A Spy's Honor

by Russell, Charlotte

  Claire’s blood boiled over with anger and frustration and desperation. Dear God, how could her heart still feel as if it were breaking? “I never asked you to do any of that.”

  He let his head fall and shot her a disbelieving look. “Perhaps not out loud, but I’m not, nor have I ever been, stupid. You were infatuated with Allerton and his confidence and his brawn. Look at the man you are marrying. Kensworth is cut from the same cloth.”

  She struggled to rein in her emotions, to make sense of what he was saying. This was why they hadn’t married? She would concede that she’d been fascinated by Allerton and his seeming ability to take care of every problem, great or small. But she’d never wished John were more like him. She remembered being a little disappointed that he hadn’t reacted more quickly that awful night, and she had rushed into Allerton’s arms, but she had still wanted to marry John after all that.

  And there was one thing she didn’t understand. She’d waited. And hoped. And waited some more.

  “Why did you not come back sooner?” She flapped a hand up and down in front of his lean but no longer “puny” figure. “You are clearly… Well, you’ve achieved your goal, despite not becoming a soldier. Could you not have returned?”

  Even as she asked, she wondered if she would have fallen into his arms if he had. Would she have forgiven him so easily? Could she have accepted, even then, an aimless, purposeless John who couldn’t or wouldn’t account for his absence?

  He held up his hand and waggled his thumb and two remaining fingers. “This happened. I tried to perfect myself and wound up permanently imperfect.”

  And he thought she would care? She, who was nowhere near ideal herself, and probably never would be? A man who sought perfection in himself wouldn’t accept anything less in someone else.

  Not that any of these musings or his explanations were relevant. They had lost whatever chance they might have had, all because of John’s pride.

  She tried to smile, but the effect was probably paltry. Somehow she would make it to her room before succumbing to a good cry. “I wish you the very best of luck in your search for a bride.”

  After giving John a polite but brief nod she headed for the door. She would have liked to have said she didn’t look back, but she was weak; she did. John was running his fingers through his hair, but the expression on his face told her he probably would have preferred to tear it out.

  Kensworth, she reminded herself. Stephen. He was her intended. If only she felt with him what she felt with John, maybe forgetting John would be easier. There must be a trick to it, something she was missing.

  She went in search of Emily and found her in the back garden tending to the flower beds. “May I ask for some advice?”

  Her sister pocketed the pruning shears she was using and wiped her hands on her apron. “Certainly. Having trouble deciding which gown to wear this evening?”

  “No. I want you to advise me on…marital activities in the bedchamber.”

  Emily’s eyes widened. “Oh my. I suppose your wedding is quickly approaching.”

  It couldn’t come soon enough for Claire. She swept her gown beneath her bottom and sat on a nearby bench. Emily arranged her pregnant self on the blanket beside the flower bed and picked up a trowel. She worked industriously, never tearing her eyes away from the dirt, while relating the basic facts of procreation.

  Claire didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d gleaned this much from books discovered on a high shelf in Allerton’s library. She needed knowledge of a different sort.

  After a flushing Emily finally stuttered to halt she said, “Thank you. I know you were probably hoping to avoid that explanation for many more years—until Olivia is older.”

  “Oh, dear sister, I would do anything for you.” Emily’s words weren’t quite as dramatic as they might have been, because she was huffing and struggling to stand up. Claire gave her a hand and Emily joined her on the bench. “Do you have any questions? I’ll do my best to be forthright.”

  Now was her chance. “I wonder if you could elaborate on…well, how to feel more.” It was her turn to blush. “Kensworth seems good at kissing, but I wanted to know if there was something I could do to feel that much more alive when we’re together. I want our wedding night to be perfect.”

  Emily looked off to the far ivy-covered wall, a smile curving her lips. “I’ve always found it thrilling to take the initiative. To not be so missish. I must say, I think Allerton likes it too.” She giggled and took Claire’s hand. “Once you are married, he is yours just as much as you are his. You have every right to enjoy the marital act as much as your husband. Don’t forget that.”

