My Lady, The Spy

by Barbara Devlin

  With hands on hips and chin rapidly reaching dangerous heights, a sure sign the woman who gave him life was not pleased, she stated, “My dear, you are devastatingly handsome. Rebecca will surely swoon, as will at least a dozen other young ladies, tonight.” Then her icy gaze shifted to Dalton. “And why are you not dressed? You will not be permitted into the Great Room without knee breeches.”

  With an expression of utter horror, Dalton rose from the bed. “Mama, I am not going to Almack’s. Rebecca is Dirk’s responsibility. And I ship out tomorrow night on another supply run. I need my rest.”

  Whether based on suspicion or past behavior, Dirk doubted his brother’s veracity.

  “Be that as it may, Lady Wentworth requires your assistance. And I am well-aware of your impending departure. But, as you stated, you do not depart until tomorrow. Thus you are available to help us, tonight.”

  With that, the viscountess turned and walked toward the door. As she opened the oak panel, she said, “My darling son, life is a series of unforeseeable sacrifices, and I take pride in your service to the Crown. Now, get into your knee breeches before you make us late.”

  As their mother quit the room, Dalton snorted in obvious disgust. “Well, that is just swell dandy fine.”

  It was Dirk’s turn to laugh, but since he considered it bad form and, judging from Dalton’s countenance, a matter of self-preservation, he merely chuckled. “Do not rip at me, little brother. You brought her in here with your riotous laughter.”

  “This development is exceedingly cruel.” Dalton flipped his lucky coin into the air then slapped it to his palm. “Tails. How appropriate, as I shall enjoy none prior to weighing anchor, thanks to Mama’s edict.”

  “I do not follow.”

  “I had arranged an assignation to get my wick trimmed by a prime piece.” As a child deprived of a favorite toy, Dalton stomped past. “Now I must pass the evening with a bunch of witless chits and their marriage-minded mamas, while eating stale cakes and drinking ratafia.”

  As his sibling stormed from the chamber, Dirk sighed and again adjusted the folds of his neck cloth.

  In the quiet of his quarters, an erotic image flashed before his eyes, and a feminine cry echoed in his ears. Skin soft as a velvety peach, a sultry memory, teased his fingertips. The sweet taste of brandy, sipped from lush lips, danced on his tongue. The beast below his belly button roared.

  “Stop this nonsense,” he chastised his reflection.

  Fisting both hands at his sides to cease their trembling, Dirk muttered a curse. Never had his body or his life seemed so beyond his control; and the source of his affliction appeared to share his malady, awareness of which only intensified his torment. Yet despite all efforts to the contrary, he could not stop wondering about the lady’s history.

  With layer upon layer of intellect and emotion, Rebecca was an enigma. Like a many-sided prism, the seasoned agent portrayed an endless combination of colorful personalities. She could be a charming escort, a restrained noblewoman, a vivacious vixen, or a lethal government operative depending on the situation. But which personality was truly hers? And if she offered him a glimpse of her genuine character, would he know it?

  Dirk studied his image in the mirror.

  Had not most people two faces?

  He certainly had a public and a private persona and, at times, the two were quite different. Thus far, he was positive the daring temptress that had kissed, groped, and attempted to seduce him in various locales was none other than L’araignee--not Lady Rebecca Wentworth. Indeed, it was the war-hardened spy who had taken him in hand, literally and figuratively, and led him in a salacious waltz through the London ballrooms. Dirk had not known why he suspected as much, he just had an inkling.

  Yet he was the man and she the woman. In the sensual arena, feminine susceptibilities had always deferred responsibility for dictating terms of surrender to the stronger sex. Perhaps that was the reason he felt rudderless on a ship without an anchor. Custom, and male pride, if truth were told, demanded he reverse their positions, but how to go about it?

  The solution, when it came to him, was surprisingly simple.

  “Of course.” He smiled at himself.

  Mapping his strategy as though it was a mission for the Crown, he adopted a professional approach marked by order and precision. Like a conqueror preparing to seize a much-desired prize, he dressed for battle. After adjusting the lace-edged kerchief in his pocket, Dirk smoothed the lapels of his coat. Summoning the rakish expertise honed in the arms of some of England’s most provocative paramours, he mentally bolstered his licentious weaponry and then went in search of his prey.

