, John thought. St. Stephen. Then he moved the conversation back to more important matters. “What about Gorley?” Gorley was on his list too.

  “He’s lost some influence due to his illness, but he could still manage to get you a decent seat.”

  “Illness?” John asked, mental pencil ready to slash through Gorley’s name.

  Stretton shook his head and tried to pull his waistcoat over the bulge of his stomach. “Been in bed for the past three months. We paid him a brief visit on our return trip. He’s lucid about half the time, so he’d still be able to help.” He paused and looked around. “I must find my Jennie. She promised me a dance. I’m at Brooks’s most nights; come see me if you’d like to talk further.”

  John pushed away from the wall. “Thank you, sir. I will take your information under advisement.”

  As Stretton walked away, John hoped he hadn’t made an error by soliciting the man’s patronage. Would Allerton be upset about this purported defection to the Whigs? Or had his brother changed as much as Stretton thought? Allerton was willing to tolerate Kensworth’s Whig leanings, but then Kensworth wasn’t his brother and didn’t come from a long line of Tories. John still didn’t regret spending all that time in Europe, but he was beginning to regret not visiting his family or keeping up a better correspondence. Regardless, he needed to speak to his brother soon about his supposed plans. Spying, and the incumbent improvisation that went with it, was much more difficult with family and friends around.

  He found a footman and secured a glass of sherry in order to fortify himself for what lay ahead: more dancing with marriage-mad females. But perhaps he’d find another one like Miss Milken, or better yet, like Claire. Only, less prickly than she had been since his return.

  He looked up—straight into Claire’s burning brown gaze. John nodded and started to smile, but with a perfunctory nod she turned and walked away.

  Why the devil couldn’t she be more than civil? He was attempting to accustom himself to being around her without wanting to kiss her, to caress her, to breathe the very essence of her. She had clearly never felt the same about him, so why did she seem to be so…so incensed when he was in close proximity? She should be grateful he had set her free to marry her saint-cum-Viking warlord.

  Irritated, he banished Claire from his mind once again and set off to find a willing dance partner. He managed to land first Lady Helen Carwood and then Miss Heffington. The latter unwittingly gave her father an alibi by describing, in a tale that left no detail wanting and no emotion lacking, how her father had ridden to their larger estate near Sheffield last week to personally escort her to London for her first Season, as her mother had, quite inconveniently, gone into an early confinement with her eleventh sibling. She, Miss Heffington, would be at this moment wasting away in the wilds of Yorkshire if her father hadn’t been so gallant, and he, Lord John, would have been deprived of the opportunity to whirl that estimable lady around the ballroom. Twice, if he so desired, she strongly hinted.

  He did not so desire. Not with her or with anyone else. He found a corner occupied by a decorative urn and pretended to study it.

  All he had got from Lady Helen was that her father took his responsibilities in the Lords so seriously they rarely visited their estate in Essex. It wasn’t enough to eliminate the man. So he had further work to do there, plus he had to verify Stretton’s and Gorley’s stories.

  Neither the urn nor his mission could keep his plagued mind off Claire, however.

  What was wrong with her? Was she embarrassed to have a former “fiancé” appear on the scene so close to her wedding? His return had created a coil, but for the most part everyone had handled it well. Even Kensworth.

  The esteemed viscount who had unexpectedly inherited the title two years ago. The exalted lord who was apparently well on his way to becoming a Whig to be reckoned with. Claire’s beloved Stephen, whose estate was merely a two hour ride from London.

  Kensworth. It was time to offer him proper felicitations on his upcoming marriage.

  John donned his spectacles and inspected the room. Surprisingly, the viscount was quite close by and alone. John strode toward him, acknowledging silently that Kensworth, wide shoulders stretching the bottle-green coat that perfectly matched his eyes, looked exactly like the ideal lord everyone thought him.

  “Kensworth.” John greeted the man with a smile and a proffered hand, now playing the role of affable young buck. “I’d like to offer you best wishes on your approaching marriage.”

  Wariness flashed through the viscount’s eyes faster than a startled rabbit, but he managed an easy smile and a hearty handshake. “Thank you.”

  “You’re a lucky man,” John continued, watching closely to see Kensworth’s reaction.

  “Do you think so?”

  That wasn’t the reply John expected. He sharpened his attention on the man smiling lazily before him but maintained his jocular expression. “Indeed I do.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. I need Lady Claire’s help in navigating this.” Kensworth waved a large hand toward the mass of humanity behind John.

  “Society?”

  The viscount shrugged. “It is not my preferred setting.”

  “Nor mine.” John couldn’t help but smile in commiseration, even though he had contradicted his intended image as a Society man. Kensworth had thrown him off-balance; he would have to try harder to keep up the pretense.

