A Spy's Honor

by Russell, Charlotte

  Any excuse would do. Anything but the truth that dancing with John exposed her denial of the past few days for what it was: a complete and baseless lie. “I did not want to upset Kensworth. He gets terribly jealous.”

  “He encouraged you to dance with me.” John blew out an impatient breath. “Are you lying to yourself as well as to me?”

  She was lying to everyone, but what else could she do? Did he want the truth? Very well. “The dance was awkward.”

  “Awkward? What do you mean?”

  Her mouth fell open briefly before she snapped it shut. Was he that obtuse? “You held me too close.”

  “Did I?” He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees.

  Claire resisted the urge to push herself back against the squab. How much longer could it be before they reached Allerton House? She needed to escape. She needed to be able to breathe without inhaling the scent of him. She needed to put distance between them, something he seemed unwilling to do.

  Closing her eyes against his intense scrutiny, she replied, “Yes. Everyone will be talking about the impropriety of our dance.”

  She heard his coat rustle, as though he’d shrugged. “It was my first waltz; I doubt they will fault me for my ignorance.” Was it her imagination or did his voice drop an octave? “I must say I’m not certain I would have enjoyed it quite so much if I had done it correctly.”

  Her eyes flew open. He still studied her, his gaze as dark as the midnight sky outside. He hadn’t worn his spectacles while they danced and he didn’t have them on now. There was nothing to deflect the intensity of his gaze.

  It was just as well her jaw refused to work, as nothing she could say would be appropriate. She had enjoyed their dance too. Every nerve had snapped to attention, every drop of blood had thrummed with excitement. The torrent of desire that had swept through her body echoed what she had experienced when he kissed her in that carriage so many years ago.

  Her gaze slid down to his lips. He’d been the first man to kiss her and he’d set the standard so high that no one else had ever equaled it. Not even Stephen.

  John’s lips thinned. “Claire.”

  She shifted her gaze to the floor as her cheeks heated. “What?”

  “You haven’t answered my original question.”

  His tone carried an edge of harshness, but Claire looked up to see he had sunk back against the seat, adopted a curious expression and was removing his gloves.

  He had asked whether she was angry that he’d left all those years ago or angry that he’d come back. But to her, that wasn’t the question. The question was: which of his actions angered her more? She’d been destroyed when he backed out of their plan to marry. Now he had returned when she’d finally buried the seed of hope she carried and decided to venture out into a life with Stephen.

  “Honest answer?” she asked, harkening back to that other carriage ride.

  He nodded, his eyes wary.

  “I wish you hadn’t come back.” That was the truth. She found it nearly unbearable to talk to him. To know he was still compassionate, generous, and possessed of a good humor; to hear him ask her opinion on a novel; to have him tease her about said opinion; all of these reminded her of the love that could have been. But even if she wasn’t engaged, John was no longer the man for her. He might still be all those things, but he was somehow less. He had spent those five wretched years improving nothing besides his body. That broke her heart as much as his abandonment.

  The carriage rounded a corner and jostled Claire back to the present. John still sat in the same casual position, against the cushion, but his brow contracted as if he didn’t believe her. She must say something. Hadn’t she vowed to be civil?

  “I apologize for my behavior. I…”

  Her thoughts tumbled by the wayside beneath his dark stare. Claire licked suddenly dry lips. When would they arrive home?

  “Are you certain that isn’t one more lie?” he asked just before launching himself to her side of the carriage.

  She might have opened her mouth in shock or to squeal in surprise, but she had no chance to do either as he slid a hand behind her head and pulled her into a crushing kiss.

  Defenseless against the realization of her longings, Claire didn’t resist. His lips were hot and persistent; she could not remember why she shouldn’t kiss him back, why she shouldn’t savor the sherry flavor of his breath.

