“I will do nothing, because I surrendered my commission.” Inhaling deeply, Rebecca closed her eyes and prayed for strength. “I resigned the Corps and am no longer an agent for the Crown.”
Telltale footfalls on the carpeted floor declared her husband had vacated his bed and come to stand directly behind her. “Why?”
“Because I will not risk an innocent.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Dirk grasped her shoulders and brought her to face him. Naked as the day he was born, he traced her chin with a finger, and then brought her gaze to his. “Becca, what are you telling me?”
“I am pregnant.” She hoped he was pleased, because she needed his kindness at that moment.
In an instant, his expression softened. “Are you sure?”
“Dr. Handley confirmed it this afternoon, though I was not surprised. I immediately returned to the Ministry and met with Sir Ross, to help him tie up as many loose ends as possible before leaving--for good.” Swamped with a heady mixture of uncertainty, anxiety, and longing, Rebecca fought in vain to keep the tears at bay. “I did not know what went wrong, because I used the sponge to prevent conception, but then I recalled that we used nothing the first few times we made love.”
“If I remember correctly, you were in a rush to meet your fate, darling.” Was it wishful thinking, or was he teasing her? “In fact, you quite swept me off my feet.”
Relief washed over her and eased her worried mind, but the adrenaline was too much to bear. With the weight of the world still entrenched on her shoulders, Rebecca broke.
“No, Becca. Do not cry.” Dirk pulled her close and kissed her.
It was an olive branch, an achingly tender caress meant to soothe, and after a few minutes she relaxed in his arms. The tears flowed, as would the ocean through a breached hull, and she sobbed with unrestrained abandon and without pride.
“Why did you come back?”
“Can you not guess? I could not stay away from you, and it was wrong to leave as I did.” He chuckled and gave her a squeeze. “You have turned me into a doting husband. Heaven help me when I return to sea.”
“Are you pleased?” She wiped her nose on her sleeve and hiccupped. “I mean about the baby? Is this what you want?”
“Oh, love.” He cupped her cheek and smiled. “You carry our child. How could I not be pleased?”
“I was coming to Lyvedon. I planned to depart at dawn.” She whimpered. “I am so sorry I chose Sir Ross over you. It will never happen again.”
“My dear, I owe you the apology.” He bent, lifted her from her feet, and carried her to the bed. Perched on the edge of the mattress, he cradled her in his lap. “Never should I have forced you to choose sides.”
“Dirk, I do not deserve you.” She nuzzled his chest.
“Again, you are mistaken, as I do not deserve you.” When he tipped her chin, she followed his lead and accepted the kiss he so tenderly bestowed. Their tongues met, and he tasted her slowly, intimately. The stress of the day yielded to undeniable passion, and she moaned.
“I want you.” With exploring fingers, she searched for his most delicate protuberance.
“Not so fast, my lady wife.” He caught her wrist and frowned.
“It has been too long--”
“I would not injure the babe.”
“But Dr. Handley said--”
“You need to rest.” With a gentleness of which she had not thought him capable, Dirk tucked her beneath the covers. “Sleep, angel, while I make preparations. We shall journey to Lyvedon soon enough.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next morning, Rebecca woke to breakfast in bed, and to her abiding delight, Dirk fed her every morsel, alternating bites of food with sweet kisses. Later, he bathed her, toweled her dry, and brushed her hair for the better portion of an hour. Happier than she would have ever thought possible, she reveled without complaint in the attention her overprotective husband shamelessly lavished on her.
Since it was early in her pregnancy, he had not forbid her to partake of their morning ride, which she had dearly missed. He had, however, held her to a conservative trot--no galloping permitted. And when they returned to their home, and he adjourned to his study to review estate accounts, he kept her at his side, encouraging her to read or work on her needlepoint. In short, wherever he went, she went, too.
While the staff prepared their trunks and mustered supplies for the journey to Lyvedon Hall, the Wainsbrough ancestral pile, she was forced to recline on the chaise and keep her feet elevated. Conscious of the whispers and ever prying gaze of the ton, she tried to shoo Dirk off to one of his clubs, but he would not let her out of his sight.
