The man occupying the uniform was equally striking. Thick hair mixed with equal parts of black and grey fell unruly over a broad forehead. Eyes of pale blue, vaguely familiar, surveyed her with palpable dislike, and his patrician features were mottled with anger.
Then the mysterious stranger’s stalwart demeanor broke.
“Where is my son?” He pleaded with upturned palms. “What have you done with him?”
“Your pardon, sir. I do not understand.” Rebecca trembled and inched back, but she remained focused on her duty. “To whom do you refer?”
“Where is Colin?”
#
After offering Brie some comfort concerning her mysterious set-to with Markham, and summoning Cara, Dirk returned to the ballroom to discover Rebecca missing. Along the sidewall, three sets of double doors led to the terrace.
Had the operative ventured outside?
He weaved through the throng and crossed the threshold. As his feet hit the flagged surface, Dirk was almost plowed over by his brother.
“Dalton, have you seen Rebecca?”
“Aye.” The scamp flicked his familiar lucky charm into the air. “The lady in question was ahead of me. Is she not in the ballroom?”
“No--”
“Ahem.” Blake appeared as if from nowhere. “When last I saw her, she was walking toward the hothouse.”
Dirk opened and then closed his mouth.
He glanced at Dalton, then Blake.
“What in bloody hell have you two been up to?”
“Who?” Dalton looked at Blake. “Us?”
“Er, I needed some peace and quiet,” the duke said with a tug of his cravat.
Dirk folded his arms. “Tell me you did not accost Lady Wentworth.”
“Now, I resent that, Dirk. Really, I do.” Blake gazed at the sky. “I simply thought she might enjoy a tour of the Netherton’s garden.”
“You are well acquainted with a particular rose bush.” Dalton elbowed Blake. “Just how did you get that nasty thorn out of your--”
“Enough.” Dirk shifted his weight and considered the scene before him. “When last I saw Lance, he was dancing with Elaine. If the two of you are with me, that leaves...”
He whistled a Brethren signal, and a nearby evergreen rustled. Slowly, Damian emerged from the shadows.
“You called?” Blake’s partner in nefarious enterprises asked.
“Gentlemen, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” Dirk dropped his hands to his hips. “If ever there were a damsel in distress, she is certainly such.”
“Spare us the lecture.” Damian chucked his shoulder, and then said to Dalton and Blake, “Did I miss anything?”
“No.” Blake brushed his coat. “She is not very accommodating.”
“I concur,” Dalton added.
Dirk stared at the stars and prayed for patience. “Why do you not seek out a bottle of brandy and commiserate over your defeat?”
Leaving his fellow knights of the order to lick their wounds, he located the path leading to the orangery. As he closed in on the tiny structure, voices caught his ear. Through the glass, he spotted the spy in heated conversation with a man whose identity Dirk could not discern from his current position. His first inclination was to go to her assistance, but he reminded himself that Rebecca was no helpless woman. She was a member of the Corps on a mission and, if the traitor had contacted her, he was duty bound not to interfere. Dirk tiptoed to a decorative hedge and crouched down.
“Please, there must be some mistake,” Rebecca said. “I have no knowledge of the person you seek.”
“Lies! Colin mentioned your name in his last letter to me.”
The stranger was none other than Lord Eddington.
Dirk bowed his head and closed his eyes. After Dirk’s father had been killed in battle, Colin’s sire had mentored the Randolph brothers. It was obvious Lord Eddington was privy to Rebecca’s true occupation. So why had he not been informed of his son’s death?
Had Sir Ross suspected Lord Eddington?
He lifted his chin and peered into the orangery.
“I beg you.” Eddington grabbed her forearms and shook hard. “He is my youngest son. What has happened? I have not had a dispatch from him in a fortnight.”
My lord, my friend, your son is dead.
“Unhand me, sir.” She struggled to no avail. “You have no cause.”
“I will show you cause.”