  It was time the hunter became the hunted.

  #

  Measuring one hundred feet long by forty feet wide, the Great Room at Almack’s was filled to capacity. The nondescript décor was a bit more frayed about the edges, and many faces had aged, which contrasted with the gilt and glitter of the cream of London society. Upon closer inspection, Rebecca decided little had changed since she last ventured inside the hallowed halls. To her surprise, the patronesses were very welcoming, and Lady Sefton offered a pointed, but polite, admonishment regarding Rebecca’s lengthy absence.

  As it was early in the Season, the marriage mart boasted a brisk business. Despite attempts to blend in, Rebecca could not ignore the narrow-eyed stares cast in her direction. Although no one dared cut her, it was evident that more than one mama mourned the apparent loss of Viscount Wainsbrough, eligible bachelor.

  “A penny for your thoughts.”

  Rebecca fingered the sapphire and diamond choker the viscountess had lent her for the ball and gazed at Dirk. “I am worried.”

  In an instant, his casual expression sobered. “Have you identified suspicious activity?”

  She had, but not the kind to which he referred.

  The curious thoughts filtering through her brain centered not on the elusive traitor but on her partner in espionage. For some reason she had yet to ferret out, the normally reserved lord had mutated into something best described as...wolfish.

  “Heavens, no.” She shivered as his countenance shifted to one more akin to a rapacious barbarian. “I am afraid I might forget myself and damage your mother’s jewels.”

  Dirk blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

  “But I am.” With her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, she gave him a squeeze. The muscle beneath her palm tensed, and her nerves charged with renewed anticipation.

  After her attempt at seduction in the study, and his subsequent rejection, Rebecca had thought Dirk disinterested. What man, sane or otherwise, would decline a feminine dish of carnal delights delivered on a proverbial silver platter?

  One either indifferent or dead.

  Only this morning, she had accepted defeat and retired the field. In spite of her initial character assessment, it seemed she had been wrong about the no-nonsense noble. His polite mannerisms and boyish charm signaled nothing beyond high breeding. That afternoon, she had shed more than a few tears and sought solace in a tin of Belgian chocolates. It appeared her surrender had been a tad premature, because the stoic viscount was stoic no more.

  But Rebecca never could have foreseen Dirk’s sudden change in tack.

  A subtle caress of her derrière through her gown, a sneak attack hidden from the crowd by the portly figure of Lady Kleinfeld, heralded a new contest.

  “My lord,” she said in a low voice, hoping her stare conveyed ample rebuke at such shocking behavior.

  Dirk cast her a devilish grin and quietly replied, “En garde.”

  So the dashing sea captain wanted to play? When he abandoned her to the company of the long-winded Lady Kleinfeld, and entered a conversation with a nearby aristocrat that she guessed was the mate to the frumpy matron, Rebecca decided to answer the challenge.

  It took considerable effort to maneuver into position, and prevent detection, but she returned fire with a bold but brief fondling of Dirk’s bottom using her own body as a shield
. Expecting, demanding, a puissant response, she was disappointed to garner nothing more than an over-the-shoulder glance and an arched brow.

  When, moments later, Dirk claimed her hand and deposited it in the curve of his elbow, he deftly, yet discreetly, trailed a finger along the curve of her bodice. Rebecca gasped and shuddered, and then she met his gaze.

  And her knees buckled.

  As she checked her balance, the perplexing viscount chuckled and lent his support. “Are you all right, Becca?”

  “I am quite fine, thank you.” Swallowing her trepidation, surrendering to temptation, she again looked him in the eyes.

  The intensity, the fire, the raw passion she noted had not been a product of wishful thinking or imagination. Desire burned bright as the sun, warming her from top to toe and pooling at the juncture of her thighs. There was a curious power, an unmistakable force that held her in thrall, capturing her senses. Locked on his stare, she inhaled a sharp breath as an invisible, but nonetheless potent, connection snared her mind and body.