  Perhaps boldness was the key. The night before, slipping her tongue past John’s lips had stopped him cold, but that was because she was engaged. Doing something equally brash might just yield the opposite result with Stephen. Yes, it might just work. And fortunately enough, the Cahills were coming to dinner that evening. Claire would find a way to get Stephen alone and try out this new wile.

  She kissed Emily on the cheek and hugged her tight. “Thank you!”

  Chapter Twelve

  “My lord, thank goodness you are returned at a reasonable hour.” The butler regarded John as if he were a licentious rake who often stayed out until all hours of the night.

  “It isn’t even half past six, Hadlow.” Not that John wouldn’t have preferred to remain away from the house until all its occupants were abed, or at least until a certain brunette was clad in her nightdress and safely tucked into the arms of Morpheus. But he had run out of things to do and people to meet. A man who didn’t relish card games or the theatre and was particular about the company he kept could only occupy himself for so many hours before he wanted—no, needed—to return home.

  At least he had a home to return to now. Not that he felt he could remain under the same roof as Claire for much longer. Her quiet dismissal that morning had spoken volumes about her disillusionment with him. The old cut hurt no less when it was reopened.

  “I know,” Hadlow replied in apology. “But I failed to inform you when you left this morning that your presence is required at dinner. Her Grace, your mother, was adamant that all family members be at home this evening. Severs awaits you abovestairs.”

  But John didn’t start for the stairs immediately. “Hadlow, which exalted members of Society are we to entertain this evening?”

  “Lord Kensworth and his family.”

  It wasn’t too late to turn around, head out into the night, and develop a taste for debauchery…except that Hadlow had already uttered the magic words: your mother and adamant. Since John had neglected her for the last five years, he couldn’t miss out on a dinner that was obviously important to her, blasted Kensworth or no.

  “Come, my lord. We haven’t much time,” Severs admonished as soon as John entered the room. Severs was Allerton’s valet but readily stepped in to assist John as well.

  “I am in no hurry.” Indeed, why on earth would he rush to subject himself to an evening with Claire and her fiancé? His mission in life should be to avoid them at all costs. But he couldn’t seem to do that. He needed to investigate Kensworth anyway.

  “Though time is short, I can still make you presentable,” Severs said, handing John a pair of black wool trousers—as if he had spent the day tramping through the park instead of finding Lord Stretton at Brooks’s. He couldn’t be that unkempt. But he had already learned it was best not to argue with Severs.

  The time he had spent with Claire that morning had been magical—until it wasn’t. The episode with Olivia, the conversation regarding their parents, both had reminded him of the closeness and intimacy they had shared on their way to Scotland. Then she seemed to equate his departure with the way her father abandoned her and everything spiraled downward. She’d not cared a whit that he’d left to improve himself. For her.

  The sooner he finished this damned mission, the sooner he could escape England once again.

  In that pursuit, he
had spent the rest of the day continuing his quest to find the traitor. Lord Stretton had willingly given John a clearer picture of the issues facing the government—from his radical point of view, of course. John had been able to scratch another peer from his list when Stretton told him of the death of that other peer’s mother-in-law. The family had been in deep mourning for the last week and a half, secluded in their London townhouse. The man couldn’t possibly have been traveling to his estate to meet with a coconspirator.

  “Glove, my lord?”

  John appreciated how matter-of-factly Severs asked the question. But, really, what did it matter anymore? Let everyone see what his cravenness had cost him. “No, thank you.”

  Downstairs, outside the drawing room, he paused and glanced in. Everyone was already present.

  Focus on Kensworth; forget Claire. He repeated the commands, hoping to instill them in his brain.

  As he entered the room, his gaze immediately focused on Claire and he realized it wasn’t his brain he had to worry about. It was his heart.