When it appeared as though Colin’s father was preparing to strike her, Dirk called out. “Rebecca. Darling, are you there?”
“I am in the hothouse,” she replied.
Eddington released her before Dirk entered the orangery.
“My lord, I was unaware of your presence.” He strode in with a hand extended in friendship. “I see you have met my lady.”
“You guard this woman?” The general seemed confused as he ignored the gesture and stumbled backward.
“Aye.” Dirk drew the lovely agent to his side. “She is mine.”
“Do you know--have you any idea--I should return to the ballroom.” Lord Eddington glared at Rebecca, then bowed. “I bid you a pleasant evening, Dirk.”
Once they were alone, he ushered her to a daybed. She eased to the cushions but stopped him from doing the same.
“Pray, a moment.” Rebecca retrieved an embroidery hoop, with a swatch of silks and a wicked needle, from the corner in which he was about to plant his posterior. “This could hurt something valuable.”
“Oh, I say.” He set the hoop and fabric on a small table and then joined her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She hugged herself. “So that was Colin’s father?”
“Indeed.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “Despite what happened tonight, you should know he is the best of men.”
“Of that I have no doubt. And he is worried.”
“I gather Sir Ross has not told him of his son’s demise?”
Rebecca inclined her head. “Why would he?”
“Because they are family.”
“Members of the Corps have no kin insofar as the government is concerned.” Her brow was a mass of furrows. “We are expendable. Thus Sir Ross has no duty to apprise the General of the situation or Colin’s death.”
“And what of honor?”
“Silly man.” She pierced him with a lethal stare. “There is no honor in espionage.”
A chill danced a merry jig down his spine.
“Do you honestly believe that? Can you be so callous?” When she averted her gaze, he cupped her chin and looked her in the eyes. “If you have no honor, have you no heart?”
“I loved Colin as I love my own brother Lucien,” she said, her voice etched with sorrow. “Do not mistake my oversight for apathy.”
In the dim light, Dirk had not seen her pain, had not noted her hurt. But he could not miss the single tear that rolled down her cheek.
“A thousand apologies, Becca.”
At that instant, she clutched the lapels of his coat and buried her face in his chest.
“I am so tired, so very tired.” His neck cloth muffled her words. “Why must I always be strong?”
“Lean on me.” Dirk enveloped her in a secure embrace. “No harm shall befall you on my watch.”
As she wept softly, he pressed a kiss to the top of her hair. She inched precariously close, and he tried to conjure pure, unimpassioned thoughts. Only the worst scoundrel would seduce a woman in such a delicate, vulnerable state. But when Rebecca settled herself in his lap, Dirk mentally sang the words to “God Save the King.”
“There, there, Becca.” He gave her a friendly pat on the back. “Perhaps we should meet with Sir Ross in the morning. He must tell Lord Eddington of Colin’s death.”
He stared beyond the glass walls of the hothouse and prayed no one discovered their impromptu tryst.
“Come now, love.” Wedging a hand between them, he attempted to pry the spy from his body. “We should return to the ballroom before someone finds us.”
With that, Rebecca lifted her head. “Are you so ashamed of me?”
“Of course not, I am merely thinking of your reputation.” Dirk compressed his lips. “And would I have volunteered for this mission if I were?”
“That speaks to your sense of duty, but how do you feel about me?”
Could the woman possibly be more direct?
And how could he answer a question for which he had no answer?
“Now is not the time--”
“There is no time like the present.”
Framing his face with her hands, Rebecca claimed his mouth in a searing kiss.
The unexpected assault caught him off guard, because never had a woman of his acquaintance been so bold. Dirk tried to protest, but she exploited her advantage by darting her tongue at his in rhythm with a repetitive sway of her hips. The suggestive motion left little to the imagination, and he was certain the world had tilted. Fire and desire pooled in his loins, passion rode hard in its wake. Just as he thought he might surrender, she readjusted her position. The mounting tension abated. Grasping at the last vestiges of his control, he almost cried when she slipped her fingers inside his breeches and caressed him where he wanted it most.
