John leaned forward, stretching his back again. “I’ve already tried, to little avail.” At Claire’s disappointed frown he added, “I will try again. I’m beginning to see the wisdom of reform; I just don’t think he’s going about it the right way.”
“Thank you.”
She was too close. The familiar yet unidentifiable scent of her delighted his nose, and her riding habit was far too form-fitting in all the right places. He deposited his spectacles in his pocket and nudged his horse back a pace. “We haven’t done much riding. Shall we race?”
She nodded gamely, and John took off without warning. He didn’t look back to see her indignant face, but he could well imagine the narrowing of her pretty eyes and the setting of her jaw. Claire liked a challenge, though, and that’s what catching up to him would be.
He let the bay gallop steadily, but not headlong, fearful that Claire might not be able to hold her seat racing sidesaddle. The warm, heavy air whipped past his face and through his hair, but as they followed the lane around a curve the thunder of furiously paced hooves sounded nearer. His taller, longer-legged horse could have easily beaten the mare in a distance race, but Claire’s mount was powerful for her size. The mare pulled abreast of his bay, its rider leaning forward and grinning as if she had won a race at Newmarket.
The lane straightened as they headed toward a copse of beeches. John flicked a glance at Claire and then pressed his heel into his horse’s flank. The bay lengthened its stride, easily distancing them from the mare. Only when they neared the entrance to the small wood did he pull up, turn, and don his spectacles once more to watch Claire ride toward him.
This, not winning, had been his goal all along. There was nothing quite like watching a woman ride a horse. She had slowed the mare to a trot and once more sat regally in the saddle. That wool habit outlined every delicious curve of her body, while the horse’s gait made her breasts bounce in a cock-hardening way.
He grimaced and turned his horse as Claire approached, hoping she wouldn’t notice his condition. If this was the way he thought of his “friend’s wife,” it was a good thing he didn’t have any true friends.
“Next time,” she admonished as she pulled up beside him, “you will have to try to win without cheating.”
He looked over to see her brown eyes sparkling with vivacity. It was good to see her enjoying herself, divested of anger. He almost didn’t mind she wasn’t his. Almost. And he smiled anyway. “It was the only way I could win.”
Her mare danced sideways, still energized from their race. “I didn’t think you were the win-at-all-cost type.”
“I’m not, but you are,” he replied. “Since winning means more to you than me, surely you must expend the greater effort in achieving your desire. Otherwise, how can you be satisfied with your accomplishment?”
Right now she seemed quite satisfied with the way things had turned out. A soft smile shaped her lips and her eyes crinkled at the corners.
John cleared his throat. “The horses need to move.”
After a brief hesitation, Claire urged her mount to walk along the lane again, beneath an arch of beech branches. Tiny buds dotted the limbs, verdantly shining in the April sun, and John followed, turning the conversation.
“I noticed you were reading Pride and Prejudice after dinner last night. What do you think of it?”
“I must admit it is amusing,” she allowed.
“Affecting as well, I think. Do you not fear that neither Jane nor Lizzy will end up happy?”
She shook her head. “I do not. It is a novel, and I know all will end well for the Bennet girls.” She stared straight ahead as her voice grew quieter. “I used to think life was no different. A happy ending for all.”
Then he’d left her and ruined her romantic outlook on life. He understood now just how much heartbreak he’d caused.
Briefly he closed his eyes. The sweet chirping of several wrens filled the air.
After a quarter mile amongst the trees, they emerged into a clearing with a small stream running through. Pale pink lady’s smock ran rampant near the edge of the water and encircled several large flat stones moored in the grass.
“Let’s stop and let the horses drink,” Claire said. “I could do with a rest as well.”
John alighted, more than willing to stretch his legs. He stripped off his gloves and stuffed them in the saddlebag, retrieving a napkin-wrapped package.
Claire had already dismounted and was shaking her long skirts back into place. He offered his arm, as he would have done for his mother or his sister-in-law. She took it and guided him toward the stream.
She felt so right tucked against his side, her sweet scent wafting up to call to him, the sun bringing a bronze glint to her eyes. Unintended or not, he never wanted this morning to end.
He also wanted it over right now. He wanted to prove Kensworth innocent, find the prime minister’s assassin, and board the next ship to America. Or India. Or anywhere thousands of miles away from Lady Claire Talbot, soon to be Lady Kensworth.
She was oblivious to his pain. Pointing to the bundle he held, she asked, “What’s that?”
“Sustenance,” he replied, holding it out. “Salvation.”
She stopped abruptly in front of one of the gray stones sunk into the earth. “I am quite capable of going without food for a few hours,” she said, clearly vexed.
God, how he loved her. Despite his mood, he grinned. “I know you are, but you are not capable of doing it without becoming irritable.”
Jerking her arm free, she plopped down onto the smooth stone in a most unladylike fashion. “I am not irritated!”
He lifted his eyebrows.
“I need to eat less, and you are not helping matters.”
“Eat less? Why?” She loved food, and he loved her hearty appetite. Lowering himself to the stone next to her, he began to unfold a linen.
She waved her hands down the length of her body, as if he needed an invitation to look at her. “I am too plump.”
