“It would appear you and Miss Douglas share the same affliction and, dare I presume, for similar cause?” Lord Markham arched a brow and smirked. “Worry not, Lady Wentworth, for I shall keep your secret, too.”
“Then we are mutually beholden.” She smiled as he realized, however late, that he had just confirmed her suspicions.
As Everett handed Rebecca to Dirk’s care, he quickly turned and claimed Sabrina from Sir Kleinfeld. “My dance, Miss Douglas.”
“No.” Sabrina stood stock-still with hands fisted, and Rebecca pondered a warning but remained silent.
“But I insist.” With an arm at Sabrina’s waist, Lord Markham steered her toward the dance floor.
“We both know I will only trounce your toes.”
“Perhaps I am in the mood to have my toes trounced.”
Rebecca winced, because their exchange was truly painful to watch, and she’d wager the suave nobleman would soon regret his words.
“Well, Lord Markham, allow me to oblige you.” Sabrina stomped hard on Everett’s foot and relented as he made it clear he would not be refused.
“Do you think we are that obvious?” Rebecca asked her knight protector.
“Of course not.” Dirk shifted his weight and frowned. “We are far too sophisticated for such romantic nonsense.”
“Romantic nonsense?” She giggled and inched close. “My lord, are you so immune? If memory serves, you were quite overcome, last night.”
A charming red flush spread from his neck to his cheeks, as her not-so-unaffected viscount narrowed his stare and smiled. “That may be, but I believe you are the one who screamed.”
“I seem to recall that you made quite a bit of noise, yourself, my lord.” With a gentle sashay of her hips, she nudged his very impressive erection. “And mine was merely a humble expression of joy. Let me assure you, I can scream much louder.”
“Really?” he whispered. “We should put that to a test. Tonight.”
“Oh? An intriguing offer, Captain. But not very…hmm, what is the word I am looking for?” She tapped a finger to her chin and counted to five before meeting his heated gaze. “Romantic.”
“Dearest Becca, you are, as always, a challenge.” Dirk compressed his lips. “We shall see what I can muster at this late hour to tempt you.”
“Only if you are up to it, my lord.”
“I believe I have already demonstrated my ability to rise to the occasion, Lady Wentworth.”
“I hate to interrupt this touching scene, but we have a mission to complete.” Sir Ross scowled at Rebecca. “Do you intend to dawdle all evening, or are we going to work?”
“Sir Ross, what are you doing here?” she asked with a quick search of their immediate area.
“Ensuring that you remain focused on the task at hand,” he replied icily. “My position affords me regular invitations to such droll affairs, but I usually decline.”
“If that is the case, how are we to explain your sudden presence without suspicion?” Mind racing, Rebecca clutched Dirk’s arm. “There must be a reason for your impromptu affiliation.”
“Perhaps I can be of service?” The quietest member of the Brethren stepped forward and cast a shy smile.
“Where did you come from?” Sir Ross snapped in a most ungentlemanly fashion, which gave Rebecca pause.
“Why, I was standing right behind you,” the young woman responded with the poise and ease of a gently reared noble. “And you should check your tone, sir.”
“My apologies, if I have caused offense.” The venerable head of the Corps blushed. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
“Lance will kill me if she is harmed, but I can think of no better justification for your connection to my family.” Dirk glanced at Rebecca, then Sir Ross, and back to Rebecca. “Lady Elaine Prescott, may I introduce Sir Ross Logan.”
Elaine maintained a regal stance, until Sir Ross bowed with a flourish of which Rebecca had not thought him capable. “It is an honor, Lady Prescott.”
“Indeed, it is, Sir Ross.” Elaine extended a hand. “Now, if it is not too great an imposition, perhaps a waltz will satisfy the gossipmongers and put your fears to rest?”
Sir Ross opened his mouth and then closed it. With a nod, he escorted Elaine to the dance floor, just as Trevor appeared with a visibly faltering Caroline.
“Trevor, stop doting on me.” Caroline fanned herself. “It is just a bit warm in here.”
