My Lady, The Spy

by Barbara Devlin

  Free of her manacles, but re-cuffed with hands behind her back, Rebecca made no attempt to resist. Soon, there would be no more suffering, and she would rest in the arms of her beloved.

  “Let me see, I shall require a neck restraint, a foot of heavy chain, and an iron pike. This will be my masterpiece. And, as you are to die, perhaps you would like to know the identity of your captor?” With a demonic cackle, Denis unlaced the hood, drew it from his head, and stood before her. “Lady Wainsbrough, meet your executioner.”

  Rebecca gazed on the familiar face and screamed.

  #

  The journey to Portsmouth seemed never-ending, which provided Dirk ample opportunity to assess and reassess the situation. To make haste, he had elected to travel by horseback and change mounts in town. They could not have passed through the wrought-iron gates of the elegant seaside estate fast enough, and he urged his bay into a full gallop, with Sir Ross and the Brethren of the Coast in his wake. Before an impressive baroque doorway, he drew rein, slid from the saddle, and bounded up the entry stairs, where a very proper butler addressed him.

  “I am sorry, sir. His lordship is for a ride, as is his routine, and he will return after sunset. You are, of course, welcome to wait. May I show you to the drawing room?”

  “From where does he take his view?” asked Sir Ross. “Perhaps we could join him, as his lordship sent for me, and he will be displeased by the delay.”

  How smoothly the veteran secret agent dissembled, and Dirk was grateful for his assistance, as he could hardly muster rational thought.

  “The southern coastline, sir.” The butler stared down his nose. “I believe he favors the incoming tide.”

  “Excellent. And what of Lady Wainsbrough? Is she with his lordship?” inquired the head of the Counterintelligence Corps.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” The butler appeared genuinely surprised. “There is no such person in residence.”

  “Have you not seen her?” Dirk stepped forward, hands fisted at either side.

  With a furrowed brow, the butler said, “The only women in abidance are servants in this household, your lordship.”

  At the end of his tether, Dirk intended to question the manservant, but Sir Ross stayed him with a telling glance.

  “Thank you.” Sir Ross nodded once. “You have been most helpful.”

  On the gravel drive, beyond the watchful gaze of the butler, Sir Ross quarried the men.

  “Lord Wainsbrough, I believe Rebecca is here, though I cannot say why.”

  “The sun is below the yardarm, so we have not much daylight remaining.” Dirk raked a hand through his hair. “What do you suggest?”

  “Blake and Damian, head east. Lance, Trevor, and Dalton survey the grounds, and check all outbuildings. Dirk and I will ride west.” Sir Ross regained his saddle. “Sharply men, we have little time.”

  With thoughts of his wife and child tucked deep in his heart, Dirk forced himself to focus on the task and heeled the bay’s flanks. As they galloped through the fields, Dirk and Sir Ross caught a trail in the meadow, which disappeared into a copse of trees. Charging the verge, they veered left, then right, then left again, until they came to a fork in the path.

  “Hold hard.” Sir Ross reined in and arched a brow.”

  “What is it?”

  “Shh.” The secret agent pressed a finger to his lips. After a few seconds, he glanced at Dirk. “Do you hear that?”

  “It is the surf.”

  “This way.” Sir Ross set a blazing pace, until the foliage thinned and then opened to reveal a breathtaking vista.

  In the distance, near the cliff’s edge, Dirk spotted a lone figure sitting atop a grey stallion. He slowed to a canter and then halted. “Over there.”

  Sir Ross pulled a spyglass from his coat pocket and leveled it. “It is him.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “Aye.”

  “What is he doing?”

  “Apparently, just as his man claimed.” Sir Ross leaned forward in the saddle. “He looks over the ocean.”

  For some reason Dirk could not fathom, he shuddered, and gooseflesh covered him from head to toe. “There is no sign of Rebecca?”

  “No.” Sir Ross frowned. “Let us dismount here, as I would take him unaware.”

  Every muscle tensed and ready to act, Dirk moved in concert with Sir Ross. As he neared his prey, he withdrew a pistol from his waistband, and his cohort slipped one from his coat pocket. A mere ten feet from the villain, Sir Ross stopped Dirk with an upraised hand, just as the stallion shifted and whinnied, and the blackguard turned in the saddle.

