A Spy's Honor

by Russell, Charlotte

  With reluctance, he turned to the left.

  ***

  At nine o’clock the next morning, Harry Watson waited in the anteroom of the Home Secretary’s office for longer than he would have wished. Never before had he spoken directly to Sidmouth; he’d always been required to write lengthy reports regarding his meetings with Lord John.

  This time he had demanded a face-to-face meeting, but he’d been made to wait. It didn’t bother him that the information he had wasn’t getting to Sidmouth in a timely manner; he wasn’t going to tell the truth anyway, but he didn’t appreciate wasting time that could be better spent planning his rise to glory.

  The door to Sidmouth’s office opened silently, and Watson was beckoned forward by a clerk. He entered and bowed to the Home Secretary, who sat at his desk looking waspish.

  “Well, what do you have?” Sidmouth said.

  More than anything else, Watson was there to make certain the Secretary knew his face. When he saved Liverpool’s life tonight, he wanted to be properly recognized for his heroism. However, it couldn’t hurt to tarnish the shine of Lord John Reyburn.

  “Sir, it has come to my attention that Reyburn attended the meeting of the Hertfordshire Hampden Club you ordered a raid on.”

  A raid instigated by Watson when he wrote a report indicating the meeting might be suspicious, a report in which he also omitted the stated intention of Lord John to attend.

  Sidmouth continued writing, barely sparing him a glance. “Perhaps he was following a lead.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” Watson replied. “But doesn’t it seem odd to you that all those laborers and tradesmen escaped? Perhaps they knew what was to come.”

  The Secretary gave him a sharp look. “Have you anything new regarding the assassination plot?”

  Watson tilted his head and lied. “Alas, no, sir. Lord John is no nearer to finding the culprits.”

  Sidmouth nodded in both acknowledgment and dismissal. “Thank you, er…Watson.” Watson bowed and hid his smile until he’d left the office.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The morning sun streaming through his window reflected John’s renewed sense of purpose. Watson should be seeing to the cancellation of the prime minister’s attendance at Macbeth that night, and in another hour or so John would sit down with David and convince the young idiot of the error of his ways, hopefully saving his neck. But, for the moment, he needed to push aside his work. He had to see Claire, to explain his absence, to assure her the mission was almost complete, to take the next step in his circumspect courtship.

  After bathing, dressing and ascertaining she was awake, John walked into her sitting room. Then he made sure she was alone.

  She was ensconced in a chair by the sunny window, reading. How grand it would have been to have an artist behind him, capturing this moment forever, Claire sitting so prettily with her head tipped up, her brown eyes wide. She’d chosen a pale lavender dress that complemented her darker skin. He was happy to see she had secured her knitted shawl with her mother’s lace pin.

  She jumped up at the sight of him.

  Gratified by her delight, he went to her and hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her close, sprinkling light kisses all over her face. “I apologize for my absence. I never meant to leave you like that.”

  She drew back but spoke to his chest. “Where were you?”

  “The mission has kept me running day and night. I would like to tell you about it.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me and tell me then? I thought we were working on this together. I’d begun to think of us as partners.”

  Of course they were partners. “I didn’t— You were sleeping so soundly, so beautifully…”

  She whirled out of his reach, her lavender skirts flouncing, and hissed, “You left me in your bed, where I could have been easily discovered by God knows who!”

  “I was back before the sun came up, but you had already safely returned to your room.” Thank God. He approached her and cupped her cheek in his hand. “I’m so sorry I didn’t wake you, Claire.” He tried a smile. “I wasn’t thinking properly. Perhaps my brain was still jumbled from our encounter.”

  “Why didn’t you send a note at some point over the last two days?” She stepped neatly away from his touch.

  He sobered. “I had no opportunity that wouldn’t have compromised everything. I’m so accustomed to working alone, Claire. This is all new to me.”

  Those brown eyes, usually so soft, were as brittle as shards of a broken bottle. “What do you mean to do now?”

