Lord and Lady Spy

by Shana Galen

  Because he needed an heir to inherit the title. But Adrian could live without an heir. He wasn’t so sure he could live without Sophia.

  “What are you thinking about?” she said without ever stirring or opening her eyes. He hadn’t even known she was awake.

  “How beautiful you look.”

  Her brown eyes opened, and she smiled. Why had he never noticed what a sultry smile she had? He liked the way her lips turned up at the corners just so.

  “Is that all?”

  “I’d like to stay here all day with you.”

  She put her arms around his neck, drew him down. “That sounds heavenly.” She pressed those still-smiling lips to his mouth, and he drank her in. Kissing Sophia was unlike kissing any other woman. He’d kissed his fair share—perhaps more than his fair share—before they’d married.

  He’d always enjoyed it, but more than the act of kissing, he’d liked the other acts it led to. But he could have been content—almost content—to kiss Sophia all day. She never kissed him the same way twice. She kissed him shyly; she kissed him boldly; she kissed him lightly and deeply.

  Now she kissed him sweetly. Warmth, slow as honey, flooded his veins.

  “I see every part of you is awake this morning,” she murmured and stroked a hand along the hard length of him. He didn’t know how she managed the feat in their cramped position, but he didn’t care enough to try and figure the logistics. He dipped his mouth to her neck and kissed the bare skin.

  “You have too many clothes on,” he said when he reached the material covering her breasts.

  “I think we can rectify that. But first, you.” She tugged on the waistband of his trousers, freeing his shirt. Her hand stroked his chest as she raised the material.

  “Oh!” a female voice squeaked from the doorway. The door slammed shut just as Adrian raised his head.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Sophia kissed his chest, flicking her tongue out and distracting him. “Parlor maid. She was probably planning to clean in here. We’re supposed to be in our beds.”

  “Splendid idea.” He rose and pulled her to her feet. She looked wonderfully disheveled. He had to resist the urge to pull her clothes off right there. “Your bedroom or mine?”

  “Mine is closer,” she breathed.

  He grabbed her hand and tugged. In the vestibule, he paused to kiss her again before the stairs. A passing footman carrying a silver tray stopped midstride, turned, and went back the way he’d come.

  Wallace was not so obliging. “My lord. My lady.” His voice was sober. Adrian glanced at him, saw his eyes were on the ceiling. He held out a silver tray. “This was just delivered.”

  Reluctantly, Adrian released Sophia and lifted the stiff, white, folded note. He was about to open it then saw it was addressed to The Right Honorable Viscountess Smythe. He handed it to Sophia, who raised her eyebrows but took it. She broke the seal, scanned it, then handed it to him. “It looks like we’ll not have as much leisure time as anticipated,” she said.

  The note was from Millie Jenkinson. George Jenkinson’s valet had arrived home late the night before and was packing to leave her employ. She begged them to come immediately, despite the early hour, if they wished to speak with the man before he departed.

  Adrian glanced at the tall case clock in the vestibule. It was barely seven. “The valet seems in quite a hurry,” he said.

  “My thoughts exactly.” Sophia started up the stairs, glanced back at the butler. “Send my maid immediately, Wallace. I’ll need to dress quickly.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “And call for Jackson and the carriage,” Adrian told him as he started after her. He knew his valet would be ready and waiting.

  At quarter to eight, Adrian listened to the horses’ bells jingle as the carriage made its way through deserted Mayfair. The day was warm and sunny, and he found he enjoyed being awake early enough to benefit from the solitude. They passed a nanny pushing a baby carriage, and he saw Sophia look quickly away. He wondered if she dreaded seeing the expectant Millie Jenkinson. No one would ever suspect how much she suffered the loss of their children. Even he hadn’t known her anguish. He had supposed she moved past the grief as he did, but now he wondered if she ever could, ever would.

  “Sophia? Would you rather not see Mrs. Jenkinson today? I can handle the valet interview.”

  She looked at him for a long time, her expression a war between mistrust and gratitude. Finally, she said, “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  The carriage slowed, and he parted the drapes, revealing the Jenkinson town house. Before they’d even alighted, the butler opened the door. “My Lord and Lady Smythe.” He gave a stiff bow. “If you would follow me to the parlor, Callows is waiting.”

