Lord and Lady Spy

by Shana Galen

  “I never stopped wanting you,” he repeated and ran his hand under her skirt, feeling the silky skin of her calf.

  She shivered. She couldn’t control that, he noted. She reacted to him. She wanted him. He could break through that firm control, even for a moment, and see the truth.

  “It’s because of the gowns and the hair,” she said, her breathing hitching as his hand made lazy circles on her knee. “I’m not wearing those ugly glasses.”

  He smiled. “It helps.” His hand went to her thigh. How was it possible her skin was so soft? “But I’ve seen you without anything on. You think an ugly gown and glasses could erase that image?”

  “No, but I wasn’t wearing the disguise for—Adrian!”

  His hand had delved between her thighs and was inching toward her warm feminine heat. He raised a brow. “Something distracting you?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Hardly. I think you’re the one who is distracted—oh! I mean, we should get back to work. We have this file…” Her voice trailed off as he stroked her. She was so warm. He ached to turn her so she straddled him, free himself, and plunge into her. Instead, he dipped one finger into her, and she gasped.

  “You were saying something about the file?” he said, voice blasé.

  “Was I?” She arched her hips and wriggled against his hand. “I mean, I think we should concentrate—”

  He cut her off, sealing his mouth to hers in a searing kiss. Her arms came around him, and Adrian had had enough foreplay. Heedless of the file and its contents, he put his hands on her waist and lifted her, depositing her on top of the table. Standing now, he bent to kiss her again, but she put a hand between them.

  Bloody hell. He should have never stopped touching her. He’d given her a second to think, and when Sophia started thinking, it was always disastrous. “In another moment, we’re going to ruin these papers,” she said, her eyes once again focused.

  “A slight wrinkle won’t do any harm.” He bent again, determined to distract her, and up came the restraining hand. He frowned.

  “You need to see the financial reports. Jenkinson was deeply in debt.”

  Despite his aroused state, she’d managed to snag his attention. “How do you know that?”

  “I told you, there are financial reports.”

  He squinted at her. “Which you perused one time.”

  She shrugged. “I’m good with numbers.”

  Not quite willing to give up on the seduction, he rested his hands on her thighs. “Who are you?”

  “Sophia Galloway. Your wife.”

  He didn’t blink. “You know what I’m asking.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t heard of me.”

  “Try me.”

  “Saint,” she said, looking down at his hands. “Agent Saint.”

  He squeezed her thigh. “Agent Saint is a man.”

  “No. I’m Agent Saint.”

  He withdrew his hands, and careful not to disturb the file, she jumped her feet. “But Agent Saint…” He raked a hand through his hair, paced. He’d heard of Agent Saint. The man had done good work. Adrian had actually hoped to have the opportunity to work with the operative one day. Yes, there had been that fiasco in Paris, but that was ancient history.

  He looked at Sophia. She stood quietly, hands folded before her, wide brown eyes watching him. How the bloody hell could she be Saint?

  “You’re thinking about Paris, aren’t you?” she said, her cheeks flaming and her chin notching up. “I can explain Paris. It was my first assignment, and someone gave me bad information—”

  “Oh, good God! That couldn’t have been you.”

  She arched a brow at him. “Why not?”

  “You couldn’t have been more than twenty-three! We were newly married.”

  “And?”

  And he hadn’t even been part of the Barbican group yet. He’d heard about the Paris incident after he’d been inducted. He’d also heard how Agent Saint had used his—her—wits to salvage the whole operation. He stared at her, anger and something else—admiration?—rising inside him. “I wasn’t even part of the Barbican group yet.”

  “I know. Agent Wolf came on after I joined. If it’s any consolation, I was allowed to join only after we married. Lord Melbourne didn’t find it seemly for an unmarried miss to work as a spy.”

  “So you married me for the entrée it afforded you into the Barbican group.”

  She sat in the cream Sheraton chair she’d pulled to the table where the Jenkinson file still lay, now in some disarray. “It’s as good a reason as any. Why did you marry me?”