  He sensed a trap but answered honestly. “I will complete my mission today, though I’ll need to spend time on reports over the next few days as well. I would love to take you to the second performance of Macbeth tomorrow night.”

  “You don’t intend to propose,” she accused, “do you?”

  “Not at the moment.” Even before he finished, he knew that was the wrong answer. “Of course, I mean to propose eventually. I love you, for God’s sake. I’ve always loved you.”

  That didn’t come out the way he’d planned either. She had his tongue all tied up in knots.

  “We’ve waited five agonizing years and you don’t want to propose just yet?” She pulled her shawl more tightly around her arms. “The last time we were on the verge of marrying you walked away. I’m beginning to think you don’t want to marry me.”

  “That is completely untrue.” And more heartbreaking words he’d never heard. He took a step and curved his hands around her shoulders. “I’ve wanted to marry you since those rash words—‘We leave for Scotland tonight’—left my mouth. You’re my everything, Claire. I’ll admit it was unforgivable of me to run off the first time, but I was trying to give you what you needed. I’m not asking you to marry me right now because I’m trying to be honorable. We agreed to protect Kensworth.”

  She snaked her arms up between them and knocked his away, her eyes flashing. “You won’t propose, but you will take me to your bed? How is that being honorable?”

  He threw up his hands. “You seduced me. I distinctly recall trying to persuade you to wait. But if a proposal is what you want, I wouldn’t want to be accused of not fulfilling your needs. Will you marry me, Clare? Will you have me now?”

  As soon as the words were spoken, he wanted to cut his tongue out. That proposal was only a fraction better than Mr. Darcy’s first, ill-spoken one. And Claire’s reaction was little better than that of Elizabeth Bennet.

  “Please, do not dishonor yourself for me,” she spat.

  “Claire…,” he ground out.

  “I always thought I loved you, but…”

  Even though this time she barely spoke above a whisper, he jerked back as if she’d punched him. He managed to rasp out, “And now?”

  She wrenched away, turning her back to him. He bit back a curse. There was no one more beautiful than his Claire when she was angry, but that wasn’t the emotion he’d been hoping to evoke this morning. How had everything gone so wrong?

  “Claire?”

  He waited for her to speak, waited as the air in the sitting room grew staler by the moment, and when she finally turned back to him, he saw that she wasn’t angry. Pale cheeks, moist eyes and tight lips painted a picture of wretchedness that made his chest hurt, and he desperately searched his brain for the words to make things better.

  She spoke first, her voice nearly hoarse. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know what I’m feeling. You spout nonsense about honor instead of wanting me. You…you are always leaving me, as my father did. After that ball last week. Two mornings ago. Five years ago. How can I ever believe you’ll stay when I need you?”

  Those situations weren’t the same at all, but he knew better than to voice that opinion. Why hadn’t he remembered how much being abandoned affected her?

  Because he hadn’t “abandoned” her. He’d been working, trying to save the country. Where was her faith in him?

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

 
; “You don’t have a home here. You don’t even hold a respectable position. You could be off to the Continent next week. In fact, you adamantly stated your intention to return. There’s nothing to keep you here.”

  “Is that what this is about? That I don’t have a title and a bloody estate like Kensworth?” He knew it wasn’t, but damnation, it was difficult to keep a civil tongue when the woman he loved was rejecting him. “My reason to stay is you. I need no other. I’m going to stand for Parliament, with or without Kensworth or my brother’s support.”

  “Why haven’t you told me that before? Are you saying it to placate me?”

  “No. I’ve been preoccupied with my investigation,” he growled. “Which is precisely why, in addition to caring for Kensworth’s reputation, I wanted to wait—to make love to you, to ask you to marry me. I’ve been courting you when I can because I know how much it means to you.”

  Or, maybe it didn’t mean anything to her. He was a patient man, but even so he was quickly losing charity with her.

  She opened her mouth to respond but he cut her off.