Since the Season was well nigh at an end, he decided they would remain in residence in the evening, with dinner served in his bedchamber. And despite her assurances that she had, indeed, remembered how to put a fork to her mouth, she dutifully huddled in his lap and consumed everything he offered her. When he insisted she retire early, she objected vehemently--until he proceeded to keep her awake for a few hours, with his particular brand of sumptuous divertissement.
Lost amid an enthralling potpourri of love and devotion, it never occurred to Rebecca that there was an ulterior motive to her husband’s excessive fussing. Her recently retired spy instincts never tweaked, because it seemed a natural reaction to impending fatherhood. After all, Trevor doted on Caroline, as Dirk doted on his wife. She presumed his attentive behavior bespoke concern for the baby.
#
“Viscount Wainsbrough, sir.” Sir Ross Logan’s new secretary announced Dirk’s arrival and then excused himself.
“Why am I not surprised?” The head of the Counterintelligence Corps stared up from the report he had been reading and extended a hand in welcome. “Have a seat, Wainsbrough.”
“Sir Ross, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” Settling into one of the high-back chairs that faced the large desk, Dirk wondered how best to proceed. “Perhaps you can guess my reason for calling.”
“Is it fair to assume you are not here to bemoan the weather?” Sir Ross cupped his chin in his palm and frowned. “Out with it.”
For several seconds, Dirk simply studied the patterned rug on the floor. Though he dreaded the answer, he had to pose the question foremost on his mind. “How serious is the threat to my wife?”
“Well, it depends on the depth of corruption in our forces, which I have yet to fully determine.” Sir Ross leaned back and sighed. “With no idea of the number or rank, I do not know who I can trust. And then there is the mysterious item our villain believes Rebecca possesses. Something for which he is willing to kill to obtain.”
Other than the necklace, which was little more than a harmless keepsake, Colin had given Rebecca; she carried nothing aboard the Gawain. She had no papers or journal. His heart sank in his chest, and Dirk cast a narrowed glance. “Do you believe Clarkson committed suicide?”
“No.” Sir Ross shook his head. “I think he was poisoned.”
“Just as I feared.” A shiver of dread traipsed his spine, as he realized the gravity of the situation. “Someone within the Ministry?”
“Yes,” Sir Ross stated without hesitation. “At the very least, our chief turncoat has access to the Ministry and the offices of the Corps. Our profile suggests he is well known, he blends into our personnel, and his presence does not arouse suspicion. As to his motive, we are clueless.”
“Bloody hell.” Dirk grimaced. “That could be anyone.”
“Precisely. And because of that, he could not risk having Clarkson in custody. All members of the Corps are schooled in the tactics of interrogation we employ.” Sir Ross lifted his chin and caught Dirk in a lethal stare. “I would have broken Clarkson.”
“Rebecca has asked me to take her to Lyvedon Hall.” Dirk stood and paced the floor, and then he halted. “What do you suggest?”
“The open landscape and isolation of the country would leave you vulnerable to attack.” Sir Ross pressed a c
lenched fist to his mouth and paused. “Is there any chance you would be willing to talk Rebecca into returning--if only to help us uncover the conspiracy? I need someone I can trust.”
Dirk walked to the edge of the desk, placed his hands on the blotter, and stared down his nose at Sir Ross. “My wife is pregnant.”
With an expression of utter shock, Sir Ross blinked. “Commiserations.”
“I would rather you congratulate me.”
“Felicitations, of course.” Sir Ross steepled his hands. “I understand your concern, Wainsbrough. This definitely changes our situation. However, I still believe your wife is our best shot at luring the villain into the open. Would you consider delaying your trip to the country for a week?”
“What have you in mind?”
“I can guarantee her safety.”
“You can’t guarantee the safety of your own people.”
“Point taken.”
“Just tell me what you want.”
“It is simple, really. Stay close to your wife.”
“Done,” Dirk replied in a hairsbreadth of a second.