  He felt himself begin to squirm and tamped the feeling down. “I needed a wife and an heir. You weren’t as silly as the other girls. You didn’t pepper me with questions about my whereabouts or cling. I thought we would get on well.” And she’d never mentioned his father.

  She sighed. “Obviously, we’re both hopeless romantics.”

  He grinned at her.

  “Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “I suggest we return to the task of studying this file. Jenkinson’s financial distress certainly gives someone—perhaps Hardwicke, as he was owed the bulk of the money—a motive for murder.” She picked up the file and began to sift through the pages.

  In that moment, he wanted her more than he ever had. She was Agent Saint. She was Sophia. She was his wife. His.

  She tucked a chestnut curl behind her ear and glanced up at him. “What is it?”

  He stepped toward her. “I think the file can wait.”

  “Earlier you said Liverpool should have sent it straight away.”

  “Earlier I didn’t know you were Agent Saint.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, I order you to study this file.”

  He’d been about to take another step toward her, to lift her out of the chair and into his arms again, but now he stopped. “You order me?”

  “That’s right. As I’ve been a member of the Barbican group longer than you, I’m your superior. That gives me the right to give orders.”

  He stared at her. She was right, of course. That was how the group worked, but he’d be dammed if he was going to take orders from a woman—from his wife!

  “And if I refuse your orders?”

  She opened her mouth, closed it again.

  “That’s right. Neither of us are part of the Barbican group anymore. Those rules don’t apply.”

  She shrugged, looked back at the file. “Fine. I don’t care for rules much anyway. But if you think you’re going to distract me with kisses and caresses, think again. Work comes first.”

  “Is that so?”

  She flipped a document over, studied the back. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “So right now any advance I made would have no effect on you.”

  She lifted another document, set the first aside. “Right. No effect,” she said absently.

  Well, he couldn’t walk away from a challenge like that, could he? He closed the distance between them, grabbed her arms, and yanked her out of the chair. The page she held fluttered to the floor, but before she could sputter out protests, he closed his mouth over hers.

  Immediately, he was flooded with the flavor and the scent of oranges. Did she eat them for breakfast? Did she bathe in them? No matter, he drank it in, slanted his mouth over hers, taking and taking, delving into her, tasting and teasing. His hands were as busy as his lips. His first task was to free her hair, feel it tumble heavily over his hands. He felt the weight of it, the thickness, the silky tresses brush his skin, and fisted his hand in it. He yanked her head back, giving him access to her neck, and plundered the sensitive skin there.

  Sophia grabbed hold of him, not to push him away, he noted, but to hold on. He risked a glance at her, saw her eyes were closed, her head thrown back. He definitely wouldn’t classify this reaction as no effect.

  He wanted to continue his seduction, but he’d made his point. And there was the small matter of his pride. He wanted her to come to him. He wanted her to want him, even if it w
as only a fraction of what he felt for her.

  Abruptly, he released her.

  She stumbled but caught the table with one hand, steadying herself. “Wh-what was that?”

  “That was the lack of effect I have on you.” He started for the door. “Leave the file in my library when you’re done reading it.”

  “You’re not going to read it with me?” she asked. Was it his imagination, or did he hear a faint note of pleading in her tone?

  “No. I have other business to attend to.” And he strode out the door.

  Ten

  Sophia took her time studying the contents of the file Liverpool sent. It wasn’t easy when half her mind was on her husband, where he’d gone, what he was doing. What he might be doing to her, with her, if he were here…

  She found she alternated between worrying he was angry at finding out she was Saint and worrying he was pursuing some avenue of the case she hadn’t yet considered.

  But she was a professional. She could put personal matters aside and concentrate on work. She did so as she perused the file. Then she sat back, closed her eyes, and cleared her mind.

