My Lady, The Spy

by Barbara Devlin

  She drew back the black hood, and a pair of velvety brown eyes met his gaze. Filled with soul-stirring sadness and raw vulnerability, her potent stare struck him as a punch to his belly, and he wondered just how much ugliness of war she had seen. He searched his mind for something to say, a bit of comfort to ease her worried expression, and opened his mouth.

  “You are a woman.”

  And he was a blooming idiot.

  At his clumsy exclamation, Dirk expected her to laugh, or at least smile, but she had done neither.

  “Yes, Captain Randolph, I am a woman.” Her brow furrowed. “Well, I was when last I checked.”

  Dirk chuckled, but she had not responded, in kind. “I was anticipating a man,” he admitted however late.

  “Yes, I am a rarity in my occupation.” She whisked a stray tendril from her heart-shaped face. “My sex is an asset that is often underestimated or overlooked in my profession.”

  My God, was it truly possible? A lady spy? “May I assume you are the operative called L’araignee?”

  “You are correct.” She freed a gold chain from her neck and offered it to him. “Colin wanted you to have this. He told me I could trust you with my life.”

  “On my honor, I will not betray your confidence.” He accepted the jewelry, recognized it in an instant, and frowned.

  A miniature reproduction of a shako plate dangled from the chain, and Dirk had seen it many times. The embossed brass insignia of the 68th Light Infantry was similar to that worn on a military uniform hat and bore the rank of lieutenant, to which Colin had risen before transferring to the Counterintelligence Corps. Although he enjoyed the intrigue and excitement of the Corps, Colin had been a lobster, naval-speak for red coat, at heart and had, therefore, kept the miniature next to his.

  Though suspicion nipped at his heels, and cold dread permeated his chest, Dirk had to ascertain his friend’s fate for his report. “What of Colin?”

  “He is gone.” Her voice was bereft of emotion, as if she were commenting on something as droll as the weather.

  His insides twisted at the prospect of never again seeing his old friend. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “I was with him when he passed.”

  “A pity that. He was a good man.” Dirk studied the spy with sad eyes, but her ghostly demeanor belied no hint of her character.

  She averted her gaze. “He was like a brother to me.”

  “Ship, sir.” The call came from the crow’s nest. “Three points off starboard.”

  “All hands make sail.” Drawing on years of seamanship, Dirk quickly assessed the situation. Given the primary objective of his mission, he could not expend the considerable effort required to take the French vessel as prize.

  “What are you going to do?” the operative inquired.

  “Run like smoke’n oakum. Sharpshooters to the tunnels.” Dirk sprang into action. “Kill the lanterns and ready the guns, but stand fast until she is close enough. Mr. Scott, escort our guest to my cabin. All quiet on deck.”

  The crewmen worked quickly to douse the lights and then assumed their stations. The only sounds heard were the raising of the lower deck ports and the guns being prepared to engage the enemy. A thunderous roar signaled the battle had commenced, and the first shot landed short of the starboard bow. Water sprayed over the rail, and the Gawain shuddered beneath his feet.

  “Hell and be damned, her captain must be wet as a scrubber,” Dirk cursed. “Mr. Scott, get to your post. Miss--”

  “Rebecca.”

  “Right.” He grabbed her by the wrist. “Rebecca, you are with me.”

  The beautiful agent in tow, Dirk stumbled his way to the quarterdeck. When the ship heeled hard a larboard from an additional premature blast, evidencing an inexperienced foe, he hugged her close and shielded her from a rush of ocean water. She appeared frightened, and he guessed that she might never have endured a sea skirmish. To her credit, the spy remained in his wake as he took a position at the wheel and evaluated the tactics of his imbecilic opponent.

  “Wonderful. The blasted greenhorn has her full and by.” The French corvette approached, and he signaled a tar to hoist the colors. “Come up with the wind, Mr. Hanson. Have your men brace aback the mizzen topsail.”

  “Aye, sir.” The boatswain conveyed the appropriate orders, and the middle watch scrambled into the rigging. Soon, a blustery gale filled the main topsail, and the Gawain soared atop the waves.

