Lord and Lady Spy

by Shana Galen

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011 by Shana Galen

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover illustration by Alan Ayers

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For mothers, especially those

  who know the pain of loss.

  One

  Somewhere in Europe, July 1815

  The spy called Saint hunkered down in the bottom of the wardrobe she’d occupied for the last four hours and attempted to stifle a yawn.

  She didn’t need to crack the door to know the activities in the bed across the room were still very much in progress. She could hear the courtesan urging her “horse” onward, the woman’s demands punctuated by the man’s loud neighs.

  Saint sighed, shifting so her muscles remained limber. She’d given up being embarrassed about three and a quarter hours ago and now wondered how much longer the game could persist.

  Where was Lucien Ducos? If Bonaparte’s advisor didn’t make an appearance tonight, Saint was going to have a lot of explaining to do. Despite being ordered to track Ducos to France, she’d elected to remain right here.

  Something told her Bonaparte’s advisor would visit his mistress one last time before leaving. It was a feeling—her intuition speaking to her. And Saint always listened to her intuition.

  It had led her to this wardrobe, where she’d been treated to The Sassy Upstairs Maid, The Very Bad Boy, and now Horse and Rider. Ducos had better turn up soon—before someone decided to play Hide and Seek and discovered the wardrobe held more than clothes.

  The horse’s neighs grew louder, and Saint covered her ears. How much longer? She was definitely leaving as soon as the horse… was stabled.

  She sighed. Oh, who was she fooling? Of course she wouldn’t leave. She’d stay as long as necessary to secure Ducos.

  That was her mission.

  Failure was not an option.

  The horse neighed frantically, and Saint dropped her head in her hands and tried to remember why she was putting up with this. Bonaparte had escaped after his defeat at Waterloo. England—nay, Europe—would not be safe until he was apprehended and dealt with. All sources pointed to Ducos as the man who knew where Bonaparte was hidden.

  Her mission was to find Ducos and make him talk.

  And she’d do her duty. She’d tracked him here, discovered the name of his courtesan, and set the perfect trap. So where was the Frenchman?

  Suddenly the slaps and neighs were interrupted by three loud bangs on the front door. The courtesan’s house was small, the outer door located down a short flight of steps near the bedroom. In the abrupt silence, Saint could hear the housekeeper’s shoes clicking through the vestibule.

  “What are you doing?” the horse asked the courtesan in one of the seven languages Saint knew well. “You can’t stop now.”

  “One moment,” the woman answered, her voice tense.

  Saint’s nose itched, and she sat forward, careful to remain absolutely silent. She heard a man’s voice, the housekeeper’s negative answer, and the man’s voice again. She could tell, despite the housekeeper’s refusal of entrance, the intruder had entered.

  Inside the bedroom, the courtesan scrambled to dismount as the intruder spoke again.

  In French.

  Saint allowed herself a smile—the first in weeks. It was Ducos. It had to be. She heard his footsteps on the stairs and extracted her pistol from beneath her mantle, shifting the dagger to her other hand.

  The footsteps drew closer, and the courtesan’s whispers grew more frantic. “You must hide. If he catches me with you—”

  “Ha! You think I am afraid of some little French clerk? His time is over.”

  Little French clerk? Ducos was over six feet tall and known for violent outbursts.

  “Please,” the courtesan all but begged. “Please, hide.”

  If the stallion had an ounce of sense, he’d listen.

  The courtesan continued, “Hide in the wardrobe. I will get rid of him.”

  Saint’s eyes widened. No! Not the wardrobe. Damn!

  She scrambled to arrange a dressing gown so it concealed her, but she knew the furnishing would never fit them both. The wardrobe shook as the stallion stumbled against it.

  Footsteps thumped on the landing, and a tap rattled the bedroom door. “Ma chérie? Are you in there?”

  “Who is it?” the courtesan called innocently. Then she hissed, “Never mind, there’s no time. Get under the bed.”

  Saint exhaled and closed her eyes in relief.

  “Ma petite chou? Open the door, chérie.”

  “I’m coming.” There was the sound of clothing rustling, and then the woman’s footfalls as she crossed the room and opened the door.

  Saint squinted through the keyhole in the wardrobe. Lucien Ducos, wearing a black greatcoat with a chapeau bras tucked under his arm, stepped into the room. Wasting no time, he pulled the courtesan into his arms and kissed her.

  Saint held her breath. Now was the time to take action—burst out of the wardrobe, pistol in one hand and dagger in the other. In a matter of moments, she could disable Ducos, tie up the courtesan and her lover, and begin her interrogation.

  Heart drumming, Saint extended two fingers and pushed gingerly on the wardrobe’s door.

  It didn’t move.

  She pushed again, this time using her whole palm.

  Nothing.

  Damn! The ridiculous stallion must have turned the key when he knocked against it. She was locked in here—and Ducos was out there.