  “But you were raised here,” the viscount replied with a tilt of his blond head, as if he couldn’t figure out which aspect of John was real.

  It wouldn’t hurt to keep him guessing. “Doesn’t mean I enjoy the pitfalls, er, festivities.”

  Kensworth’s chuckle barely reached John’s ears above the din of the crowd that surrounded them.

  “How different could your upbringing have been?” John pressed after a moment. “You’re the great-grandson of a viscount.”

  “More different than you could imagine,” Kensworth muttered. Then, louder, he said, “The army doesn’t teach artifice, at least not to those coming up through the ranks.”

  “You served?” John injected surprise into his tone despite having read of Kensworth’s service in Debrett’s.

  “With the Fifty-second,” Kensworth replied. “As did my brothers.”

  John waited for him to continue, to detail what act of bravery had led to his promotion or at the very least to
mention his presence at Waterloo, but he didn’t appear to have anything else to say in that regard. John stubbornly smothered the seed of admiration that had begun to grow.

  Into the silence he said, “You know, it would be possible to employ your military skills here in Society.”

  Kensworth snorted.

  “You need only a strategy and plenty of firepower,” John explained.

  This time the other man laughed. “I’ve transferred some of my abilities to my work in Parliament with a degree of success, but here? This is the bastion of women, and they’ve never met a strategy they can’t undermine. While it probably isn’t true, it seems as if they vastly outnumber us.”

  John laughed. Damn, but it would be easy to like Kensworth. At least pretending to wouldn’t be difficult.

  “Besides,” Kensworth continued in a jovial tone. “I’ve already conquered Society. I have found my bride. Perhaps you should do the same. Nothing like a pretty girl to make all these blasted social contortions worthwhile.”

  Spoken like a man who had found true love. John swallowed his bitterness. “You are certainly proof positive. Lady Claire will do you proud.”

  “Indeed. These affairs have become far less tedious with her acting as my shield.”

  That thought wasn’t quite as romantic as the other. John unclenched his jaw before the tension became too painful. Then he told a bald-faced lie. “The two of you appear well-suited.”

  “Ah, here she is now, with my brother in tow.”

  John watched Claire approach. She eyed Kensworth with a certain fondness, but something was missing. Two somethings actually, such as the tender love and hungry passion in evidence when her sister looked upon Allerton.

  “Lord John, may I present my brother, Mr. David Cahill?”

  Claire turned her face up to the man beside her, another blond giant clearly cut from the same cloth as Kensworth. He was younger, though, and his eyes more hazel than green.

  John proffered a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  David Cahill smiled widely, revealing a set of crooked teeth. “I hope you are enjoying your return to Mother England. I’m sure you won’t find things much different from when you left. More’s the pity.”

  “I am afraid I have found too many changes for my liking,” John replied, though he was thinking of Claire. When he’d met her, she had wanted to marry for love. Did she love Kensworth or had she settled for marrying a friend? And did Kensworth love her?

  Allerton had been so right; in her red gown, she was the most striking woman in the room. The glowing satin enveloped her every curve, provoking sensuous images like a flame laying claim to tinder but that John didn’t dare pay any heed. How could such a passionate woman settle for…for…the perfect lord? Perfect in every way, except Kensworth couldn’t possibly love her or cherish her or desire her as much as John did.

  But of course he could. John’s brain overrode his heart. Kensworth could easily love, cherish, and desire Claire.

  Even while possibly still being a treacherous assassin.

  Kensworth was making a comment about change, but John couldn’t hear him for all the embittered rage pounding inside his head. Claire kept her restless gaze trained on the people milling behind him, as if she were searching for an excuse to leave.

  Fate, in the hulking form of David Cahill, intervened.

  “The biggest bloody—er, pardon, my lady—the biggest change is all these new dances. Lady Claire was just saying how much she wanted to waltz tonight. There’s one coming up now, but I haven’t managed to learn the steps. So…”

  The youngest Cahill shot his brother a meaningful look, clearly indicating Kensworth should offer to partner his fiancée.

  Claire, too, turned hopeful eyes toward her intended. But John could see that the viscount’s attention had been caught by an approaching acquaintance.

  “I’m sorry, Claire, you know I must speak with Mr. Turner,” Kensworth said as that fellow and his wife joined their circle.

  John knew it was the last thing she wanted. He knew she would be furious. He asked anyway. “Lady Claire, would you honor me with this dance?”

  Instantly her eyes burned and her cheeks flushed; she must be furious. She opened her mouth to deny him, once again, but this time her future husband stood in Fate’s stead.

  “Do go on with Lord John, my dear. I will escort you to supper as soon as you are finished.” Kensworth smiled at Claire and then shot John an inscrutable look before attending to Turner.

  To make her acquiescence more complete, John held out his hand. Looking as if she were to dance with the devil himself, Claire gingerly laid her gloved fingers atop his.