  She was so beautiful in body and in spirit. Seeing her across the room, her yellow gown casting a soft glow upon her skin, her sable hair—but for a few tendrils—upswept, her smile bright and easy, made him want to march over, take her arm and announce to the room, “She’s mine.”

  Because in his heart she would be forever his.

  Unfortunately, she hung on the arm of Kensworth and her smile was directed toward the blond giant. No matter what John’s heart might think, to the rest of the world she was Kensworth’s.

  “John, dear.” His mother captured his attention while a different blond giant blocked his view of Claire. “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Cahill? I don’t believe you’ve met.”

  Smiling politely, he greeted the middle Cahill brother and the man’s wife. Perhaps these two could help him clear Kensworth, so that he could forget Claire.

  Right.

  “I hear you have recently returned from Paris,” said Mrs. Cahill, blinking rapidly.

  As far as John could tell she was fashionably dressed, with her dark hair pulled up into a sleek knot. Despite how formally she tried to speak, though, there was something in her accent that betrayed her common background. In researching Kensworth he’d learned that Mrs. Robert Cahill was the daughter of a shopkeeper. It must have been the shock of her life to find herself sister-in-law to a viscount.

  Knowing that, John couldn’t help but want to make her feel comfortable here in his brother’s grand house. “No, not Paris,” he replied. A dingy little room in Bremen, not elegant Paris. “I was traveling all over Europe.”

  His mother had wandered away, while Robert Cahill simply stood beside his wife, as still and silent as an oak.

  “I would so love to see Paris. It’s such a romantic city.” Mrs. Cahill blinked excessively again and John realized she was attempting to flutter her eyelashes at him.

  He took a step backward. “Paris isn’t any more romantic than any other city. Any place is romantic if you’re with the one you love.” Only by staring at the Axminster carpet was he able to keep his gaze from cutting to Claire. “But I hope you have the chance to visit Paris someday, if that is your wish.”

  “Perhaps Robert and I can go next spring.”

  John nodded vaguely and pushed his spectacles more firmly onto the bridge of his nose.

  “Oh lud!” Mrs. Cahill screeched, clinging tightly to her husband’s arm. “What on earth is wrong with your hand? It looks as though someone cut off your fingers!”

  She well expressed horror with a touch of disgust. Her hazel eyes were wide and her lips curled at the corner. The room, so recently full of muted chatter, had gone silent, except for the hurried swish of one skirt.

  Any number of sharp rebukes came to mind, but he stuck with humor. “Do not worry overmuch for me, Mrs. Cahill. I find my only limitation is I can no longer count to ten.”

  Then Claire was by his side. She ignored him, however, and reached across to take Mrs. Cahill’s arm. “Martha, I wanted to hear your ideas on the menu for the wedding breakfast. Come, walk with me.”

  Claire’s voice was all that was polite, but John wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her forceful grip.

  Mrs. Cahill, ever oblivious, said in a shrill whisper as she was escorted off, “Shouldn’t he wear a glove or something to hide that?”

  Robert shrugged a massive shoulder and finally spoke. “Ladies. They simply cannot bear to look upon anything grotesque. Thank God He didn’t create another species so faint of heart.”

  “Lord John, it’s good to see you again.” Kensworth stepped slightly in front of his brother. They looked so similar, John mused again, not only in their powerful builds, but in their blond hair and green eyes. While the faint-of-heart ladies most likely thought Kensworth the handsomer, John wondered if the brothers had ever been mistaken for one another.

  He nodded in greeting. “I trust you enjoyed the ball last night?”

  “As much as any man can enjoy a ball,” Kensworth said with a grin that faded only slightly as he continued. “My fiancée didn’t seem to find it quite so amusing. She left early with a megrim.”

  “Another weakness of women,” Robert interjected. “Megrims are an excuse for women to leave any situation they don’t like.”

  “Oh, I’m certain that’s not the case with Lady Claire,” Kensworth declared. “She seemed to take great delight in her waltz with you, John.”