  “You once told me that if you loved someone, you should give them what they need. I’ve done that over and over for you, Claire. You needed a stronger man, so I made myself into one. You needed the steadiness of someone like Kensworth, so I stepped away. You needed romance and flowers, so I tried to give them to you. I’ll admit some of my actions were misguided, but the intention was always good. But in doing all of that I lost who I am. I just want to love you for who you are, and I want you to love me the same.”

  He huffed out a breath. “Here I was concerned that you might not accept me because of my hand when it’s just me you won’t accept. Maybe I set a dangerous precedent by whisking you off to Scotland, but that was done in honor. I know it would have been oh-so-romantic of me to sweep you off your feet and demand you leave Kensworth, but that’s not who I am. And you clearly want me to rush things now you are free of him, but that’s not what I want.”

  Was any of this making sense to her? She watched him with a stillness that sent shivers up his neck. “I think… I don’t know. Maybe I had the right of it when I said that, if the one you love isn’t what you need, that is your failing not theirs.”

  “So I’m a failure at love? Why am I not surprised to hear that?”

  The tears still pooled in her eyes; she refused to let them fall.

  Stubborn, obstinate Claire.

  “No, you are not a failure at love,” John said. “That’s not what I meant.”

  She lifted her chin. “That’s right. I’m not, because I won’t open myself to heartache again.”

  He felt as if he were trudging through a bog, straining to reach solid ground. “So you would shut out love entirely? My love.”

  “Yes.”

  If she’d whispered, if her voice had held a quiver, if she’d hesitated, he might have hoped. But she looked him in the eye and her words were clear. After the mistakes he’d made, she wasn’t going to give him any quarter. Nor was she going to admit the mistakes she had made. Stubborn, unforgiving Claire.

  He could remind her there might be a child, their child, but that was a situation best dealt with if it occurred. She was under the guardianship of his brother; it wasn’t as if she could disappear from his life completely.

  He cleared his throat. “So, I’ve declared my love for you, apologized for leaving you to do my duty, assured you that I do not intend to leave again, and your answer to my proposal is…?” He wanted her to have to say it, to deny the love he knew they had.

  To give her credit, she did hesitate. But no longer than it took to unnecessarily adjust her shawl. “No.”

  Feeling as if his life had become a nightmare, he stared at her, stared until she finally whispered, “I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other.” And, turning, she walked toward the door.

  He had a lot more to say. “I will not stop loving you just because you are being foolish!”

  He expected her to continue out the door, but she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Then that makes you the bigger fool.”

  ***

  Claire could not flee the sitting room, and John, fast enough.

  She ran upstairs and sagged against the wall outside her bedchamber, closing her eyes.

  What had just happened? Instead of a happy reunion with John, instead of a proposal, she’d received a lecture on her failings at love. Her failure had been holding on to that love—waiting for him to return to England, waiting for him to declare himself, waiting for him to come back to her. Always waiting. Just like her mother.

  Her miserable mother. Well, she was done waiting.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Claire opened her eyes to find Emily standing before her. She pushed away from the wall and said, “I am coming with you to Bellemere.”

  Emily tilted her head. “You are? What has happened? Claire, I—”

  “Stop.” Claire gently tugged her sister’s wrist. “I must leave here. Now, shall I help further with the children?”

  Emily took the hint and accepted Claire’s decision without discussion. Claire packed her things hurriedly and haphazardly. She saw nothing of John but did hear Allerton and the dowager exclaim over his return.

  Within ninety minutes she was ensconced in the coach with her family. She spent the trip occupying the children and avoiding any meaningful conversation with her sister, who was almost comically curious. Something in Claire’s demeanor must have served as a caution, however, as Emily said not a word about John.

  ***

  John suddenly realized, during an uncomfortable conversation with his brother, that the entire family was deserting him in London. How fitting Claire must find that.