“Take her to the last few engagements of the Season.” Sir Ross stood and righted his coat. “Patronize the theatre and the opera. Circulate. See and be seen. But keep me abreast of your schedule.”
“I warn you, Sir Ross.” He pointed in emphasis. “I will not put Rebecca or our child at risk. If you think I will stand idly by while you dangle her as bait for a murderer, you are mistaken. The bastard will have to get through me to get to my wife.”
“It will not be necessary for her to contact the blackguard, as I will shadow your footsteps, watching to see who is watching you. I give you my word; no harm shall befall Rebecca on my watch. I will surrender my life, if necessary.”
The urge to protect and defend his wife and child ran as a river of molten steel in his veins, and Dirk had never felt so mighty, so invincible--so helpless, at once. As if he had just struck a bargain with the devil, a chill of foreboding unease settled in his chest, and his heart raced. For good or ill, he was about to place the center of his universe in the sights of an unknown, deadly adversary.
“Tell me your plan.”
#
After comparing notes, strategizing, and checking each and every detail, Dirk gained his carriage and set off for his next destination, praying he had done the right thing. With any luck, his hastily scripted dispatches had found their mark, and the men would be waiting. His entire future relied on their participation and success. To his chagrin, there was not much he could do, but watch and wait for the traitor to strike.
In the world beyond the window, the signature maple trees of Hyde Park stood tall as sentries, and the stately homes fronting Park Lane, his own included, cast an elegant divide of brick and mortar. By all accounts, everything seemed as it should be, and nothing appeared out of place or abnormal. How he wished that were true.
When the equipage turned onto Upper Brooke Street, grim acceptance settled as a lead ball in the pit of his belly. Stopping at the residence that bore the placard inscribed with the number 24, Dirk recalled the first occasion on which he enlisted the aid of the Knights of the Brethren of the Coast to protect Rebecca. At the time, she was nothing more than an intriguing woman he hoped to know better. Now, she was his world.
In mere seconds, he skipped up the entrance stairs, doffed his hat and gloves, gave them to the butler, and then turned right and strode down the hall to the familiar bastion of the Brethren. To his relief, the knights were in full attendance, and he was the last to arrive.
The casual greetings, lightheartedly bestowed, barely registered in the conflicted miasma of his brain. Lost in a haze of anger mixed with fear, he had not quite grasped the Admiral’s call to order.
“Dirk, are you all right?”
“Yes.” He snapped to attention and discovered himself the subject of intense scrutiny. “I am fine.”
“As I was saying, the directive from Sir Ross provided ample detail.” The admiral fixed him with a sympathetic stare. “Son, yours is a precarious position, and I do not envy you.”
“It is regrettable business, brother.” Damian compressed his lips. “Given recent events--the revelation of the impending expansion of our family.”
“Congratulations, old boy,” Blake offered. “You can rely on us. We will do our part to keep your wife and child from the line of fire.”
“Hear, hear.” Lance smiled.
“In light of your cooperation to capture the traitor, the Lord High Admiral has seen fit to suspend all pending assignments for the Order.” Admiral Douglas rested an elbow on the blotter of his desk. “Henceforth, we are to commit our resources to safeguarding your viscountess.”
“I am grateful, Admiral.” Though he remained calm on the surface, inside Dirk was a jumbled mass of nerves, wound tight as a clock spring. And again he wondered whether or not he should confide in Rebecca.
As she was with child, he had insisted Dr. Handley verify her good health the previous morning. When he escorted the doctor to the door, Dirk inquired as to the effects of added stress and understood full well the hazards. He was gambling with their lives, not to mention that of their firstborn, and their entire future was at stake.
“Will you brief Rebecca?” Trevor asked. “Were I in your boots, I would not want my wife to know--not in her present condition.”
“No.” Dirk shook his head. “I can’t tell her the truth.”
Trevor sighed. “It is for the best.”