  It seemed to Adrian, upon entering the parlor, Callows was being held prisoner. The valet was a small, thin man with dark, thinning hair, a sharp, pointed nose, and as was expected, perfectly tailored clothing. Two footmen stood at the parlor door and Callows glared at them with red-rimmed eyes. He turned his glare on Adrian when he entered.

  “Well, this should be easy,” Sophia quipped as she strode into the room.

  “I demand to be released!” The valet jumped to his feet, the Chippendale armchair he’d been occupying tumbling over. “I’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t hold me against my will.”

  “Sit down,” Adrian ordered.

  “I will not. I demand—”

  Sophia strolled up to the valet and looked the rather petite man in the eye. “Lord Smythe asked you to be seated. It wasn’t a request.”

  The valet stared at her, the footmen stared at her, and the Jenkinson butler stared at her. Hell, Adrian couldn’t keep from staring at her. He had the urge to sit after listening to the tone of her voice.

  Slowly, the valet righted the chair he’d spilled and sat stiffly on the edge. Sophia smiled, all sweetness. “Thank you, Callows.”

  The butler moved aside, and Millie Jenkinson rushed in. She was still dressed in mourning, and the dark smudges under her eyes gave her a haunted appearance. Why wasn’t she sleeping? A late rendezvous with Linden? Grief? Or something else? The widow crossed directly to Sophia and took both of her hands. Adrian saw his wife hesitate just for an instant before she gave in.

  “Thank you so much for coming, Lady Smythe.” She glanced at him. “Lord Smythe. I asked Callows to remain for a few hours so you might question him, but he seemed intent on leaving right away.” She gave the valet a sheepish look. “I didn’t want to restrain him, but…”

  “You did the right thing, Millie,” Sophia reassured her. “And this interview will take only a few moments.” She glanced at the valet. “Assuming Callows is cooperative, he can be on his way directly.”

  “Very well. Do you mind if I stay and listen?”

  Adrian opened his mouth to protest, but Sophia was already shaking her head. She steered Millie to the door, saying quietly, “I’ve found the staff often doesn’t like to speak freely in front of employers, even former employers. If it’s not too much inconvenience, we’d like to speak to him privately.” She glanced at the footmen and the butler.

  “Of course. Please let me know if there’s anything you require.” And with a wave of Mrs. Jenkinson’s arm, the butler, the footmen, and the widow departed. Adrian looked at the seated valet and the all-but-empty parlor. How had Sophia accomplished all of that in, he glanced at the clock on the mantel, three minutes?

  Sophia sat in a Chippendale armchair matching the valet’s and smiled up at Adrian. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her. Soundly.

  “My lord, you may begin when ready.”

  He blinked, cleared his throat. “Mr. Callows, when was the last time you saw George Jenkinson?”

  He rolled his eyes. “The night I found him dead.” His tone indicated this should be patently obvious. Adrian gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to punch the valet.

  “Walk us through that night,” Sophia said, sounding far ca
lmer than he felt.

  The valet sighed. “Is this really necessary?”

  Sophia examined her glove then smoothed her cream skirts. “Take your time, Mr. Callows. We have no pressing engagements.”

  “You can’t keep me here against my will.” The man’s pale face flooded with color. “I demand to see the constable.”

  “Of course.” Sophia smiled. “After you answer our questions.” She glanced at Adrian. “Should we call for tea, my lord? I fear we may need refreshment.”

  “Fine. I’ll tell you what I saw.” The valet visibly shuddered, and Adrian flicked his eyes to Sophia. She’d noticed as well.

  “Start at the beginning,” Adrian ordered. He was prepared to give the valet one last chance to cooperate. If the man still resisted, he was going to ask Sophia to step out of the room and employ Plan B.

  Callows rolled his eyes, and Adrian almost hoped he had to ask Sophia to give him a moment alone with the valet.

  “Mr. Jenkinson arrived home at close to midnight.”

  “From?” Adrian asked.