  In a miracle of flesh that defied reason, and Rebecca had never thought possible, the confounding man managed to touch her without touching her. And, oh, what she felt.

  But Dirk merely inclined his head and smiled.

  The strains of the first waltz had couples rushing to the dance floor, and Rebecca was positive his daring game was at an end. But the innocuous party ritual proved an affecting experience. In a brilliant flanking assault, Dirk slipped an arm about her waist, and his hips engaged in a naughty dance of their own. And through it all, her partner never missed a step, never faltered. Each reverse was superbly performed, every whirl effortlessly executed.

  A tantalizing hunger burgeoned in her belly, and fire simmered beneath her skin.

  She was acting like a debutante, and it was silly.

  His was the most recent pursuit of those too numerous to count, and he followed in a long succession of would-be romancers. She was a veteran agent of the Crown, not an untried flibbertigibbet. Yet her pulse raced, and her cheeks burned as tinder set aflame.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Becca?”

  “Oh, yes.” She was grinning and giddy but seemed powerless to restrain herself. “So much that I forget my duty.”

  “But you have not.” His lips curved even more. “You are doing precisely what Sir Ross commanded.”

  Confusion tempered her happiness. “I am?”

  “Indeed.” Dirk clutched her tighter, bent his head, and whispered, “You are supposed to portray the much-adored woman that--”

  “Lady Wentworth, so good to see you in our fair city. It has been a long time.”

  Rebecca jerked back and peered at the interloper. A silver-haired giant with harsh features and icy blue eyes smiled at her. Embarrassed, she realized the waltz had ended, but neither she nor Dirk had noticed.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” She swallowed hard. “Have we been introduced?”

  “In a manner, yes.” The distinguished gentleman bowed. “Lord Varringdale, at your service. Might I have the honor of the quadrille?”

  “My apologies. Your reputation precedes you, sir.” Though his address seemed genuine, his chilly countenance aroused her suspicions. “Although I do not recall the face, the name is legendary.”

  “Wainsbrough.” Lord Varringdale dipped his chin. “Surprised to see you doing the pretty.”

  “I could say the same for you, Varringdale.” Dirk extended a hand, which was accepted in the customary fashion, and then he said to Rebecca, “I shall await you by the Roman bust.”

  As she settled into the dance, assuming the correct position among three other couples, Rebecca studied her temporary partner. “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, my lord,” she said as they joined hands.

  “Oh?” A brow arched, he stared down his nose. “How so?”

  She traded places with another lady and nodded a greeting to her new escort. Strolling in a slow circle, each pair shuffled again. After completing a full rotation, she returned to Varringdale’s side.

  “I do not recall our introduction,” she stated, as her thoughts raced.

  The curious lord clutched her fingers, and they entered the line. “We met in Paris.”

  In an instant, Rebecca stiffened.

  Glimpses from her past missions flashed before her, an array of images coursed her mind, but she could not place him. Yet something seemed oddly familiar. Had he worked for the Corps? Had he been disguised? As the dance concluded, she realized Dirk was at the opposite end of the ballroom.

  “Allow me to escort you back to Viscount Wainsbrough,” Varringdale said with a sickeningly sweet smile, which deepened when she acquiesced without protest. “I can see by your expression that you do not remember me. It is rumored about the Ministry of Defense that I am the most secular member.”

  “Of course.” The pieces of the puzzle fell into place, her frazzled nerves calmed, and she stopped in her tracks. “Colin spoke highly of you, my lord. He lauded your thesis on the finer aspects of cover and concealment.”

  “Ah, young Eddington.” Sorrow ever so briefly colored his features, only to be masked by effusive charm. “His is a terrible loss. Has it been difficult for you, my dear?”

  “Quite.” She inhaled a shivery breath as the vision of Colin’s corpse, lying amid the rose bushes, revisited her memory. “We were very close, and I know he thought fondly of you, my lord.”

  “Flattery is unnecessary.” Varringdale covered her hand with his. “I doubt you two had much time for intelligent conversation, given the nature of your liaison.”

  Rebecca almost swallowed her tongue.

  He knew not her true occupation.