  He pulled her closer still. Her hand stole up to grip his shoulder, for balance and for the pleasure of feeling the strength beneath his kerseymere coat. He kissed her as she had dreamed he might, as if he wanted her with an insatiable desire that could not be reined in. She kissed him as she had always wanted to, with complete abandon.

  But when she slipped her tongue between his fevered lips, he jerked back. His hand fell away from her head and he muttered a curse.

  Claire, still awash with passion, reached for his hand, unwilling to give up all physical contact. Instantly, his fingers clenched hers. But only for a moment.

  “You’re to be married.” The words were ground out in disgust.

  “I am.” Her thoughts clouded by confusion and waning desire, she wasn’t sure if that was a question or a statement.

  Stephen.

  They had a life planned. He needed her. She wanted what he had to offer. A home, a purpose, permanence. Not stolen kisses and lies.

  “I am to be married,” she repeated with vehemence as the carriage rolled to a stop. “I asked you before not to touch me. Have you no honor? Have you forgotten how to be a gentleman?”

  He clenched his jaw. Amidst the clatter of the footman lowering the steps he spat out, “I beg your pardon, my lady.”

  Then he exited the carriage without waiting for her.

  Another kiss in a carriage. Claire sat there, more lost than ever, until the footman cleared his throat. She allowed him to help her down as her gaze settled on the tall, lean shadow fading into the darkness at the end of the street, and then mechanically she addressed the coachman. “Return to the ball for the others.”

  As the coach pulled away, she stood rooted to the pavement despite the open door awaiting her.

  ***

  John used his long legs to distance himself from the carriage and Claire as fast as possible, never looking back.

  Would he always run from her? It appeared so. He didn’t want her any less, despite her impending marriage, which made him feel as low as a flea on a mangy dog’s neck. She was correct; he didn’t have much right to call himself a gentleman anymore.

  Once he rounded the corner and was out of sight of Allerton House, he stopped beneath a gas lamp and blew out an exasperated breath. Kissing Claire had been stupid. Upon reflection, most of his actions that evening had been foolish. Asking her to dance. Following her into the carriage… He’d tried to put the lie to her words with that kiss, and he had, to begin with. She hadn’t protested. She had kissed him back in the all-or-nothing manner in which she did most things. Her boldness had sent blood rushing headlong to his cock, which had, strangely enough, awoken his brain to the impropriety of it all.

  Unless and until—and that would be the day after never—she decided to cause the scandal of the year by throwing Kensworth over, John needed to behave himself.

  After slipping his spectacles back on, he looked around at the nearly empty street. He couldn’t stand here all night, but he couldn’t return home either. Not with Claire there. So work it would be.

  He set off toward St. James’s Street and White’s. He would have preferred going to Brooks’s, but supposedly his government liaison awaited him every evening at the former, should the need arise. Though he had nothing of significance to report, he should check in.

  Alas, the walk gave him more time to think about Claire. The way she had grasped his three-fingered hand had filled him with an absurd sense of satisfaction and hope. But climbing the steps of White’s, he shook his head free of such frustrating thoughts. Didn’t it make his situation even worse to know, or at least
imagine, that Claire might be able to look past his imperfection?

  A deep drone of voices greeted him as he stepped inside, and suddenly he remembered he’d left his gloves in the carriage. He could turn around and leave, but did it matter? Only men were present, and most of those would be more than half foxed. Besides, he was tired of hiding his hand, and since more often than not he no longer went about in disguise, there was no need.

  Bypassing the morning room, he headed for the stairs and the upper floor card room. If anyone remembered anything at all about Lord John Reyburn, they would think it odd to find him in a card room. He had always abhorred the silly games, the outlandish wagering and, most of all, the ridiculous masculine posturing. But he had been so young then, and gone for so long now, it was doubtful anyone would remember.

  “A drink, sir?” a footman inquired as John entered the crowded room.

  “Brandy, please.”

  A layer of smoke clung to the ceiling as if searching for a way out. The quiet whirr of shuffling cards traveled rhythmically around the room while coins chinked together at the tables of those unwilling to play for higher stakes. No one paid particular attention to John, though a few who weren’t desperately engrossed in their play glanced up.