  The valet glared at him. “I did not inquire. I’m only the valet, my lord.” Adrian started for him, not caring if Sophia was still present, but she rose and swiftly stepped in front of him.

  “Did Mr. Jenkinson retire?”

  “Yes.” The valet’s gaze never left Adrian’s. “He dismissed me and went to bed, so far as I know.”

  “What did you do?” Adrian said through clenched teeth.

  The valet looked like he had another quip ready, but he hesitated for a moment then said, “I also retired. At about three, I thought I heard a noise. I rose and went to check on Mr. Jenkinson.”

  Adrian frowned. He rarely summoned his own valet after the man had been dismissed for the night. “Did Mr. Jenkinson often require your services in the middle of the night?”

  “No.”

  Sophia was still standing beside him, but she lowered her hand from his arm. “Then why did you go to him?” she asked. “Did he call out or ring for you?”

  The anger and annoyance on the valet’s face ebbed away, and he shook his head. “No. I—this might sound strange.” He looked at Sophia now, clasped his hands in his lap, and unclasped them. “But I had a feeling something was wrong.”

  Sophia sank into the chair beside the valet. “That doesn’t sound strange at all. You sensed something was amiss.”

  The valet nodded. “Exactly.”

  Adrian wanted to tear his hair out. He didn’t believe in feelings and sensing. He believed in concrete, tangible things. “Mr. Callows, I’m not as… intuitive as my wife. Think back. Did you hear a sound or see a light? What woke you?”

  The valet shook his head. “Nothing. I sensed something was amiss. When I woke, there was naught amiss or disordered. I almost went back to sleep, but I had a—” He looked at Sophia. “A feeling. I acted upon it, dressed, and entered Mr. Jenkinson’s room.”

  “What did you see?” Sophia asked.

  The valet shook his head. “Madam, it’s not a fit topic for a lady such as you.”

  Adrian couldn’t agree more, but he knew Sophia would rather stick her hand in a roaring fire than be excluded from the interview because of her gender.

  “Mr. Callows,” she said, “I stood over the body of a dead man for three-quarters of an hour yesterday. It wasn’t the first time I’ve done so. Whatever you saw, I can guarantee you, it won’t shock or surprise me.”

  “Very well.” The valet’s mouth was thin and hard again, Adrian noted. The man did not want to speak of this. “I walked into Mr. Jenkinson’s chamber and found him displayed on the floor.”

  Adrian stopped him. “What do you mean, displayed? That’s an unusual choice of words.”

  The valet sighed impatiently. “If you’d seen the body, you’d understand. It was, for all intents and purposes, on display.”

  “Describe it,” Sophia ordered.

  The valet’s lip curled in disgust. He shut his eyes. “Mr. Jenkinson was unclothed. This was not his state when I left him. I helped him dress in his nightshirt and cap.”

  “Did you see it when you entered the room?” Adrian asked.

  “Not immediately. But I spotted the nightshirt later. It was cleanly cut in two and tossed on the bed. The nightcap had been used as a—” He cleared his throat, shut his eyes again. “A gag.”

  Adrian nodded. So Jenkinson’s attacker needed to prevent the victim from crying out or alerting the staff. Still, the valet had awakened, and despite what Callows claimed about his feelings, Adrian believed Jenkinson had been able to make some sound of distress.

  “The body was…” He wiped a hand over his eyes. “The state of the body…”

  Sophia gripped the valet’s hand, her action surprising Adrian. “If you say it quickly,” she said, her voice reassuring, “it’s sometimes easier.”

  The valet took a breath, nodded. Adrian wondered how he had ever conducted interviews without Sophia. It seemed she flirted or coaxed the information from every one of their suspects. Intimidation had always worked for him, and he grew impatient with Sophia’s slower methods, but he had to admit that they worked.

  “He’d been sliced,” the valet said rather quickly. He swallowed. “All over. Deep cuts from his neck to his toes, dozens of them.”

  “The wounds were horizontal?” Adrian asked.

  The valet nodded.

  “Was there any pattern?” Sophia asked. “Anything unusual?”

  The valet stared at her. “Besides the fact that he’d been all but sliced open?”

  She pressed her lips together. “Yes.”