  Remembering Claire’s admonition that he had held her too close, John searched her fiancé’s face for any hint of condemnation. The viscount, despite trying to look as cheerful as Olivia in possession of one of her “shiny” treasures, appeared to be clenching his considerable jaw.

  John nodded vaguely, uncertain what he could say to put Kensworth at ease. Best to turn the conversation to a subject that would advance his purpose. “You appear to take your parliamentary duties seriously, denying yourself a dance with your fiancée”—damn, that word was hard to spit out—“in order to speak of government business.”

  Kensworth lifted a brawny shoulder. “I always take my duties, and my love for my country, seriously, and Claire supports me in that. I went into the army to support Britain. Now, by inheriting the title, I’ve been given an opportunity to fulfill my duties to England in another manner.”

  John looked to see if Robert had any stultifying observation to make, but the younger man’s attention appeared to have wandered to the coffered ceiling of all things. Before turning back, John caught a glimpse of Claire. She was in the far corner, still speaking to Mrs. Cahill, although she looked anything but happy to have that lady’s opinion on the wedding breakfast.

  Focus on Kensworth; forget Claire.

  John nodded. “Lord Stretton is impressed with you. He seems to think you’ll rank highly in the government one day.”

  The viscount’s blond eyebrows made an advance on his broad forehead. “Been soliciting information about me, have you?”

  “No, I’ve been asking for assistance in getting a seat in the Commons. Stretton mentioned you, as well as two others.” John had never meant to speak to Kensworth about that, but he couldn’t have the man thinking he was asking questions.

  Kensworth glanced across the room toward Allerton. “You would seek my help in getting into Parliament?”

  Hell and damnation. How had he got himself into this? He’d forgotten to tell Allerton about his unlikely defection to the Whigs. He’d best do that tonight, after the guests left.

  He might as well say yes, though. If Kensworth were the conspirator, John couldn’t ask to be in a better position to bring him down. If the man were innocent, well, then, John might find himself becoming a reluctant member of parliament. He rather liked Kensworth, after all, except for the unfortunate fact that the man was engaged to Claire. That, he needed to overcome.

  “Yes, I would,” he finally said. “Perhaps it’s because I’ve been abroad for so long, but I find myself at odds with much of the thinking o
f our Tory government.”

  “Hmm,” Kensworth mused. “I might be able to help you. I’ve tried to sway Allerton to my side, but alas…” His green eyes contemplated John, contemplated the possibility. “What do you think of the government revoking habeas corpus? They’ve detained twelve men with it so far.”

  John couldn’t help but respect the other man’s candor. No beating around the bushes here. “It’s unnecessarily restrictive. As they say, you catch more flies with honey. Although, the rabble-rousers have been using nothing but vinegar, so the government is more likely to respond in kind.”

  The viscount’s eyes lit up as he slapped the back of one hand into the palm of the other. “Exactly. Generally speaking, governments don’t act, they only react. So some see these ‘seditious’ acts and meetings as the only way to enact change.”

  Now this was getting interesting. “Define these ‘some.’”

  “Members of the Hampden Clubs, for instance.” Kensworth lifted a shoulder nonchalantly. However, his voice was hushed.

  John managed to keep his expression blank, but only because he couldn’t decide if he should be shocked that Kensworth mentioned the club so freely in Allerton’s drawing room or if he should be disheartened that the man was looking guiltier by the moment. Oddly enough, he felt no glee or triumph in the idea that Claire’s fiancé might be discredited.

  “Are you acquainted with some of these people?” Please let him say no.

  “Acquainted!” Robert barked a laugh. “He is a member of the club in Hertfordshire.”

  As Kensworth shot his middle brother a killing glare, the youngest Cahill, David, joined them. “Of course he’s a bloody member. All three of us are founding members.” He inclined his head toward John. “Are you interested?”

  “Robert. David.”