  Once possessed of his brandy, he moved farther into the room. A vaguely familiar young man indicated that John was more than welcome to join his table. John declined with a slight shake of his head, for he’d already spotted his liaison.

  One of two people seated at a small table set up to play piquet, the man looked like most of the others in the room. Fashionably dressed, focused on his cards, and half drunk. What set him apart was the topaz pin nestled amongst the snowy folds of his cravat. A golden snake encircled the topaz, exactly as described by Sidmouth.

  John sidled up to the table, taking a furtive glance at the tallied scores. “Mind if I play the winner?”

  “That’ll be Watson,” the older of the two men predicted, nodding in clear disgust at his pin-wearing opponent. “He’ll have done me in before much longer.”

  Watson scooped up a trick from the table and continued playing, never once looking at John. “I hope you like to play deep. I grow weary of winning tuppence at a time. Would you mind fetching me another glass of claret? I shan’t be able to play on without it.”

  John would indeed mind. This Watson had better be playing the role of arrogant cad instead of actually being one.

  Still, he nodded and walked away to find a footman who could fulfill the man’s desire before heading back to the piquet table.

  Watson greeted him with a cocksure smile and a loud voice. “Why, if it isn’t Lord John Reyburn.”

  John looked over sharply, ready to blast the idiot with a glare for practically shouting his name and drawing attention to them. Then he recognized Watson in return. They’d gone to Harrow together. He hadn’t known the man was with the Home Office now, but striking up an acquaintance with an old schoolmate would be a good way to conceal these meetings.

  “What a pleasure after all these years,” he lied. Harry Watson had been a braggart at school, without much prowess at anything to back up his bluster. His light brown hair fell in fashionable waves; his yellow waistcoat and that cravat pin set him off as something of a dandy. The smirk on his face told John the adult version of the boy wasn’t much of an improvement.

  But that was neither here nor there. They were only meeting to exchange messages. John picked up the cards and began shuffling.

  Watson winced. “You’re not quite as good as you’d like to think you are, eh?”

  Confused, John glanced up from the cards to find the other man staring pointedly at his left hand. Ignoring the insult, John stared back until Watson shifted in his seat. Then he dealt.

  “I don’t think we’ve yet established stakes,” Watson said, his brown eyes filled with confidence.

  John didn’t even want to play cards, let alone quibble over bets. Spying on the Continent and its accompanying solitary life was beginning to look more and more enjoyable.

  “Come, come, Lord John. Don’t tell me His Grace has cut off your allowance.”

  Best to get this blasted game over with. John leaned back in his chair. “Name your price.”

  Watson looked as if he’d beat the cat to the cream. “Loser pays for the difference in scores. Ten pounds per point.”

  His old schoolmate did indeed like to play deep. A lopsided score could mean hundreds of pounds. Still, John nodded, the other man grinned, and play began.

  After they had announced their points and begun playing for tricks, John asked, “What’s new with you, Watson?”

  “I’m feeling quite anxious lately.”

  John couldn’t help remarking, “As you should.”

  Under the table, Watson kicked him in the shin. John smiled; he’d known the other man was talking about Sidmouth and the government and not the card game. Of course they were anxious. Probably downright fearful. A dead prime minister could be the end of the Tories.

  “I wish I could help, but…”

  His liaison looked at him askance. “You’ve nothing to say? Been too busy reuniting with the family to do much else?”

  “Oh, not just family,” John remarked oh-so-casually, ignoring Watson’s slight. “I’ve reacquainted myself with Lord Stretton. Do you know he’s a grandfather now?”

  With a nod, Watson finally took a trick then proceeded to take a few more.

  John continued after adjusting his spectacles. “Stretton told me about Gorley’s illness. Poor fellow. But, on a brighter note, I was able to snare a dance with Miss Heffington this evening. A fascinating young lady who, quite frankly, left me speechless. Have you married yet, Harry?”