  “Good God, but you two are a cold pair. I’ve just told you the man was sliced a dozen or more times. He lay in a pool of his own blood so deep and thick, some leaked through the ceiling of the floor beneath. And you want to know about patterns?”

  “I know this must be difficult,” Sophia said.

  The valet stood. “You have no idea. But since you ask, yes, there was something unusual. Amidst the cuts, the letter M had been carved into Mr. Jenkinson’s chest.”

  Seventeen

  Sophia hadn’t thought anything Callows told her would shock her, but the idea of someone carving a letter—an initial?—on a man’s chest did shock and sicken her. Had Jenkinson been alive when the initial had been carved? Had the initial stab wounds killed him?

  They’d questioned Callows for another hour about the details of the body—the amount of blood, whether it had been spattered, the type of knife he thought had been used. They’d gone to Jenkinson’s room and examined it. The room had been cleaned and the carpet removed, but Sophia had no trouble picturing the scene as Callows had described. It made her stomach revolt.

  Now she and Adrian stepped into the bright midday sunshine, and she squinted. It seemed they had been inside the dark Jenkinson town house for days, not mere hours. And while inside, all was gloom and death, outside, the world was sunny. Birds sang, flowers bloomed, a phaeton carrying a dandy and a laughing woman in a fashionable hat streamed past.

  “I’ll have a footman call for the carriage,” Adrian said, turning back to the dark house.

  Sophia put her hand on his arm. “Let’s walk. I could use the fresh air.”

  “Very well. I’ll instruct Jackson to drive home, then.” He left to give the orders, and she watched his back. Admired the graceful way he moved, like a cat prowling. His dark blond hair was mussed, as he’d run his hand through it half a dozen times. She liked it disordered. He was so serious, so regimented. Sometimes she had the urge to grab his cravat and pull it askew. And yet, if he’d been more spontaneous, as she was, she wouldn’t have liked him as much.

  She wouldn’t have felt safe with him, wouldn’t have trusted him. And was it just her imagination, or had he softened slightly? He no longer argued with her methods; he no longer insisted she not pursue the case or avoid jumping into dangerous situations. She could tell he didn’t like it. Yesterday when they’d been attacked outside Linden’s res
idence, she had known he was angry she was put in a vulnerable situation. But she liked to think she’d earned his respect.

  And she liked that she could be vulnerable and still keep his respect. He seemed to understand her need to walk in the sunshine today, to shake off some of the darkness and cold of death. He didn’t ask her why, didn’t complain that the walk was long and the coach was readily available. Adrian just took care of her, gave her what she needed.

  It was an amazing feat, considering at times she didn’t even know what she needed. But now she knew what she wanted. She wanted a life with him—whether that was traveling around the world, working for the Barbican group, or staying home and raising their children.

  She felt her stomach tighten and had to swallow the lump threatening to rise in her throat. She clenched her fists. Why could she not get past those losses? Why must they torment her so she thought of them whether she wanted to or not? Why must she blame herself?

  Perhaps because everyone but Adrian faulted her for their childlessness. If a couple were unable to reproduce, it was always the woman’s fault. Sophia almost wished she were barren. At least she might never have had the hope, might never have known it was her own body that failed her.

  After the first miscarriage, she’d been so careful. When she even thought there might have been a chance she’d conceived, she’d refused all missions, all social engagements, and stayed in bed. She’d hoped that by resting, the little baby would thrive and grow. But she’d awoken one night, her body wracked with pain and blood staining her sheets. The doctor had come, and the look on his face when he shook his head had rent her heart.

  She’d felt so helpless as the little life in her drained away. She’d wanted that child so badly, imagined a little girl with Adrian’s blond hair and gray eyes or a little boy with her dark coloring. She’d been left with nothing.

  After time and healing, she and Adrian had tried again. They’d never spoken of the miscarriages, and she’d never told him she wanted to try again. She just made it clear, in subtle ways, he was once again welcome in her bedroom. And again, as soon as she thought she might have conceived, she took every single precaution. When she’d known for certain she was pregnant, she’d even forgone going up and down the stairs. That child had lived longer than any other. But in the end, she’d lost it as well.