Oh, the replies he could have made to that statement. But phrases such as “kissable curves,” “bountiful breasts,” and “lush derriere” were not remotely appropriate coming from his lips, no matter how truly they might describe her. And tempted though he was to say something equally valid but slightly less scandalous, such as “You are perfect,” he refrained, aware that he had no right.
Instead he replied blandly, “Of course you aren’t.”
“Apple tarts?” she said, gazing at what he’d unwrapped. “You do not play fair at all, John Reyburn.”
“I think we’ve already established that.” He handed her a tart, which she didn’t hesitate to take. He’d like to think that was another lie, that he always played fair, but he hadn’t lately. Kensworth had more cause than he knew to question John’s honor. He’d vowed to act the gentleman but anymore he wondered just how much claim he had to the name.
Chapter Nineteen
With Lord John out for a ride and his brothers otherwise occupied, he had no trouble slipping out of the house undetected to meet with Bates. He let the dun race across the meadows; the horse seemed to be in the same high spirits as himself. Only seven more days until England would be awakened to a new order. Another week and the government would finally be forced to embrace parliamentary reform. The men who supported this country on their shoulders would, at last, have a say in the making of its laws.
He rode into the wood, grateful to escape the relentless sunshine. The abandoned hunting box was another half mile deep; he’d discovered it last summer while out shooting.
As he approached, he saw Bates pacing in front of the window—or what was supposed to be a window; there was no glass and only one shutter remained, hanging haphazardly by a rusty nail. Bates, well-trained former soldier that he was, noticed his arrival and stood in the doorway as he tethered the dun to a nearby tree.
“Are you ready for this evening’s meeting?”
“O’ course.” Bates’s reply sounded confi
dent, but the way the man surveyed the surrounding forest gave away his anxiety.
He put his arm around Bates’s shoulders and steered him inside. “Don’t be such a ninny! I need you.”
The man scowled as he sat in a straight-backed chair. “I wish you weren’t blind to the risks. I sees them. Why can’t you?”
“We will overcome the risks, such as they are. No one knows what we are about.” He scraped the other chair in the room across the planked floor and turned it backward, dropping onto the splintered wood without a care. Bates, as usual, did not look reassured.
He sighed and then tried to mollify his friend. “If they had any suspicions, don’t you think they would be scrutinizing the Hampden Clubs more closely, possibly even shutting us down?”
Brow furrowed as deep as the fields a few miles away, Bates popped up and began to pace again in front of the blackened fireplace. “You’re bringing someone new tonight.”
“Lord John, an aristocratic do-good.” He rested his arms over the chair back. “I wrote you about him. There’s nothing to fear. I don’t expect him to be of much help, but he was interested so…” He shrugged. “We have more important things to discuss. When will the gunpowder be delivered?”
“Monday.”
“Excellent.” He nodded. “Have you found a place to store it?” Two barrels of gunpowder would not be easy to hide. He could not use any of the outbuildings near the house for fear the powder might be discovered. Nor did he want to use this place. It was too exposed to the elements.
Bates pivoted on his booted heel, his hazel eyes alight. “Did you know there’s a root cellar beneath the kitchen?”
“No. Show me.”
The former corporal led the way through the small lodge. On the ground floor there was only the one main room and a rudimentary kitchen in the back. There were two first-floor bedchambers, but the staircase had rotted and they could not access it. The box had not been built solidly to begin with and had fallen into disrepair during the tenure of previous non-sporting viscounts.
Outside the rear door Bates pointed to a spot in the ground covered with some kind of creeping vine. “It was dry down there last week when it rained, so I think it’ll work.”
Bates undoubtedly had cleared away enough foliage to reveal a handle, which was the only reason he recognized it as a door. Bates now swung it open with an agonizingly loud screech of its metal hinges. A set of wooden steps descended into darkness.
“You want to haul two barrels of gunpowder down there?” he asked his partner.
Bates shrugged. “It’ll be a bit o’ work, but no one will find it. I can fill the trunks down there too.” They planned to fill small wooden boxes with the gunpowder, making it easier to transport the explosive to London and to load onto the carriages of the prime minister and Secretary Sidmouth. Those gentlemen would be in for a surprise after their visit to the theatre next Wednesday. “Then we won’t have to haul the barrels back up.”
He grinned at Bates and slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll bring a lamp next time we meet so you can see and not worry about the flame of a candle. Brilliant work, old fellow. I knew I could count on you.” Then, remembering the other reason he’d come, he sobered. “We will need help. I can’t be here until Wednesday. I’ve too many commitments in Town.”
A rustle from a nearby tangle of bushes drew their attention. Bates looked to be holding his breath in terror, so when a timid rabbit inched its nose out from beneath the leaves, he couldn’t help but guffaw at his associate’s hen-heartedness. There would be nothing to laugh at, however, if Bates seized up on their mission.
Grasping Bates by the shoulders, he summoned up a speech from his days in the 52nd. “Come now! We are about to enter our battlefield. The enemy lies near. I need you strong and I need you brave.” He shook the other man, letting his voice rise. “Are you with me? Are you with England?”