  “Are you out of your mind?” At his side, Rebecca folded her arms, and then unfolded them. “We are headed straight for it.”

  “Do not worry.” His fingertips itched, his muscles flexed, and the thrill of action burned in his loins. Dirk checked his bearing and chuckled. He was a Nautionnier Knight, and he was bloody well enjoying himself. “I know precisely what I am doing.”

  The enemy kept their topsails to the mast, which was another fatal mistake indicative of an incompetent leader. Tension mounted, and a third adversarial barrage overshot the target. He glanced at his guest, and she inched closer. Dirk prayed she would not scream.

  “Are you all right?”

  Rebecca indicated the affirmative but said nothing.

  “Good.” They were coming into range, and his heart pounded in his chest. Nerves charged, and he shuddered. “Cover your ears.”

  “What?”

  “Sharply, men. Aim for the main. Fire!”

  As the volley sounded, the Gawain reverberated from the recoil, and the spy with sad eyes jumped. The roar of the guns was deafening, and he had intended to spare her the shock. When she stumbled forward and clung to the quarterdeck rail, she glanced at him, mouth agape, from over her shoulder. In any other circumstance, he would have offered comfort and support, but there was nothing he could do at the moment. Dirk held his palms to his ears, and she arched a brow then followed suit.

  “Hold positions. Fire!”

  The second assault scored a direct hit and toppled his opponent’s mainmast.

  “Stand fast, boys. Fire!”

  A blaze burned in the lower ports and provided a fortuitous distraction, and his men continued to attack the French warship until they passed the stern.

  “Mr. Hanson, lay all topsails aback and spring her luff.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” As before, the bosun repeated the order, and the middle watch made the necessary adjustments to the rigging.

  The new tack brought them parallel with the enemy vessel, and Dirk clutched the helm. “Fire at will!”

  Additional shots came in a rapid salvo, and the lethal broadside devastated his adversary’s hull. If the foolish captain were lucky, he might be able to limp to France.

  “Well done, lads. Cease fire. We’ve done enough damage, and she will not bother us again on this voyage--”

  The spy with sad eyes flew into his arms and buried her face in his chest. Just as fast, she withdrew and checked herself. With a hand at her throat, and the other fisted at her bosom, Rebecca bit her lip.

  “Forgive me, Captain Randolph.” She was breathing heavily as if from overexertion. “I meant no offense.”

  “None taken.” He took a single step forward, and she took a single step in retreat. “Are you injured?”

  “N-no. I am fine.” The agent hugged herself. “In my years of service, I have never observed a sea battle, as most of our transports tend to avoid the usual lanes. It is quite different from my work.”

  “I imagine so.” Dirk turned and gathered his charts in an attempt to cool his blood and calm the curiously live cannon in his crotch. Hell and the Reaper, he hadn’t suffered such an affliction since he was a giddy schoolboy at Eton. “Mr. Scott, an extra portion for every man.”

  “You hear that, boys?” The second in command smiled, as cheers erupted from the waist of the main deck.

  After completing a few course corrections, he dispatched his first mate to prepare accommodations for his guest and relinquished the wheel to the helmsman. Standing as official escort, he ushered the spy to hi
s quarters. As they passed the galley, he inquired if she were hungry and offered her food. To wit the operative politely declined his hospitality. At the entrance to his cabin, he opened the door and handed her over the threshold.

  Lightning fast, she rotated on a heel. “Captain Randolph, I am not here to entertain you while we sail to England.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She could have knocked him over with a feather.

  Rebecca lifted her chin to impressive heights. “I have no intention of spending the night in your bunk.”

  “Is that so?” Her posture reminded Dirk of his mother, and he laughed. “Then we are in agreement, because I do not intend for you to spend the night in my bunk.”

  “Oh?” She appeared to relax, and it seemed that his statement had defused what was shaping up to be a prime temper. “Then why am I here?”

  After securing the door, he leaned against the oak panel and set hands on hips. She was a veritable spitfire. “Because I was expecting a man.”

  “And that makes a difference?” Her eyes sparked.

  “It does to me.” No one, not even his first mate, had ever spoken to him with such fervent fortitude, especially aboard his ship, and he decided he liked it.