“I am doting on two.” With a worried expression, Trevor placed a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Please, sit, if only for a moment.”
When Caroline swayed, both Rebecca and Dirk reached to steady her.
“Enough. We are going home.” Trevor flagged down a passing servant. “Have the Lockwood carriage brought around.” To Dirk, he said, “Will you help me get her out of here?”
“Of course.” Dirk stepped forward.
“That is not necessary,” Caroline insisted. “I can walk.” As if to prove her point, she took a rather shaky step and teetered again.
“Hold hard.” Dirk assumed a position of support at Caroline’s side, opposite her husband. “Lean on me.” To Rebecca he said, “Will you be all right?”
“Certainly.” Studying the care and concern her intended displayed for his friend left Rebecca deliciously giddy.
Often conveying an air of casual indifference, especially aboard ship, Dirk seemed terminally in control. While there was something to be said for self-discipline, she rather preferred the rapacious barbarian that claimed her most intimate gift. Prior to last night, never would she have guessed that her no-nonsense lord possessed a wild streak that could rival the most licentious operative of the Corps. Almost instantly, a masculine chorus of lusty grunts and groans filled her ears, erotic images flashed in her brain, and her heart pounded. The hair rose on the back of her neck, and she shuddered.
L’araignee came alert and scanned the room.
Near the back wall, Mr. Clarkson, the oily secretary from Sir Ross’ office, smiled and raised his glass. Strange, he acted as if he knew her, but she had always worn her cloak when visiting the headquarters of the Corps. To the best of her knowledge, he had never seen her face. Had Sir Ross enlisted his aid to protect her?
Mentally, the spy shook her head. Clarkson was not a trained operative, a person of estimable rank, or a titled member of the peerage to garner invitation to one of the ton’s most exclusive celebrations. Yet, there he was, mingling with the crowd. Hadn’t Dirk claimed that he’d seen Clarkson at the ball at Richmond House, earlier in the Season? At the time, she had thought it rather farfetched and had dismissed Dirk’s assertion, as had Sir Ross. So how could she explain his presence at another social function?
A mix of partygoers obscured her view, and she lost sight of the secretary. When the crowd parted, L’araignee was nonplussed to discover him gone. The gentle movement of drapery snared her attention, and she made her way to a pair of French doors, which hung slightly ajar to allow the cool night air into the somewhat stuffy ballroom. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she sidestepped to the small terrace.
#
Silvery moonlight cast an eerie mosaic of shadows from the rail and overhanging tree branches on the tiled floor. A mix of crickets and all manner of night creatures weaved an audial tapestry that reached a fevered pitch as L’araignee closed her eyes to acclimate her vision. It was a trick of the trade that never failed. Gooseflesh covered her from head to toe.
She was not alone.
Fear surfaced in an instant, and she dipped her chin in insouciant salute. Fighting every natural instinct to flee, she held her ground and waited. When the cold, steel end of a gun barrel pressed into her back, she forced herself to remain calm.
“Lady Wentworth. You should not have returned to London.”
The voice of her assailant was unnaturally deep, masking the subtle nuances, as if he knew how to disguise his true identity. Rolling her shoulders to keep distracting
tension at bay, L’araignee inhaled and asked, “What do you want?”
“You know what I seek. For your sake, I hope you have not already surrendered it to Sir Ross.”
“There must be some mistake,” she replied with childlike innocence. How would a noblewoman respond to such a situation?
“There is no mistake.”
“I beg your pardon?” And then she seized on an appropriate reaction. “Is this a robbery? You may take my jewels. I will not resist you.”
“Do not play coy with me, because I know of your connection to Colin Eddington, and I am immune to your charms. I can kill you right now and sleep as a babe tonight.”
“There must be some mistake.” Very slowly, L’araignee lowered her head and began a tortoise-like turn to the left.
The barrel jammed hard into her shoulder blade.
“Face forward, or you are dead.”