  If he hadn’t been entirely too jealous of her faultless betrothed, he probably would have teased her out of her ill-humored mood. As it was, they both stepped onto the dance floor with tempers piqued, and John had no difficulty forgetting about the others in the room.

  As the energetic notes began drifting down from the orchestra, he snared her attention by sharply calling her name. Claire turned her eyes up to his face, and he slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her far closer than was probably considered proper even for the “indecent” waltz.

  Her lips parted as the two of them began to glide along with the score of other couples. He couldn’t take his eyes off the plumpness of her mouth. Nor could he ignore the soft feel of her body beneath his hand, despite their gloves and layers of clothing between them.

  How he managed to keep his feet moving to the rhythm of the music as they spun in a feverish whirlwind around the dance floor, he didn’t know. Still, Claire moved gracefully; at times it seemed as if her feet barely touched the marble. Despite her former reticence, her hand upon his back was solid and she never once tried to create space between their hips and thighs.

  Neither of them spoke. Half the time Claire’s eyes drifted shut. John pretended she had walked into his arms willingly, that her blood rushed with as much uninhibited desire as his. With the color still high in her cheeks, it was easy to imagine that her heart beat wildly and that she wanted all these people to take themselves off to Hades so they could dance alone and indulge in passionate kisses.

  The last note of the waltz sounded a death knell. They came to a standstill, and Claire withdrew her hand and stepped back. Breathing fast, she didn’t appear to have the energy to do more—like run away.

  John tried to collect his wayward emotions. He should bow and let Claire escape, but before he could she whispered fiercely, “How could you?” Then she turned on her heel and stalked off.

  He couldn’t focus on anything else; he saw only the flight of that satin flame as she bolted from not only the dance floor but the ballroom as well.

  What was so horrible about dancing with him? If she was going to treat him like an ogre, he had a right to know why.

  As the other partygoers paired up to head off to the supper room, John pushed in the opposite direction, striding after Claire.

  By the time he reached the entrance hall she had retrieved her shawl and was heading out the front door.

  “There you are, John dear.” His mother, seemingly oblivious, stopped his progress cold. “Come, take me in to supper. You must be starving after that dance with Claire.”

  He wanted answers. “Mother, I apologize, but I must be going.” He grasped her hands and squeezed. “Truly, I’m sorry. I promise I will take you to Gunter’s for a lemon ice one afternoon this week.”

  Her smile was indulgent. “Of course, dear.”

  John flew out the door in time to see the Allerton carriage rattling down the congested street. He sprinted after it, and when he drew near enough, he grabbed the handle on the door and flung it open, swinging himself up into the vehicle in one fluid motion, a neat maneuver that had served him well on a few of his missions’ more hurried exits.

  Briefly ignoring the startled woman on the opposite seat, he reached up and opened the trap in the ceiling. “Horace, it’s me. Lord John. Continue toward h
ome.”

  “Yes, sir.” The carriage, which had slowed, picked up speed once again.

  By the time John turned back to Claire, she had resumed her irate expression. “What do you think you are doing?”

  He stared at her, his every nerve still abuzz from holding her so close. Did she have to look even more beautiful when she was agitated? Couldn’t she have transformed into a hag? No, her cheeks were flushed with color, her eyes shone, and he could easily envision her in the throes of passion, about to experience her first orgasm.

  Most of his blood headed south, but somehow he was able to get his tongue working. “You’re angry. You have been for days now. The question is, are you angry that I left or angry that I’ve returned?”

  Chapter Ten

  Angry?

  Claire glared at John, who was far too near even though he sat on the opposite side of the carriage. She couldn’t bear to be this close to him, to see the slight crook in what once had been an aristocratically straight nose, to smell a hint of the almond soap he used, to feel all the way down to her bones the energy he exuded.

  When they danced, it had been ten times worse, as she had known it would be. Why couldn’t he have gracefully accepted her original refusal?

  She yanked her gloves off and tossed them on the seat. Yes, she was angry. She had to release one of her emotions or she would explode. Anger seemed to be the most harmless. If anything else escaped—the wicked desire, the urgent longing, the irrational love—she would betray not only herself and her family but Stephen.

  Dear, dear Stephen, who did not deserve such a faithless fiancée as she.

  Claire lifted her chin and steadied her gaze on the soft velvet squab beyond John’s shoulder. “Of course I am peeved. I thought I made it clear I did not wish to dance with you.”

  John blinked rapidly, and Claire ignored the twinge in her chest. She owed him nothing; she owed Stephen everything.

  “You made yourself perfectly clear. But I want to know why you don’t want to dance with me. A simple dance with an in-law who is reentering Society should not have been too taxing.” His voice was thick and deep, and she could not fool herself into thinking he didn’t sound hurt.