“So you intend to make the rounds of the final events of the Season? Perhaps we should enlist the aid of our sisters.” Lance scratched his chin. “After all, social drudgery is their forte. And they will be hot as a hornet’s nest if we do not ask for their help, and they get wind of our plot.”
“You can’t be serious.” Dalton snorted. “They would only get in the way.”
In that instant, Admiral Douglas’ head shot up, and he narrowed his stare. With a finger pressed to his lips, he forestalled the conversation and softly crept to the entrance of his domain. Quick as a wink, he grasped the knob and yanked open the door.
The youngest Douglas offspring toppled over, landing flat on her face.
“Sabrina Francis!” Admiral Douglas shouted. “What the devil do you think you are doing?”
“Ought to tan her hide.”
“She needs a good beating.”
“Lock her in her room for a fortnight.”
“Get her a husband.”
“I was merely inspecting the rugs.” Faced with such threats to her freedom and posterior, Sabrina managed to appear contrite, and she shuffled her feet. “It might be time to have them cleaned, Papa.”
Admiral Douglas folded his arms and stood stock-still.
Clutching fistfuls of her skirts, Sabrina rocked on her heels.
Although no one said a word, Dirk was ready to explode.
“All right--I was listening.” She stomped her foot. “But before you toss me out, at least do me the courtesy of hearing what I have to say.”
“Against my better judgment, you may proceed.” Admiral Douglas made an elegant sweep of his hand, permitting her entry.
Marching right in, as if she owned the hallowed men’s retreat, Sabrina perched on the edge of her father’s desk.
“As I see it, the trick to this plan is getting Lady Wainsbrough out in public, without arousing her suspicions. I should think a few invitations from myself, Alex, and Elaine would accomplish your objective in brilliant fashion.”
She paused for a moment and wrinkled her nose.
“As Sir Ross will be guarding her from afar, the danger would be minimal. Surely he will trap the scoundrel before he gets anywhere near Lady Wainsbrough. Then this whole nasty affair will be concluded, with Rebecca none the wiser.”
Sabrina grinned from ear to ear, and it was obvious she was quite proud of herself.
At first, Dirk wanted to throttle her. But as he mulled her proposal, and assessed her logic
, he could not surmise a single counterpoint. Propping an elbow on the armrest of his chair, Dirk rested his chin in his hand. “Brie is right.”
“What?”
“Are you mad?”
“You are as crazy as she is.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Hear me out, brothers.” Though he loathed admitting it, the plan was just outlandish enough to succeed. “Rebecca will never accept that I have suddenly acquired a fondness for the opera, or any other such pursuit. I have never gone for that sort of thing, a fact she knows. Were I to approach her with myriad engagements, her well-founded instincts would be clamoring with incredulity. In short, she would know something was wrong.”
“I agree.” Admiral Douglas reclaimed his seat. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands atop his desk. “Well then, we will need to coordinate our efforts with the women.”
“Save Caroline,” Trevor insisted. “Sorry, Dirk. But I do not want her involved in this ugly endeavor.”
“Oh, I concur,” Dirk assured him.
“Well then.” Lance stood and stretched. “It would appear I am in need of a box for the opera.”
“And I should consult the theatre offerings.” Damian adjusted his cravat and slapped Blake on the back. “Come, brother.”
“Sabrina Francis, call your mother in here.” Admiral Douglas gazed at the ceiling as if in expectation of divine intervention.
“Right away, Papa.” Sabrina paused at the door. “And Cara, as well?”
“Indeed,” the Admiral replied.
“Bloody hell.” Dirk tugged loose his cravat. “I need a drink.”
#
“Are you a morning person, too?” Rebecca asked Sabrina as they strolled, parasols in hand, through Hyde Park. The sun had barely crested on the horizon when the youngest Douglas appeared with an invitation to walk the sandy track.
“On occasion.” Sabrina shrugged. “Both Mama and Cara are late risers, and I enjoy having time alone with Papa.”
“I see.” Lilting birdsong filled her ears, and Rebecca smiled. “Are you very close with your father?” She had always wondered what her relationship with her sire would have been like had he lived longer.
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