  “Forgive me, Captain, but I have been on the receiving end of some rather salacious proposals from men tasked with my protection.”

  “So you leapt to unsupported conclusions woven from whole cloth?” Poor thing seemed so contrite that he couldn’t resist teasing her, even though he would love to offer her a salacious proposal or two.

  “I misjudged you.” Rebecca walked to his dining table, pulled out a chair, and slid to the seat. “My sincerest apologies.”

  “None necessary. Normally, when I carry members of the Corps, they sleep in the fo’c’sle with the men, so as not to arouse suspicion.” Wary of another outburst, Dirk strolled to his desk and retrieved a bottle and a couple of glasses from the bottom drawer. “I am certain that a woman of your intelligence understands why I cannot allow such an arrangement? At the very least, it could cost me a member of my crew. And I am equally positive Logan would not appreciate having his star employee treated as one of the boys. Care for a brandy?”

  Rebecca yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Yes, thank you.”

  “You look tired,” he said as he poured the amber intoxicant.

  “I am positively spent.” She accepted the glass he held for her and took a sip. “You see, I have been on the run for three days.”

  “Sorry to hear that. I thought to have you wait here while my men empty a cabin we currently use for storage.” Dirk pulled out a chair and sat opposite his fascinating guest. “The prior owner of this ship often traveled with his family, and the room functioned as a nursery, or so I was told. It is not much but will afford you some privacy.”

  With something between a sigh and another yawn, the agent said, “I truly regret causing so much trouble, Captain.”

  “Again, no apologies required. Would it place my head in peril if I asked you to call me Dirk?” He studied her delicate frame that seemed to bear the weight of the world. “And what is your full name, if you are at liberty to tell me?”

  “You make sport of my offense, and you forgive my poor manners. My, what a charming host.” She tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “Since I’ve been exposed, and my life is currently in your hands, I cannot see the need for secrecy. It is Wentworth--Rebecca Wentworth.”

  Eyes narrowed, Dirk propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. “Not Lord Calvert’s sister?”

  “One in the same,” the spy declared haphazardly, as though she had just imparted a new sewing technique.

  “Good God.” Disbelief rang in his ears. “And Lucien approves of your chosen occupation?”

  “My brother knows nothing of it.”

  He fell back in his chair and dropped his hands to his lap. “How could he not?”

  “It is simple, really.” Rebecca shrugged. “Lucien is a lieutenant in the Royal Navy and serves Captain Collingwood aboard the Intrepid. When in port, he busies himself with endeavors characteristic of a man his age, to which I am sure you can relate, and believes I am a lady of leisure.”

  “A lady of leisure?” Dirk choked on his brandy. “So, is your contribution to the war effort an attempt to avenge the deaths of your parents?”

  The minute he asked the question, he wished he could take it back.

  With an expression of unutterable sorrow, the spy simply said, “My reasons are my own.”

  A knock at the door preceded the first mate’s entrance.

  “Cap’n, the cabin is ready.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Scott. That will be all.” Dirk stood and considered the unusual noblewoman. Dress her in the latest confection, coif her hair in the most recent fashion, and she could pass for a blushing debutante at Almack’s.

  But not tonight.

  The liquor had worked on her in ways he had not intended, as she had deteriorated from weariness to unqualified exhaustion, wilting as the delicate petals of an exotic rose that had thirsted too long for water, and he had to help her up. “Come, my dear. You need rest.”

  “Walking me to my room, Captain?” She clutched his elbow. “Are you always so noble?”

  “You may depend upon it.”

  Still no hint of humor.

  “And here we are.” His was no grand gesture, as her accommodations were next to his. “Do not feel as if you must take breakfast with the first watch. I would consider it a personal failure if you did not think yourself a guest aboard the Gawain.”

  “Thank you, Dirk.” She crossed her arms in front of herself. “I bid you a pleasant rest.”

  “And I you.” For some reason he could not fathom, he reached for her hand and pressed on her knuckles a chaste kiss. A subtle gasp, barely a whisper, passed her lips, and he smiled. “Goodnight, Rebecca.”

  Dirk returned to his quarters and stretched out in his bunk. Staring at the timbers, he envisioned the brown-haired spy with melancholy eyes sleeping in the adjacent chamber.