The salacious combination proved a potent elixir, and Dirk Randolph, no-nonsense Viscount Wainsbrough, was undone.
CHAPTER FIVE
“I never should have left your side.”
“But I am more approachable when you are not there.” Rebecca covered Dirk’s hand with her own. “I believe garden tours provide an excellent opportunity for the traitor to make his move.”
“I agree,” said Sir Ross, as he steepled his fingers.
“Out of the question,” Dirk replied.
So the stodgy lord feared for her safety?
His reaction went far to soothe her injured pride after their tryst in the Netherton’s orangery the previous night. While Rebecca had been certain the no-nonsense noble would welcome her into his bed upon their return to Randolph House, the viscount had merely kissed her forehead and locked himself in his study. Most French generals invited her to their quarters after a single dance.
Why should Dirk be any different?
And this morning, he had remained stubbornly silent at breakfast and equally unresponsive on the carriage ride to Sir Ross Logan’s office at the Ministry of Defense. How nice it was to see some signs of life in the handsome sea captain.
“Rebecca!”
She snapped to attention. “Yes, Sir Ross?”
Her commander arched a brow. “Glad you could join us.”
“My apologies.” She lowered her chin. “You were saying?”
“There appears to be some divergent opinion in regard to your tactics during this mission.” The head of the Corps tapped a finger to the blotter. “Lord Wainsbrough believes you are in grave danger and thus require a constant companion. I, on the contrary, have faith in your ability to protect yourself and--”
“It is not a question of faith.” Dirk leaped from his chair and loomed before the desk. “Why was Lord Eddington not informed of his son’s death? Do you suspect him?”
“The decision not to apprise Eddington of Colin’s demise was mine,” Sir Ross explained. “Our turncoat may run if he discovers he has either directly or indirectly caused the death of a British agent.”
Dirk folded his arms. “You do not think the villain already knows?”
“Colin was killed in France, and it is conceivable our Benedict Arnold is unaware of what has occurred on the Continent.” With elbows propped atop the desk, Sir Ross tidied a stack of correspondence. “Regardless of the traitor’s involvement, treason is a capital crime according to English law. I will not voluntarily provide the blackguard a warning.”
“But you place us in a most precarious position.” Dirk glanced at Rebecca. “How will she know from whom to defend herself? And how can I protect her? I cannot possibly watch everyone.”
“We are monitoring the movements of the men that we have determined warrant closer inspection, and you are not alone in the field, Lord Wainsbrough.” Sir Ross raised a hand to halt Dirk’s impending protest. “And I will not besmirch the name of an innocent man. You have no need of their identities.”
“I disagree.” Dirk pounded a fist to a palm. “I will not have her end up as did Colin!”
Shocked by the usually stolid nobleman’s outburst, Rebecca immediately moved to his side. “Do not fret for my safety. You promised no harm would come to me, and I believe you.”
“I don’t care, I still don’t like it.”
Sir Ross glanced at her, then Dirk. “Rebecca, give us the room.”
She peered at her boss. “But--”
“That is not a request.”
“As you wish.”
Bloody hell.
Slowly, she strolled to the door. Just when things were getting interesting, she was relegated to the position of hall monitor.
Rebecca would much prefer to remain with her partner in espionage.
#
Dirk would much prefer to remain with his partner in espionage.
As Rebecca exited the office, he could not stifle a frown.
“Have a seat, Wainsbrough.”
“I prefer to stand.”
“Suit yourself.” Although Sir Ross smiled, he had not appeared amused. “Tell me, how is the mock courtship progressing?”
“I am not sure.” Dirk eased himself into one of the two chairs that sat before the large mahogany desk. “As I have never courted a woman before, I have no experience on which to assess the situation.”