  Millie Jenkinson had been a great deal of help. She’d mentioned her husband meeting foreigners and conducting secret meetings. Millie also had a lover and was pregnant with said lover’s child. But the child was legally George Jenkinson’s. Was that a reason to kill? Sophia didn’t know, but she would keep that fact and Randall Linden in mind for the present.

  Further, Millie was in love with Linden. Love was a motive as old as the ages. Linden was Millie’s alibi, and undoubtedly she would be his. Sophia thought it unlikely Millie was a murderess, but she hadn’t become Agent Saint by accepting the obvious. Still, her instincts protested against pregnant, tearful Millie Jenkinson as a murderess.

  Then there were Jenkinson’s financial problems. He owed a great deal to his business associate, Hardwicke. That didn’t give Hardwicke a motive for murder. If Hardwicke killed Jenkinson, how would he claim the money he was owed? And how did the secret meetings and foreigners fit in with Jenkinson’s debt? Or did they?

  Liverpool had been visibly upset about the state of his half brother’s body. Sophia had thought to question the valet, Callows, about that, but as he was out of town, she might need to pay a visit to Liverpool for particulars. She wished one of the other servants had heard something or seen something. The fact that they didn’t served only to reinforce her initial reaction. When she’d stood in the Jenkinsons’ vestibule, she’d been thinking the murderer had to either know his or her way around the house or must be someone whose presence would not raise suspicion.

  Hardwicke’s presence wouldn’t raise suspicion during the day, but in the middle of the night…

  She sat forward, clasped her hands. “Millie Jenkinson.” She raised one finger. “Spoke to her. Has an alibi.” She raised another finger. “Randall Linden. Also has an alibi. Need to speak to him.” She raised a third finger. “Callows is away from Town. Most annoying and vexing. I want to speak to him.” She stood, paced. “Hardwicke is owed money by Jenkinson. Business associate. That makes him a suspect, but the motive is weak.”

  She continued to pace, annoyed with herself for thinking so much. She was turning into Adrian. It was already afternoon. She only had time to visit either Hardwicke or Linden.

  “Hardwicke or Linden? Hardwicke”—she scratched her nose—“or Linden?”

  Sophia halted and tapped her nose. “Hardwicke.”

  She wore her spencer. The weather was warm and the garment unnecessary, but she couldn’t afford to appear unfashionable to a businessman like Hardwicke. She checked the address in Liverpool’s file and saw Hardwicke’s offices were in a less than ideal area of Town. Perhaps the spencer didn’t matter after all.

  But her nose itched again, and she decided looking fashionable would play well with a businessman, no matter how destitute. With that thought in mind, she stopped in her room to restore her coiffure and trade the cap she’d worn to Millie Jenkinson’s for an O’Neill hat decorated with feathers. A French hat would have been au courant—everything French was in style now—but Sophia liked the brim of the O’Neill better. It was less feminine, less fussy than round rims and satin ties under the chin.

  On her way downstairs, she thought of Adrian again. Now that he knew her true identity, she no longer had to sneak out of the house in unfashionable clothing or heavy mantles. She could wear what she liked, be herself—whoever that was. Well, she knew one thing about herself. She liked O’Neill hats.

  Would he call at Hardwicke’s offices? She wouldn’t bet against it. Perhaps his plan all along had been to distract her with the file while he met with Hardwicke. Or perhaps she gave him too much credit. Could she give Agent Wolf too much credit?

  At one time, she would have thought Adrian would be at his club. Now she knew better. She wondered if he even belonged to a club. If so, she wondered which.

  That would be easy enough to discover. She was a spy, after all.

  Wallace met her at the bottom of the staircase and beamed his approval at her choice of wardrobe. “Would you like the carriage, my lady?”

  So Adrian hadn’t taken it. Wherever he’d gone, he’d gone on foot. Or horseback. She might have asked, but she preferred to avoid revealing to the servants how little she knew of Adrian’s plans and whereabouts.

  “Yes, the carriage would be lovely, Wallace.”

  “Will madam be home for dinner?”