  Lady Rebecca Wentworth.

  How well he knew her history, but never in his wildest dreams would he have placed her in her current predicament. Because her father had been a member of the peerage and a military man, the family tragedy still circulated in the smoking rooms at White’s.

  Rebecca was the youngest child and only daughter of Dawson Wentworth, fifth Earl of Calvert, and her mother had been a citizen of France. They were visiting relatives in the Loire Valley when fighting broke out in Nice, in 1796. In the riots of revolution, the earl and his wife had been murdered. Rebecca and her older brother Lucien, under the protection of their nanny, had escaped the mobs and fled to England.

  Rolling on his side, Dirk pondered what might have happened between the time her parents were killed and the present. Who guarded her, and why had she been allowed to join the Corps? Romantic illusions aside, she should never have been permitted to trade in espionage. It was not decent work for gently bred ladies of character, and he had not wanted to contemplate what she had seen and done in the process.

  As a Knight of the Brethren, he had participated in a brief counterintelligence scheme. The mission was dirty, unglamorous, and dangerous, and the experience had left an indelible mark on his conscience and wounds that had yet to heal.

  A strangled, feminine cry brought him alert.

  Dirk leaped from the bunk, snatched a candlestick from the table, stormed into the hall, opened the door to her chamber, and charged forth. Prepared to confront a randy sailor, he was surprised to discover the room empty but for its female occupant.

  “Colin, I am sorry.” She sobbed in her sleep, tossed and turned in her bed.

  The depth of her anguish, the intensity of her fear, sent a chill through his body.

  “Shh.” Quietly, he closed the door and placed the candle on a side table. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Dirk stroked her hair and told himself not to look at the pair of lovely b
reasts bared when she kicked beneath the covers. Only a cad would ogle a defenseless woman. “You are safe, Rebecca. I will let no one harm you.”

  With his thumb, Dirk smoothed the lines that creased her forehead. When he could no longer resist temptation, he shifted and pulled the blanket to her chin. As he whispered reassurances, he studied her cute little nose and rosy lips. Arched brows matched her chestnut hair, and her skin was pure alabaster. Only the occasional soft mumble revealed an inner turmoil.

  The lady was a contradiction.

  #

  The skies composed a heavenly collage of blue, pink, and yellow, and sunlight kissed the waves, glittering as countless stars on the ocean. A gentle breeze filled the sails and flapped the canvas, and wooden beams creaked and groaned like an angry giant as the mighty ship rode the water. Standing on the poop deck, Rebecca inhaled the signature scent of brine mixed with kelp.

  The bad dreams had returned with a vengeance.

  Often the underworld of espionage followed her in sleep. An incubus with many faces had haunted her slumber, and the boyishly sweet image of Colin had joined her cadre of tormentors. With unnaturally crimson eyes, the visage of her former partner had laughed at her, and the hideous squall penetrated her ears even now. In the dark hours, she had run from, but had never escaped, her spectral hunters. While most women her age conjured whimsical heroes bedecked in shining armor, riding to the rescue, Rebecca enjoyed no such fantasy.

  Until last night.

  “Good morning, Captain Randolph.”

  “Has anyone ever successfully startled you,” he inquired as he joined her at the rail.

  “Not unless I so choose.” She glanced at her knight and appraised his appearance.

  With austere features and amber-colored eyes, the naval man was exceedingly handsome. His thick brown hair was close cropped and neatly combed, his tall frame lean and muscular. Her initial assessment was that Dirk was not one given to excess. The ivory lawn shirt, fawn colored breeches, and polished top boots were as conservative as his lodgings.

  In training, Rebecca had learned that private accommodations often mirrored the character of their occupant. The captain’s lone nod to luxury was the wall covering of oak. His other intimate effects were decidedly utilitarian. Instead of a bed, a bunk bereft of silk and satin sat in a corner. Cotton linens and a mended quilt draped the mattress. The bathing area consisted of a large bath and a washstand, all sparkling clean. A mahogany desk held pride of place before the stern windows, and a log, maps, and charts were neatly arranged with nary a speck of dust.