  The man had assumed she was nothing more than a mistress--a whore. The revelation provided solid ground on which to plant her feet, and in the blink of an eye, L’araignee reevaluated her game plan.

  Clinging to her faculties, the cunning operative revisited her script and her part to play. “Colin and I shared a variety of interests, but none fascinated me more than his exploits for the Corps.”

  “Eddington must have trusted you, to have imparted such a secret.” Surreptitiously, Lord Varringdale scanned the crowd. “Perhaps he divulged his discovery? The one that cost him his life?”

  False concern tainted his words; the spy wanted to trounce his toes. “Nay, my lord. I have not a clue.”

  As if he had not believed her, Varringdale narrowed his stare. “I see.”

  “It is a pity, really.” Like a seasoned agent baiting a hook, she inclined her head and averted her gaze. Ah, the devil plays the best tunes. “I have lost a most generous benefactor.”

  Varringdale tensed beneath her palm, and his countenance shifted noticeably. “Indeed? Have you chosen your next guardian?” He leaned near. “I should be too happy to accommodate you.”

  Not a chance.

  “My lord, please.” Drawing on the reality of her situation, Rebecca glanced left, then right, and frowned. “If my youthful dalliance were known about town, my brother would bear the ruin.”

  “Of course.” He patted her hand. “You have my word as a gentleman, your confidence shall never pass my lips. But I would have a favor in return, a boon for my discretion.”

  His word as a gentleman?

  The man made her skin crawl, and she struggled to suppress a shudder, though the situation was nothing new. “And that would be?”

  “Should you change your mind, you will grant me the opportunity to plead my case.”

  Well-honed instincts rushed to the fore, and warnings tolled like the bells in a Wren steeple.

  Varringdale was testing her veracity.

  Through the elegant formalwear, Rebecca caressed his arm. She would play the arrogant lord as a violin and pluck his strings. “Currently, I am a guest of the Viscount and Viscountess Wainsbrough. Beyond that, I have no plans.”

  “Excellent.” He all but licked his lips. “But we must save that topic for another discussion. Even now, your ho
st approaches.”

  Ah, candy from a babe.

  She peered over her shoulder and nodded an acknowledgement to Dirk. Displaying signs of concern and, dare she think it, jealousy, he portrayed the perfect suitor.

  Under her breath, she said, “Lord Varringdale, I shall weigh your offer with due diligence.”

  #

  It was late when the Wainsbrough town carriage bobbed along the quiet London streets. Because his mother had departed the ball with the Duchess of Rylan, Dirk enjoyed Rebecca’s company, unfettered. Nestled in the squabs opposite him, with her eyes closed, the spy had not uttered a single word in regard to her conversation with Lord Varringdale. When he could tolerate her silence no further, he shifted to sit beside her.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to make your move.”

  “Are you not sleeping?” he asked as he draped an arm about her shoulders.

  “No, I am merely positing tonight’s developments.”

  Although he desperately wanted to discuss one development in particular, Dirk would not press her. “Was it a fruitful evening?”

  “Exceedingly so.”

  Frustrating seconds ticked past.

  “Then Sir Ross should be pleased at our next debriefing.” He clamped his mouth shut, reining in the urge to conduct his own interrogation of the pensive operative.

  The steady clip-clop of hooves filled his ears, and he bit his tongue and prayed for patience.

  “Varringdale generously offered to stand as my next benefactor.”

  “He did what!”

  “Shh.” Rebecca giggled and slipped into his lap.

  And Dirk recalled his carefully charted course. It was just the anchor he needed to ground himself. “So, did you accept him?” he inquired as he took the helm and set a palm to her clothed thigh. She’d said she wanted him.

  “Of course n-not.” She stuttered as he flexed his muscles, and her eyes flared. “But I discerned that Colin did not fully confide in his one-time mentor. Lord Varringdale believes I was Colin’s mistress, in truth.”

  “Really?” He skimmed his hand over her skirts, letting it rest on her knee, before blazing a naughty path to her shapely calf. He was rewarded with a telltale shiver. “Did Colin often speak of Varringdale?”