  “Good evening, Lord Varringdale.” Dirk cast him a lethal stare.

  “You?” Eyes wide as saucers, Varringdale’s jaw dropped. “But--you are supposed to be dead. You were hit, and you went down.”

  “It was a flesh wound. Sorry to disappoint you.” Given the shock in the scoundrel’s expression, Dirk knew with certainty that he addressed the traitor. “Now, if you do not mind, I have come to collect my wife.”

  For a moment, the turncoat gazed intermittently at Dirk and Sir Ross. When Varringdale lowered his chin and smiled, the hair stood on end at the nape of Dirk’s neck. “I am afraid you are a tad late, as Lady Wainsbrough has departed.”

  “You set her free?” Not for a second had Dirk trusted the villain. Nothing made sense.

  “More or less.”

  “How did you do it?” Sir Ross asked. “How could you betray your country?”

  “Why does anyone do anything?” Varringdale shrugged. “Wealth beyond the dreams of avarice.”

  “And how much did Colin’s head earn you?” Dirk inquired in disgust.

  “That was an unfortunate occurrence. You see, he confided in me, and that was not the wisest decision.” Lord Varringdale frowned. “After I trained him not to trust a soul.”

  “But he trusted you,” Sir Ross stated flatly.

  “More’s the pity.”

  “With whom are you allied?” Legs planted wide, Sir Ross lowered his tone. “Have you partnered Denis?”

  “Oh, it is much better than that.” Varringdale laughed. “I am Denis. And I have the distinct honor of meeting my end having bested the great Sir Ross Logan.”

  “You will dance at Beilby’s ball for your treachery.” The head of the Corps stepped forward and took careful aim.

  “I think not.” Varringdale licked his lips. “I operated under your nose for years, and you never suspected me. And although I may not have discovered L’araignee, I beat you, and that is satisfaction enough.”

  “You beat no one, Varringdale,” Sir Ross sneered. “You had L’araignee in your grasp, and you let her slip your grip.”

  “It cannot be.” Varringdale tugged his cravat and studied Sir Ross and then Dirk. “Her?”

  “Indeed.” Sir Ross smiled. “Lady Wainsbrough is the operative known as L’araignee.”

  For a long while, Lord Varringdale simply stared at the ground, tapping a finger to his chin. When he lifted his head, the arrogant expression returned. “You mean Lady Wainsbrough was L’araignee.”

  Thunderous hoofbeats heralded the arrival of Dalton and Trevor. Seizing the opportunity, Varringdale drew a pistol and bore down.

  “Watch out!” Dalton shouted the alarm.

  Dirk and Sir Ross fired simultaneously. Struck in the chest and the belly, the traitor slumped and then fell from his horse.

  Dirk knelt at Varringdale’s side and clutched the lapels of his coat. “Where is Rebecca?”

  “I win, Lord Wainsbrough.” Varringdale choked, as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “She was quite the sport, that wife of yours, so difficult to break. Alas, she faltered, as do they all, and I buried her with your heir.”

  “Filthy, gotch-gutted bastard!” For the first time in his life, the urge to kill seared Dirk’s consciousness, and inside him something fractured. Logic and reason, so long the hallmarks of his character, fled in an instant. Driven by rage unlike any he had ever k
nown, he wound his hands about the murderer’s neck and squeezed the life from him. The man of two names died with eyes open and an evil grin.

  “Brother--no.” Dalton grabbed Dirk’s shoulder.

  “Let him be,” Sir Ross said softly. “The wound is mortal.”

  Gasping for air, and guarding against fast rising nausea, Dirk sat on his heels. “Please, tell me you located Rebecca.”

  It was a plea of raw desperation, not a question.

  “We did not.” Dalton glanced at Trevor.

  “What is it?” Dirk stood upright. “What did you find?”

  “A torture chamber. Never have I seen its equal.” Trevor shuffled his feet. “And blood.”

  Clinging to the last vestiges of hope, and refusing to believe his wife and child were lost, Dirk shook his head. “But that does not--”

  “There is one more thing.” Dalton hesitated and then held up a mangled, dirty garment. “A lady’s riding habit--red, as you described. Thrown in with the refuse.”