“Yes, sir!” At last courage blazed in Bates’s eyes, as it had before Waterloo. “I will be ready, sir. You can count on me.”
“Excellent.” He let go of the man and strode around to the front of the building. As he untied the dun, he spoke over his shoulder to Bates, who had followed him. “At the meeting tonight we’ll speak with Hal Stickney. He’s trustworthy. I’ll arrange to meet with him in London.”
Bates nodded. “I’ll see you tonight then.”
He swung into the saddle and grinned down at his friend. “Only seven more days!”
Then he urged the dun into a trot, anticipation pushing his spirits even higher than they’d been. Everything was set. They would change England.
***
Claire nibbled on the tart despite a desire to devour it in four bites. Just because she was a glutton didn’t mean she needed to appear as such. John’s feeble denial of her plumpness hadn’t fooled her at all. There was no denying the obvious; she was entirely too round.
John sat on the stone beside her, knees bent, boots resting on the grass that was so green it looked painted. He had finished his tart and was watching an energetic little wren poke the ground repeatedly with its beak.
“Thank you for this,” Claire said about the food. Reflecting on his earlier words, she now realized he was right; she often did become cross when she’d gone without it for a time. So, it appeared she could be either thin or even-tempered but not both. A difficult choice.
John shifted, adjusting the tails of his coat. “You’re welcome.”
How strange, that he knew her so well. He was harder to define, always keeping his emotions sealed away, and his secretive work for the government made it clear he was in many ways impenetrable. But now that she’d got over the shock of him investigating Stephen, she saw how hard he was trying to balance his duties and his personal life.
“What did spying on the Continent entail?” she asked. He wouldn’t tell her anything about his current mission, but he had already divulged a little about his past.
He gazed at the lazily flowing water almost as if he hadn’t heard her. Claire opened her mouth to repeat her question then quickly snapped it shut. He was thinking. Planning what to tell her, deciding what was appropriate and what wasn’t. She wished he wouldn’t be so deliberative, at least not with her.
“I changed my name frequently, my appearance less so, and I infiltrated various institutions—government offices, banks, prisons. Private homes as well.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Documents, plans, records, people to bribe, prisoners to free. Always trying to stay one step ahead of their spies and not get caught by anyone of authority.” He did not look up from the water. “It was not as exciting as you might think.”
She leaned forward, trying to catch his eye. He blinked and hesitated before finally turning toward her.
“I wouldn’t think it exciting at all,” she said softly, holding his blue gaze. “At least, that was probably not how you felt most of the time. I think you must have been terribly lonely.”
John’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Eventually he looked away and picked up a pebble, throwing it into the stream.
Since he wouldn’t speak, Claire continued. “How could your work not be solitary? Keeping secrets, lurking about in places you shouldn’t be, stealing things.” She studied his profile. His expression was bland, but his eyes told the real truth. A wealth of pain reflected there, and she didn’t think it was all in the past.
“It’s no different here in England, is it? You aren’t any less lonely because you are amidst your family. You still have your secrets. You still can’t expose your true self to them.”
He lowered his eyelids, and it was as if the curtain had come down on a stage, blocking her view. His jaw twitched before he said, “My life wasn’t horrible. Some things, like sneaking into places I shouldn’t be, taking documents that will help the cause, are exciting. There’s a thrill, a feeling of being very much alive.”
“But it’s only a temporary feeling.”
His eyes, of dar
kest blue and yet softly vulnerable, cut to her. She wanted to reach over and sift her fingers through his coal black locks. She wanted to smooth the worry lines from his brow. She wanted him to open up, but he sat there silently staring at her.
Claire continued, intent upon digging deeper. “I imagine the more worthwhile, permanent feeling comes from knowing how much you assisted your country in the war effort.” He’d done as much as any army officer, and for absolutely none of the glory.
He shrugged, turning back toward the stream. The light from the sun-spattered water reflected off his spectacles.
Getting him to talk about his work was as difficult as uprooting a stubborn weed—but worth the effort, she decided. She knew from experience that bottling up emotions often led to unpleasant results, like lashing out in anger. If he wouldn’t talk, she would, forcing him to contradict her assessments.
“The worst part must have been…” She searched for the right word, reluctant to seemingly pass judgment on what he’d done. “It must have been difficult to…eliminate someone.”
“I was a spy, not an assassin.”
She wanted to smile at finally provoking an utterance from him but held herself in check, noting the insulted tone of his voice. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said, running a finger along a pleat in her skirt. “Obviously I have no idea of the scope of your duties.”
“I wasn’t ever given orders to…eliminate someone, but every now and then things went wrong and I had no choice.”
“How did you feel about that?”
He sighed as if persecuted. “Did I mention yet how persistent you are?”
“Yes, you have,” she replied. “And I appreciate the compliment.”
“Perhaps it is not meant as such,” he said. But she noted the contradictory twinkle in his eye and laughed.
John leaned back, bracing himself with his hands flat against the stone upon which they sat. Seeing his disfigurement, Claire harbored a fresh urge to slap Mrs. Cahill for her earlier discourtesy, but she also wondered how the injury had come to pass. He had never told her.
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