She swallowed hard. “You would not shoot me here, not with so many witnesses nearby.”
Myriad maneuvers beckoned, but she was unsure of her success, so she made no move. And she pondered how long Dirk would be gone. When he found her missing, would he search for her and imperil himself? And where was Sir Ross?
“Your confidence will be your downfall.”
“Your carelessness will be yours,” L’araignee snapped and then bit her tongue against further outburst, lest her temper betray her.
“At last, a glimpse of the much touted spirit.” The villain gave vent to a sinister laugh. “So the whore fancies herself a worthy adversary? How enticing, and what I would like to do to you. A pity that your protector was stupid and reckless, leaving you to bear his burden.”
In silence, L’araignee breathed a sigh of relief, because her attacker had no knowledge of her true occupation. He believed her nothing more than a wealthy man’s mistress, albeit in possession of some unknown item of value, which was an important clue, so she played into the ruse.
“How dare you speak ill of Colin. He was brilliant.”
“Not so brilliant as to escape death.”
Despite all her training, she was still human, and her emotions got the best of her.
“I swear I will find you.”
“That day will be your last.”
“You can run but you cannot hide.” L’araignee had to keep him talking. Surely Sir Ross was watching and waiting to make the arrest.
“You are the one who should hide, not that it will do you any good. Ignorance will not save you, Lady Wentworth, and my associates are not the patient sort. We will get what we want from you--with or without your cooperation.”
“I have no intention of hiding, and you cannot take that which I do not have.”
“No, but we can bleed you. We can hurt you until you beg for mercy. And even after we have obtained what we want, we can hurt you for our pleasure.”
“But I do not know what you seek.” She needed to do something, had to make some attempt to discern the identity of the traitor.
“Then you had better find out and soon. You will hear from me again, and you should be more forthcoming if you value your life. Colin can no longer protect you.”
The weapon shifted, the pressure eased, and L’araignee saw an opportunity. In a flash, she turned, only to be stopped by an agonizing blow to the back of her head.
Then there was no pain.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Open your eyes, love.” Dirk stared at Rebecca’s limp form. “You are safe and home.”
His future wife mumbled incoherently before sitting upright in a rush, with fists flailing and legs kicking wildly.
“Hold her, Lord Wainsbrough.” Dr. Handley pinched her nose, and when she opened her mouth to gasp for air, he forced a healthy dose of laudanum down her throat.
Bucking, as would an unbroken horse, her head jerked violently from side to side, as the thick, syrupy medicine seeped from the corner of her lips, and she moaned in protest.
Damian and Dalton each caught an ankle, while Dirk pressed his palms to her forearms, leaned over her, and eased her to the mattress.
Why had he left her alone?
That singular question had repeated itself a thousand times in his mind, a castigating refrain, ever since Sir Ross appeared from nowhere, tapped Dirk on the elbow, and informed him that Rebecca was injured. Fear for her life ripped through him, overwhelming guilt rode in its wake, and a world of regret anchored on his shoulders.
It had taken mere minutes to convey Caroline to the Lockwood carriage, but Lady Jersey had waylaid him in the foyer, with an endless stream of queries regarding his relationship with Lady Wentworth. Ever the gentleman, he had endured the impromptu interrogation with unimpaired aplomb. When he returned to the ballroom, he discovered the spy curiously absent. In an instant, he learned that years of ingrained civility and polite decorum could exact a heavy toll.
And Rebecca had paid the price.
Somehow, Dirk knew he would never erase the image of her motionless body, sprawled on the tiled floor of the terrace at Howard Hall, after an unknown assailant had attacked her. A chill had traipsed his spine as he lifted her head, cradled her in his hand, and the slick ooze of blood seeped between his fingers. An unfamiliar rage shredded all semblances of control and rational thought, and Dirk wanted to kill. Wanted to tear the unidentified blackguard’s throat out with his teeth. Indeed, desire for revenge was a powerful inducement, almost as intoxicating, as seductive as lovemaking.
“Dirk,” she murmured, barely intelligible.