  “Oh, no.” Dirk snatched the gown, hugged it to his chest, and closed his eyes. In his mind, he envisioned Rebecca, smiling and happy, as they charged the fields of Lyvedon. He remembered the brave L’araignee, who strapped a dagger to her thigh and sacrificed herself for King and Country, with nary a second thought for her own safety. He revisited the honey lips of the enchanting seductress, who boldly claimed him in the study and later pronounced him the man of her choosing. There were countless memories they had yet to share, so when reality beckoned, the future Dirk had planned with such precision crumbled.

  With a deep breath, he threw back his head and roared in soul-stealing agony. As the primitive cry echoed, he filled his lungs and again blared in heartrending misery. Tears welled as he stumbled and then dropped to all fours. Awash with grief, he crawled to the cliff’s edge and slumped.

  How would he live without Rebecca?

  As he stared at the crystal blue waters of the Channel, he bemoaned the beauty. Sea gulls keened in the distance, and a light breeze kissed his damp cheeks. The setting sun cast golden light on the ocean, forming a shimmering mosaic.

  But nature’s splendor brought him no joy.

  On the beach below, the tide receded, depositing bits of driftwood tangled with kelp, along with a curious figure he could not quite distinguish. He dragged his coat sleeve across his face, focused his vision, and froze.

  “Rebecca.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Leading his horse down a steep and rocky path at a reckless pace, Dirk never took his gaze off his wife. And although he called to her, Rebecca had not acknowledged his presence. Despite the soft sand, he urged the bay faster, jumping large dunes, until he gained the beach. The rising tide covered her briefly before retreating in preparation to repeat the nocturnal dance, and he prayed he was not too late. At water’s edge, he jumped from the saddle and ran to her.

  “Rebecca, I am here.”

  At her head, an iron pike protruded a mere foot above the surface of the sand. Attached to the pike was a wrought iron chain, which connected to a heavy manacle about her neck. As the tide encroached, she remained at anchor and unable to breathe. It was the ultimate ordeal of water torture.

  “Oh, love. What did he do to you?”

  Slumped on her side, Rebecca lay motionless and naked, with hands bound behind her. Matted hair shrouded her face, and bloody welts contrasted sharply with the milky white skin on her back. While her eyes were open, she made no response. As the tide rushed in, she listed gently, and he hugged her to his chest. When the water rose to her neck, he inhaled a deep breath, pinched her nose, covered her mouth with his, and braced for the deluge. Submerged, Dirk fought the current, until the ocean subsided.

  “Bloody everlasting hell.” Dalton kicked at the pike. “It will not budge.”

  “Shoot the chain.” Dirk surmised he had seconds to spare. “Quickly, brother.”

  “I have it.” Trevor drew his pistol, aimed, and fired.

  The round barely nicked the thick link.

  “All together.” Sir Ross pulled a weapon from his coat and then paused. “There is no time. Watch out.”

  The sea stormed the beach with an unholy roar.

  “Hell and the Reaper.” Dirk gasped for air, held her nose, and set his lips to hers. The torrent assailed him with bits of driftwood, kelp, and all manner of shells dredged from the ocean floor, and he shielded his wife. When the flood ebbed, he cradled Rebecca’s head and said, “Aim sharply, men.”

  “On my mark, take the link closest to the pike.” Sir Ross leveled his pistol. “Three, two, one--fire.”

  The combined shot severed the chain, and Dirk swept Rebecca into his arms. When he reached the berm, he sat and nestled her in his lap. Kneeling before him, Dalton shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Trevor produced a knife and cut the twine at her wrists, revealing raw, bloody skin. Sir Ross pressed his fingers to her neck, and Dirk searched his expression.

  Swallowing hard, he asked, “Is she--”

  “Her pulse is strong.” Sir Ross bowed his head. “She lives.”

  Dirk nuzzled her temple. “Thank God.”

  After a minute, he checked her condition. With a haunting visage, Rebecca seemed a shadow of her former self. Gone were the fire, the inimitable vitality, and the effervescence with which she greeted every day. Lips once lush and rosy manifested an unnaturally blue hue, and no charming blush colored her cheeks.