  Watson tallied up the score from the first hand and then took up the cards to begin shuffling. “No, I haven’t. I’m not the brother of a duke.”

  “Hmm. I don’t quite follow your logic. I am the brother of a duke and I’m not married either.” John called out his points for the new hand and noticed Watson glancing at the scorecard repeatedly.

  “Well, you’ve been traipsing about the Continent all these years,” the man said peevishly.

  John wasn’t going to rise to any bait Watson dangled before him. Couldn’t they simply do their jobs?

  “Tell me,” he said. “Have you any news from our old schoolmates?” He didn’t expect the government to have any more information for him, but it couldn’t hurt to ask. Besides, the game was almost over.

  Watson licked his lips. He fanned out his cards and then closed them again. He looked around the room and signaled the footman to bring him another drink. He had apparently realized the inevitable and was trying to put off the end.

  Finally Watson spoke but didn’t play a card. “I received a letter from Trembley. Remember him? He’s in Hertfordshire. Anyway, he mentioned that Kensworth is marrying into your family. Is that true?”

  “He’s marrying my sister-in-law’s sister,” John admitted. Why did things always come back around to Claire? He wasn’t safe from her anywhere in London, never mind Allerton House. Perhaps he would return to the Continent. Or find that Greek island he had told her about.

  “An interesting fellow. You’ll enjoy getting to know him better.”

  Watson’s tone was still friendly, but his words were all business. So…Sidmouth wanted him to focus on Kensworth? Probably only because the man was a liberal thorn in the Home Secretary’s conservative hide. John sighed. It wouldn’t be hard to investigate Kensworth, but he wasn’t going to stop looking into the other peers either. The plotter couldn’t be Kensworth. Claire would be devastated.

  “You know,” Watson continued, “you might enjoy reacquainting yourself with Lord Romford. Has he got stories to tell about the last few years.”

  “I’ll do that,” John agreed. So, he should find Romford sooner rather than later.

  He stared at the ace of spades that he’d thrown on the table, unwilling to allow Watson to stall on the card game any
longer. Once he had all the information the government wished passed along, he wanted out of the club.

  “Play a card, Harry,” he commanded.

  Watson finally did. “We must meet again, Lord John. It’s been such a pleasure,” he said, his sarcasm only apparent in the twist of his lips.

  “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”

  John’s liaison shrugged, threw out his last card and watched John scoop up the trick. “I am here every evening.”

  “Capot,” John announced.

  Absently he watched Watson finish tallying the scores. He’d taken all the tricks, scored forty bonus points, and beaten Watson soundly. He was not looking forward to more meetings with the fellow.

  A frown burrowed deep on his former schoolmate’s brow. “I owe you six hundred and thirty pounds.” He slammed his fist on the table and whispered, “You never played cards at Harrow. You always claimed to hate the games!”

  “It’s still true.” John picked up the paper with Watson’s vowels written on it. “However, I never said I didn’t know how to play. Until next time, Harry.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Claire passed the night huddled in a ball in the center of her bed, stomach-cramping guilt eating at her. Why hadn’t she slapped him in outrage? Had shy, undersized John turned into a rake of the highest order as he developed into a handsome man? He certainly wasn’t a man anywhere near the worth of Stephen.

  She finally fell asleep as dawn neared and didn’t awaken until late in the morning. Breakfast had undoubtedly long been cleared, so she would have to see if Cook had anything she could nibble on. Forcing herself to think of Stephen and the upcoming wedding, she stepped out into the corridor, only to hear someone being reprimanded.

  “How could you do this again? You are very, very naughty! What’m I to do now?”

  A few yards away, one of the nursery maids was bent over Olivia, Claire’s niece, her harsh whispered words having no effect on the little girl, who stared back with wide, guileless blue eyes. What could the poor child have done to deserve such a dressing down?