In a flash, fury yielded to concern. “I am here, darling.”
With something between a sob and a sigh, she called him again and relaxed.
“The lady needs rest, Lord Wainsbrough.” The doctor bent and monitored her breathing and heartbeat and then stood tall. “I shall check her condition in the morning.”
Studying her face, so graceful in repose, Dirk asked, “Will she be all right?”
“It is nothing more than a goose egg and a nasty scrape on the noggin, which always bleeds to excess,” the elder physician assured. “I daresay her fitful reaction is a delayed response to the assault. You’ll see, she will be better when she wakes.”
From the shadows, Sir Ross stepped forward and frowned. “Send for me when she is lucid, as she must be interviewed.” He sketched a curt bow. “Dr. Handley, shall we take our leave?”
“Thank you, Sir Ross.” Retrieving his black bag, Dr. Handley rubbed his furrowed brow. “Lord Wainsbrough. Sir Dalton. Your Grace. I bid you good night.”
At the threshold, the physician paused, gazed at Rebecca, and shook his head. “A female interpreter? Whoever would have suspected such an outlandish notion? One would think Wellington could find enough men to speak the enemy’s language without involving a woman in this infernal war. The next thing you know, our ladies will want to wear breeches.”
“If you need anything, know you shall have it.” Damian tugged his cravat loose and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “I will convey the news of her condition to the others.” With a nod, he followed Dr. Handley and Sir Ross and closed the door behind him.
Quiet, neither peaceful nor comforting, settled on Rebecca’s chamber. As Dirk remained a sentry at her bedside, countless emotions prevailed on his heretofore-unshakeable self-control, and he pressed a clenched fist to his mouth lest he embarrass himself.
“How are you, brother mine?”
“I am no mood for levity, Dalton.”
“Oh, of that I’ve no doubt.
“What do you want?”
“Only to offer support.”
Dirk met his sibling’s stare and was nonplussed to see no hint of the usual inappropriate humor. “I am sorry. I have no quarrel with you.”
“No worries, old man.” With a lopsided grin, Dalton chucked his shoulder. “It is altogether discomposing to see you so undone. If memory serves, you weren’t half so overwrought after my most grievous infraction, when I got loaded to the gunwalls and hid under the bed in your bachelor lodgings while you
weighed anchor in Lady Spencer’s harbor. Even then, you found sport in the absurdity of the situation. Tell me, how does it feel?”
“How does what feel?”
“To be in love.” It was a statement, not a question.
For a scarce second, Dirk toyed with denial, but he had to consider the facts. The reality was he could neither command nor, at the very least, manage his emotions. It was as if some invisible force dictated his every move, and each successive charge placed him in greater peril of running amok. He was not ready to put a name to his affliction, but he was too smart to ignore the possibility. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“As if I am rudderless in stormy seas.” Dirk grimaced and raked his fingers through his hair. “As though my innards have been devoured by a wake of buzzards. Like someone ran a ramrod up my--”
“I get your meaning, and how appealing it sounds, though it differs somewhat from the stuff of poets.” Dalton wrinkled his nose.
“Believe me, brother, I would not wish this on the worst reprobate of my acquaintance.”
“So what do you intend to do about it?” Dalton pulled his lucky coin from his pocket and repeatedly tossed it in the air. It was a habit that Dirk found annoying, but, in light of the circumstances, it barely registered.
“I haven’t the faintest clue.”
“Oh, I say.” Dalton’s eyes grew wide. “You are done for.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because never have I known you not to have a plan.” Dalton snorted. “Even when we were in shortcoats, while I often squandered my monthly allowance in a week, you always saved your money, spending no more than the income from the high-interest loans you made to our classmates.”
Plagued by uncharacteristic indecision, Dirk pushed away from the bed and paced, stopping only to glance at Rebecca before reversing course. Pondering one maneuver after another, he could seize no viable solution to his quandary. “This is all my fault.”
Dalton arched a brow. “You blame yourself for what’s happened?”
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