  “What did he do to you?” Resting his forehead to hers, he warmed her with his body and sighed. “I am here, Becca, my love. We will survive this, I swear it.”

  #

  A fortnight had passed since Dirk and Rebecca returned to Lyvedon Hall, and while the seasons changed, and the leaves turned, the atmosphere within the great house remained one of somber placidity. In the morning room, he studied his wife as she perched before a window, staring beyond the glass at a world she refused to rejoin. Locked in some imaginary prison, she sat motionless, and her despondence wrenched his heart.

  No matter what Dirk tried, he could not free Rebecca from her invisible jail. Though he tempted his wife with her favorite foods, including the peach jam pudding she loved, she consumed only what he fed her by hand. After bathing her as he would a child, he brushed her hair and dressed her. As he resumed what he could of his daily routine, he kept her at his side, often carrying her from room to room or outside to sit in the garden. And yet she remained mute, with a forlorn expression investing her beautiful face.

  At night, he often woke to her screams. In the wee hours, and while all in the house were abed, her bloodcurdling wails left him reeling and shaken. Rocking gently, he hugged her to his chest until she quieted and slept. And though some might question his logic, he moved her belongings into his suite, as he could not rest without her presence. But what truly tore at his gut was the grudging admission that Rebecca was once again his spy with sad eyes, and it was no small surprise given what she had survived.

  At Dirk’s request, Dr. Handley journeyed from London to give her a thorough examination, and the physician confirmed Dirk’s worst fears. Aside from being beaten, starved, and nearly drowned, Rebecca had indeed miscarried their child. Call him a lunatic, but he had clung to some small measure of hope that their babe lived. And yet all was not lost, as the good doctor assured Dirk that Rebecca could have more children, and her current state was merely a temporary response to the shock of her ordeal.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  Dirk shifted his weight. “What is it, Hughes?”

  The butler cast a sympathetic glance at Rebecca and softly said, “Lady Wainsbrough has a caller.”

  In the hall, Dirk closed the door behind him. “Who is it?”

  “Lord Eddington is just arrived from London.”

  Like bloody hell would he allow Colin’s father to rake Rebecca over the coals in her delicate condition. “Where did you put him?”

  “In the drawing room, your lordship.”

&
nbsp; In a matter of seconds, Dirk descended the stone staircase of his ancestral home and in the foyer turned right. At a double-door entry, he paused. With a deep breath, he prepared for another heated confrontation and set wide the oak panels.

  Lord Richard Eddington stood, hands clasped behind his back, gazing at the west lawn. As Dirk entered the room, Eddington turned and smiled. “Dirk, how fare you and your wife?”

  The informal greeting caught him by surprise and spiked his guns. Dirk stopped in his tracks. “I am in good health.”

  “And Rebecca, if I may be so bold as to address her as such?”

  “Physically, my wife recovers well.” Bowing his head, Dirk frowned. “But I fear her spirit is mortally wounded.”

  “My dear boy, I have spoken with Sir Ross, and he relayed the events surrounding my son’s death, as well as your misfortune. I am very sorry.” Eddington rested a hand on Dirk’s shoulder. “I counted Varringdale a friend and entrusted him with my son’s life, much to my regret. And now I have only to be ashamed of my conduct toward your wife.”

  “You could not have known.” Dirk sighed. “And, per orders, I could not reveal the truth. I hope you understand?”

  “Of course, I do.” The gray-haired gentleman wiped his brow. “Now, how may I help Rebecca?”

  “I am not sure you can.”

  “As a father, I would speak with her. There must be something I can do to ease her suffering.”

  For a minute, Dirk pondered the offer. Desperate circumstances required desperate measures, and he was a desperate man. “All right, but be gentle with her. She is very fragile. And before I take you in, I must give you something.”

  Dirk tugged at the gold chain about his neck and then slipped it over his head. In his palm he held the gold pendant that once concealed the infamous code.

  “Colin’s shako,” said Lord Eddington, with a wistful expression. “How he loved the infantry.”

  “He gave it to Rebecca the night he died.” Dirk compressed his lips. “You should have it.”