“Heed my warning.” The Corps commander narrowed his stare. “Do not involve yourself, in truth, with my agent. Rebecca is a servant of the Crown. As such, your needs must perforce yield to those of His Majesty.”
Dirk would have voiced an objection had the memory of the previous night’s kiss not flashed in his brain. Annoying warmth in his cheeks had him exhaling in disgust. “I am tasked with her protection and am only trying to fulfill my duties.”
“Have you bedded her?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is a fair question, Wainsbrough.” Sir Ross opened a drawer and drew a cigar from a box. “Care for one?”
“No, thank you.” The last thing Dirk wanted was another diversion to fog his brain.
Sir Ross slipped the cigar between his teeth. “Rebecca is a handsome woman and seems quite taken with you.”
“Really?” Dirk bit back a retort that he doubted he could deliver in convincing fashion. “On what do you base your assertion?”
Why was he asking?
Because he wanted to know.
“This is not good.” Sir Ross shook his head and pinned him with an icy gaze. “Rebecca is a professional, and she knows what she is doing. But I cannot have you distracting her. As God is my witness, I shall court her myself before I allow this mission to be compromised.”
“I would never put Rebecca at risk.”
“You already have,” Sir Ross replied with unveiled anger. “Never has her attention wandered during a briefing, yet she drifted off like a woolgathering debutante, just now, in my office. You have captured her interest, as even a blind man could see, and could get her killed. She has to remain focused on the prize--to catch a traitor, not a husband. Do you understand?”
Bloody everlasting hell.
Never had Dirk considered that his attention, however innocuous, might put Rebecca in further peril. Then again, he had pointedly not pondered his attention to the delectable spy, because he had yet to reconcile her effect on him.
“Completely.” Tension settled as a lead ball in his belly. “But why are you not telling her this?”
“And mark you as forbidden fruit? Not a chance.” Logan chewed on the end of the unlit cigar. “Do I have your cooperation?”
“You may depend upon it.” A cold chill pervaded his chest, and Dirk stood. “I will do nothing beyond that necessary to achieve our objective. I shall take
great care not to advance a tendre with Rebecca.”
#
“Lunge, Rebecca. Attack!”
“Lean in.”
“Thrust.”
The women shouted encouragement as Rebecca staved off Dirk’s aggressive offensive. He was backing her into a corner, but she was uncertain how to defend herself. Were it a dagger in her grasp, she could have run him through.
“Take the bit o’ fluff in hand.” Lance chuckled. “Show her you are the man.”
Rebecca had thought Blake would be the only male joining their party. But when she mentioned to Dirk that she had been invited to tea at Elliott House, nothing would dissuade him from coming along. The other men, save Trevor, arrived soon after with the requisite equipment in tow.
“Watch out. Parry, parry!” Elaine winced and covered her eyes. “Oh, no. I cannot bear to watch. Someone tell me what happens.”
Goodness, was her form that bad?
With a supremely arrogant smile, one to which she would take exception under better circumstances, Dirk parried her beautifully executed riposte with force sufficient to knock the weapon from her grip. He pointed his button-tipped foil at her throat and closed the distance between them.
“I shall accept your surrender.”
Must he have been so cocky?
Well, Rebecca might be a beginner at the sport, but she was no babe in the woods.
With hands raised in implied submission, she bent her head and gazed at him through her lashes. She curved her lips as the thrill of the kill settled in her gut. When her prey neared, she moved, lightning fast.
On a sidestep, she landed a sharp jab to his ribs with her elbow. Grasping his outstretched arm, Rebecca planted her feet, centered her weight, leaned in, and hauled his six-foot-four-inch frame over her shoulder. Dirk vented an animal-like grunt as his posterior connected rudely with the polished marble floor. When he tried to put himself to rights, she quickly retrieved her weapon and pressed her booted foot to his chest.
“Just who is surrendering to whom?” Rebecca leveled the tip of her blade with his chin and smiled in triumph. “You are mine, my lord.”
My Lady, The Spy Page 7