  This could not be happening. She had not spent four hours cramped in a wardrobe only to be thwarted by a flimsy lock and insignificant key. She considered and discarded several ideas, and then the perfect solution flashed into her mind. She shifted her weight, curled her fingers around her pistol, and—

  Before she could pull the trigger, the silence in the room was broken by the dissonant sound of glass breaking followed by an eardrum-shattering crash. Saint froze as pandemonium erupted in the room.

  The courtesan screamed, Ducos swore, and Saint heard the crack of a gunshot. The lead ball blasted through the door of the wardrobe and smashed into the wood just above her head.

  She slammed her head and shoulders down hard and swore. Her instincts were to
panic, to escape, but her training took over. Keep a level head. Assess the situation.

  Her ears were ringing, the sound like a bell clanging against her brain. Shaking her head, she strained to hear what was going on. The sounds were muffled—a low voice telling Ducos to put his hands behind his back. She plugged and unplugged her ears, trying to clear the awful ringing. Ducos was arguing, and there was a thump and the sound of struggle.

  Saint knelt and peered through the bullet hole. A man in a gray cape and tricorn hat that hid his face was wrestling with Ducos, who was trying to regain his footing after being knocked on the bed. The courtesan stood off to one side, holding her robe closed with trembling fingers. Finally the man in the cape managed to pin Ducos’s arms. The man freed a set of hand shackles from inside his cloak and clapped them on Ducos.

  Saint gaped. There was only one reason the man would have shackles with him—he was after Ducos, too. She jabbed at the wardrobe again. Damn it!

  The man jerked Ducos off the bed and pushed him toward the door. Saint couldn’t see his face, but she saw him nod to the courtesan as he took his leave.

  Saint bristled. The intruder was not absconding with her man. She sat back and kicked the wardrobe door hard.

  Once.

  Twice.

  The wood cracked and splintered on the third kick. She pushed the broken door aside, and the courtesan, in the process of helping the horse out from under the bed, looked up, startled. “Who the hell are you?”

  Saint arrowed for the open door. “Maid. Cleaning the wardrobe.” Ignoring the woman’s curses, she closed the bedroom door behind her. The gray-caped man was gone, but he couldn’t be more than ten seconds ahead of her.

  Readying her pistol, she charged down the steps. Upon seeing her, the housekeeper screamed and put a hand to her throat. Saint dodged the woman and leapt for the door. She threw it wide, rushed onto the stoop, and stared at the empty street before her.

  She looked right, then left, then right again. No!

  Frantic now, she ran down the walk, hopped the small gate, and chose a direction. Running at a light jog, she scanned the houses and buildings. She had excellent vision, even at night, but she saw no one. She slowed, peered harder.

  Nothing.

  “Damn it!”

  “Such language. Tsk-tsk,” someone said in English.

  She spun around, lowering her pistol when she recognized the face. “Agent Blue. I should have known. What in bl—?” She cleared her throat. “What is going on?”

  Blue, so called because of his startling azure eyes, frowned. “As fond as I am of standing about on street corners discussing covert operations, I believe my carriage would be more apropos.” He unfurled his fingers, indicating a coach waiting at the corner. Then he crooked one finger and beckoned her to follow.

  When they were inside, she settled back on the squabs and closed her eyes. Her mind was racing, thoughts and questions piling one on top of another. How had she lost the man in the gray cloak? Should she have gone right instead of left? No, her instincts had been correct, but—

  She opened her eyes and stared at Blue. Her nose itched… something was wrong.

  Blue’s expression offered no answers. He had a face easily forgotten. It was nondescript, except for those amazing blue eyes. And even that worked to his advantage. People remembered the eyes and little else.

  Blue had known she was after Ducos. He had given her the orders to apprehend Bonaparte’s advisor—orders straight from the top echelons of the Barbican group. Who else knew she was here? And who but an agent of the Barbican group could act with such efficiency, such calm in the midst of chaos, as the man in the gray cloak had shown?

  “That man in the gray cloak,” she said, finally piecing the events of the evening together. “He was one of ours.”

  It was a calculated guess. Her ears had been ringing so loudly she hadn’t been able to detect anything about the man’s voice or accent, let alone his affiliation.

  Blue inclined his head, proving her supposition correct.

  “Is that… all you noticed?” Blue asked smoothly.

  Saint narrowed her eyes. There had been something else. Something familiar about the gray-cloaked man. The way he moved perhaps. Or the way he stood.

  She shook her head. She’d been peering through a bullet hole and had seen no more than mere snatches of the intruder.

  “Ducos was my target,” she said. “If I was pulled from the mission, why wasn’t I notified?”

  Blue gave her a dubious look. “You disobeyed a direct order to leave for France.”

  “Because I knew Ducos would stay here.”