  “Ah…” She squinted for a moment, tried to remember the day and her plans. A pit formed in her stomach, and she sighed. “No, Wallace. His lordship and I will be dining away.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  She wanted to tell him that no, it was not very good, but instead she stood in the vestibule and waited for the carriage to be brought around. Edward and Cordelia were hosting a dinner party tonight. Sophia would have liked to send a note saying plans had changed and she could not attend, but the consequences of such an action might be worse than the actual party. Cordelia would come to call here, to demand an explanation, and then Sophia wouldn’t be able to get rid of her. At least at the dinner party she could leave early, claiming a headache.

  She settled into the carriage and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She did have a headache. She rolled her neck, thinking unwillingly of Adrian’s skilled fingers earlier. He would certainly be able to knead away her pain. He’d be able to do a great deal more than that…

  In the past twenty-four hours, he’d touched her more often and more intimately than she’d been touched in months. She could still feel the press of his hand on her thigh. Her body ached, remembering his touch between her legs. She wanted that touch again.

  It would be an easy matter to seduce him. She wouldn’t even have to seduce him. If she looked at him too long, he would probably rip her clothes off.

  And then what?

  She didn’t want another doomed pregnancy. Unlike Millie Jenkinson, Sophia had given up. Still, there were other ways to find pleasure. Would Adrian accept that compromise? And did she want him to?

  She had not thought overly much about what he did for amusement after she shut him out of her bedroom. In her mind, Adrian preferred reading to living, preferred his library to the city streets. Agent Wolf was another matter entirely. Would Agent Wolf suffer eleven months without a woman?

  She didn’t think so. And so the issue became, should she question his faithfulness? Those types of discussions would only bring them closer. Did she want to be closer to him, or did she prefer to return to her safe, lonely existence?

  She peered out the window and saw Hardwicke’s ramshackle building come into view. Several dangerous-looking men loitered on the street, eyeing the well-appointed carriage with curiosity. She wasn’t worried about them. She could handle herself with thugs. What she couldn’t handle were the emotional entanglements of her marriage.

  But she would put that aside for now. The Barbican group was calling.

  ***

/>   Adrian sighed when Sophia stepped into the public room of Hardwicke’s offices. He supposed he’d been overly optimistic to assume Liverpool’s file would have occupied her most of the day. That was exactly the kind of work he’d wanted to use to keep her busy, but apparently she wasn’t content to work at home. No surprise.

  He supposed he was going to have to implement Plan B. Meeting her outside Millie Jenkinson’s Mayfair residence was one thing. Meeting her here, practically on the outskirts of Seven Dials, was quite another.

  She spotted him immediately and gave him a weary look. “Don’t you have a club where you can while away the hours?”

  “Don’t you have an orphan-society meeting?”

  She glanced about the room, her gaze lingering on the closed door across from them. “Have you spoken with him yet?”

  “I just arrived. His clerk tells me he’s with a client.”

  Sophia raised her brows. “And you didn’t barge in to disrupt the meeting?”

  “Like you”—he noted she’d donned a fashionable hat and had her hair styled again—“I thought professional behavior might have more sway.”

  “I see.” With a dubious glance at a dilapidated chair upholstered in hideous orange, she sat beside him. “I sent the carriage home. I didn’t like the look of the men across the street, didn’t think Jackson would be safe.”

  Adrian gaped at her. She was so small, so pretty with her gloves and her hat and her striped blue dress and gauzy sleeves. “You didn’t think our coachman would be safe? What about yourself, madam?”

  “I can handle myself.”

  Bloody hell. She probably could.

  She was studying the offices, much as he had upon arrival. Her brown eyes were sharp, missed nothing. No doubt she noted the worn carpets, the shabby furnishings, the poor construction. “Why would Jenkinson associate himself with a man like Hardwicke?” she asked. “Surely he could find better business partners.”

  “I would think Liverpool might give him something of a hand up,” Adrian agreed.

  “Yes, but the Jenkinson home was nice—not the home of a wealthy man, but nicely appointed.”