  He wanted nothing but to obliterate that ghastly episode with her from his mind. Too bad he couldn’t do so at his club with a bucketful of brandy. Instead he would seek out David and turn him off his disastrous path, hopefully saving Kensworth’s already dented reputation from further damage.

  Except, Claire’s stricken face swam before his vision and her heartbreaking rejection of his love echoed in his ears. What had she been thinking? They had both committed monumental errors, floundered around for years in self-pity, and finally struggled to a precipitous moment in their relationship. Only for her to turn away from him?

  After only a fortnight he’d come full circle and once again faced a lifetime without Claire. She’d never even declared her love for him.

  Well, he had more than enough experience pushing Claire to the back of his mind; it was time to do so, and for once he wished she would turn her stubbornness to good use and stay there. Armed with a strategy, John would set off for Kensworth House.

  He’d just crossed Grosvenor Square when a hurried pedestrian knocked into him. John shook it off, but the other man stopped.

  “Sir!” the short, compact man hissed in a low voice. It was Duncan, one of those who should be keeping an eye on David.

  If he was here, there must be urgent news.

  “What?” John asked.

  “The young’un has ridden out. We follered him as far as Camden Town. Then I turned back to bring you the message. Flewett still has him in his sights.”

  Duncan’s eyes shone brightly, undoubtedly anticipating the danger and action to come, but Duncan would be disappointed. It sounded as if David were heading north—to Hertfordshire and his brother’s estate. John couldn’t fathom why he would do so on the day he meant to carry out his plot against the PM, but it was possible to get there and back in a matter of a few hours. The day was young. John, and John alone, would catch up to David and beat some sense into his head.

  He nodded curtly. “Thank you, Duncan. Return to Kensworth House and keep a sharp eye on the older Cahill. I cannot be absolutely certain he doesn’t have a part to play. I’ll ride after David.”

  Duncan’s shoulders slumped, but he was too well-trained to voice a complaint. After he scuttled off, John hastened back to Alle
rton House, requesting his horse be saddled before changing into riding clothes. Fifteen minutes later he headed north.

  Once clear of the clogged streets of London, he broke the bay into a gallop, praying he guessed right and David was heading for Wakebourne and hoping he could catch up to him soon. Then they could have a serious tête-à-tête the rest of the way and John could hand the troublesome David over to his more sensible brother.

  After an hour of riding hard, but not so hard as to blow his mount out, he finally caught up to Flewett. Stopping to let his horse rest, John put on his spectacles and saw David in the distance atop a stallion. He exchanged brief words with Sidmouth’s man and then sent him on his way back to London.

  Tucking his glasses in his pocket, John sighed and set his horse trotting again. He caught up to the young Cahill, and David had just entered a wood of stout and ancient oaks when John hailed him.

  The burly lad turned in surprise, but his mouth eased into a smile. “Well, hullo. What brings you this way, Lord John?”

  “My brother’s estate. I assume you are heading to your brother’s as well.” John returned his smile with good cheer. “Now we shall make good company.”

  David didn’t seem so certain, but he acquiesced with a nod and proceeded through the shadowed wood. He spoke of the shooting to be had in Hertfordshire in the autumn, and John listened politely. They were still miles from Wakebourne. There was time aplenty to redirect the conversation.

  Eventually David’s stream of chatter ended, and John jumped into the breach. “Have you been to Covent Garden recently?”

  The younger man’s brow furrowed. “I don’t much like the theatre.” But when John remained silent, David’s jaw tightened and a flare of enlightenment illuminated his eyes.

  “It’s not the way,” John said, keeping his voice low. David seemed far too prone to letting his emotions lead him. “Reform can be achieved peacefully.”

  “No, it can’t.” Cahill’s eyes sparked with their usual passion and a youthful boldness. “Now is the time to show the Tories we are serious. And the Whigs for that matter. They aren’t pushing as hard as they could.” He shrugged in a dismissive manner. “I always knew you were a namby-pamby. Stay out of my business, Reyburn.”