  “You took a guess, and while I will admit your instincts are unsurpassed, they are no excuse for disobeying orders.”

  “My orders were to apprehend Ducos.”

  “Your orders were to follow the plan—and your part of the plan was to leave for France.”

  “Plans,” she scoffed. “A good agent thinks on her feet.”

  “A good agent does as she’s told.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Who was he?” Saint asked, returning to her original subject. “The man in the gray cloak? Ducos was mine, and I want—”

  Blue shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t matter? I’ve been tracking Ducos for weeks.”

  “And now we have him. Ironically, we don’t need him anymore.”

  “But of course we need him! Ducos might be the key to finding Bonaparte. He…” Saint stared at Blue, comprehension dawning. “You have him—Bonaparte.”

  “Yes. Bonaparte surrendered two days ago. He’s on a ship, bound for exile.”

  Saint blinked. It was good news. And yet…

  Blue was watching her, his expression one she’d never seen before. “I’ve been sent to tell you the King appreciates your services, but they’re no longer needed.”

  Saint started. “What do you mean?”

  Blue gave her an impatient look. “You know what I mean. It’s the same for most of us agents. The war is over.”

  “But there are other conflicts—other missions. I could—”

  Blue shook his head, and Saint suppressed an exasperated scream. No point in venting her anger on Blue. He was only the messenger, and the group’s message was final.

  She was no longer needed.

  She sighed, resigned for the moment. “So that’s it. Thank you and good-bye.” She tried to imagine her life without missions and targets and felt her stomach roil uneasily. She’d been an agent, in one capacity or another, practically all her life. Without her work, what did she have?

  Nothing but failure—empty dreams, an empty house, an empty cradle. And now—now she was being summarily dismissed, back to that barren life. To be reminded, daily, of her domestic failures.

  “It’s a shock, I know,” Blue said, “but look on the bright side. You can go home to your—who are you going home to?”

  Under normal circumstances, such a personal question would never have been asked, much less answered, but she was out of a job. Her life’s work ripped out from under her. Saint didn’t see the point of concealment anymore. “I have a husband.”

  “Ah, well, go home to him. No doubt he misses you terribly.”

  Saint raised a brow. “No doubt.”

  No doubt he never even noticed she was gone. Their wedding had been nothing more than a union between two noble families, their marriage a failure from the start. And five years later, Adrian was a stranger to her. And she to him—a necessary circumstance in her line of work. There was a palpable distance between them. She knew, because she had fostered and nurtured it.

  It kept her safe.

  And lonely.

  She shook off her self-pity. Loneliness wasn’t important. It quickly dispersed when she embarked on another mission. And surely the Foreign Office would find something consequential for her to do.

  Wouldn’t it?

  She glanced at Blue, noted that unfamiliar expression again.
Except now she placed it: pity.

  Saint stared out the window at the lights of the alien city, at the residents’ energetic hustle and bustle, at her glorious career for the Foreign Office fading away.

  Two

  London, five days later

  “What do you mean, you no longer require my services?” Adrian Galloway, Lord Smythe, rose from his chair and planted his hands on Lord Melbourne’s desk. “I just delivered Lucien Ducos to you. I risked my hide for this office—again.”

  “And we appreciate your services.”

  With a flick of his wrist, Adrian dismissed the meaningless sentiments. He leaned closer, so his gaze was level with the secretary’s. “Do you know how much I’m worth to the French?” His voice was little more than a tense whisper. “Do you know what the bounty on my head will be after they learn I took Ducos?”

  “That is precisely what I am attempting to explain,” Melbourne said, appearing unfazed by Adrian’s glower. “The French are no longer our enemies. We have Bonaparte.”

  Adrian stepped back, his eyes never leaving those of the older man. Melbourne was in his early fifties and still retained his athletic build. Adrian had heard Melbourne was the premiere spy of his day. Now the man served as secretary for the elite Barbican group, a subset of England’s Foreign Office.

  Less than a handful of Englishmen knew of the existence of the Barbican. Its own members usually worked alone, and Adrian knew of only one other agent—an operative named Blue, who had done a job with him in Brussels last year. Adrian’s sole contact with Barbican came through Melbourne. The older man had been a good friend and mentor—at times more like a father than a superior.

  And now Melbourne was dismissing him, cutting Adrian out of the only family he’d ever really known. The sting of it burned, felt more like a personal betrayal than a professional decision. He had to put the personal aside.

  Adrian let out a long breath and, gripping the arms of the chair behind him, took a seat. “Fine. We have Bonaparte. I’ll take another assignment. Surely the French are not the only threat to English sovereignty. What about the bloody Americans?”

  Melbourne steepled his fingers and pursed his lips, and Adrian wanted to fly across the polished cherry desk and erase Melbourne’s cool demeanor. How could the man sit there so calmly and annihilate Adrian’s life?