The Spymaster's Lady

by Joanna Bourne

  “I am like countryside?”

  “Somerset countryside.” He stroked her buttocks. “With little hills.”

  “But truly, men have strange minds.”

  He stroked her again. “Did your mother tell you that?”

  “I find that my mother did not say anything to the point. She did not wish me to be a courtesan, you understand, and therefore did not instruct me in those arts.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Except for a few trifles. I believe they are not known to respectable English girls, who are very uneducated. I will show you, if you like.”

  A pang of pure lust shot through him. His lady was not at all innocent in some ways. He foresaw many long, interesting nights while they worked out exactly who would be in charge in this bed. “Later, maybe.”

  “There is one in particular that sounds interesting. I am curious to see how it works.”

  She would drive him insane. She’d do it on purpose.

  “We’ll save it for those long winter nights ahead. Have I told you I love you, Annique? It started about the fourth time you tried to maim me. I never did find time to say the words.”

  “It is the right time now. We are at leisure, and I am not armed.” She was sad under the teasing. He’d put a stop to that fairly soon. “I find it gratifying in the extreme to be loved, especially by a man like you. I shall become quite puffed-up and conceited with it, I think.”

  “You go right ahead and do that.” The sweet flesh of her back had decided to stop being nervous and go soft. The tremors in her were just beginning. “This is where you say you love me back.”

  “Ah…love.” She pinched a crease into the linen pillowcase beneath her. “You must be disappointed, mon ennemi. I desire you. This is not love.”

  “Just desire.”

  “You are the first man for me. There must be a first man for every woman, when she is innocent and fools herself into believing in love. This is true even if she is destined to lie with seventy thousand in her lifetime.”

  She lay there, wanting him. Scared of it. Wondering if that made her a whore or just a fool. Halfway wondering if she was trading herself to an enemy spy, for safety. Not trusting herself to know the difference between wanting and being in love. If her mother weren’t already dead, he’d strangle her himself.

  And that was enough worrying from the Fox Cub tonight. In ten minutes he’d make her forget that nonsense. Give him fifteen, and she’d forget her own name. He slid the book out from underneath her and tossed it away. Her breasts cuddled softly into his palm.

  When he touched her, he felt the shudder, felt the throb in her flesh.

  You’re mine, Annique…every exquisite, dangerous inch of you. “I haven’t worked it out yet, but seventy thousand would keep you fairly busy.”

  He raised her up some, kissing along her neck to confuse her, to quiet that busy mind of hers. She bent her head to watch him while he touched her, watched her nipples squeeze up into hard little buttons between his finger and thumb. She’d already started breathing fast. She was responsive as hell. Good. With a woman like Annique, he needed all the advantage he could get.

  He kissed the top of her head. “Seventy thousand’s a lot. Maybe I can convince you to settle for a few less. How about a hundred? Or a dozen?” He lured her chin upward, drawing her jawline. “Or one?”

  When she lifted her eyes, they were deep blue and vulnerable as spring flowers. “One?”

  “Me.”

  “Oh.” She breathed onto his shoulder. “Well.” He could feel each separate breath. Neither of them moved. Slowly she let her forehead lower till it rested against him. Her tongue—a soft, warm touch—tasted him. Tasted his skin.

  He knew for sure, then. This hit her as hard as it hit him. They were both lost. No way back for them.

  His hand shook with the effort of keeping control. Slow. He had to go slow. He didn’t trust himself to touch her anywhere but her hair. Her neck. The shell of her ear. Let’s not roll her over and dive in like a sailor on shore leave, Robert. She’s new at this, and more ignorant than she wants you to know.

  He took her face in light, outstretched fingers. Finger to flesh, tied together by the current between them, he drew her up and up until she was kneeling on the bed. And he was kneeling. Hunger and magic danced in the air. He set his lips to her lips. He’d never had a chance to enjoy her slowly, to savor her when there was nothing ahead but a night of lovemaking. Now, he did.

  Her mouth was soft and hot. Hungry. The gateway to a universe of desire. She shuddered as he licked and bit and demanded.

  He broke away and whispered, “Who are you thinking about, Annique? Those seventy thousand men? Or maybe a Gypsy boy?”

  Dear God, but she was ready for him. He knew it by the slick of sweat on her skin, by the quivering of those sleek, beautiful muscles, even by her smell. Her whole body was his for the asking. Nothing held back. Nothing forbidden.

  “I am not thinking of any Gypsy boy, my Grey.” Her voice was husky. “I am thinking of no one but you.”

  She put her arms around him and drew him down beside her on the coverlet. She whispered, soft in his ear, wickedly, “And Robert, of course.”

  Thirty

  ONE FEELS FOOLISHLY JOYFUL THE MORNING after taking a lover—tired but exhilarated, as if one had danced all night and successfully stolen a Prussian dispatch or two.

  She considered herself in the mirror of Grey’s bedroom. She looked smug, she thought. “Maman did not tell me not to let men buy me dresses, as other mothers advise their daughters. She told me not to let men pick them out.”

  “A wise woman.” Grey had told her to wear the lavender walking dress for the activities of this morning. The color made her look fragile. The excellent plainness of the design was, on her, entirely jeune fille.

  More puzzling was the knife he handed her. She tossed it from hand to hand a few times, then slipped it into its place in the sheath he himself strapped onto her wrist. He acted as if it were altogether normal to make love to a captive spy at dawn and then arm her in this deadly fashion. She could not imagine why he did this.

  “This is Adrian’s,” she said, because the knife was flat and matte brown and balanced precisely as Adrian’s other knife had been.

  “He says to take better care of it.” He rummaged in the armoire. “Wear this, I think.” It was a straw bonnet with lavender ribbons, which meant she was going outside. Truly, this was an altogether odd first morning of captivity.

  She pondered this as they left the room and headed for the top of the stairs. Voices came from below. Soon enough she could look over the banister and see Galba in the hall on the ground floor, being courteous to a skinny old man, very fashionably dressed.

  “…my nephew, Giles,” Galba said, which was something she had not known about Giles. “He’s assisting us till Devlin recovers. Giles, this is Lord Cummings.”

  “New doorkeeper, eh? That’s keeping it in the family.” The visitor spoke in the high-pitched whinny of an English aristo. “I’m sure you do a fine job holding off the villains, young Giles. Fine job. I imagine in a week or two you’ll be back to Eton, telling them all about your adventures in London.”

  “Harrow, sir,” Giles said.

  “Umm. Yes. Best years of your life. Cricket and…so on.” He tucked his cane under his arm. “See here, Anson, we must talk.”

  Galba walked around him and continued toward the parlor. “You’re here on a Sunday, Cummings. It must be a matter of urgency.”

  The aristo trotted in his wake. “What’s this nonsense Reams brought me? You’re refusing to hand over a French agent?”

  She was engulfed in a mad instant of fear. She was to be given to Reams. That was why she had been dressed to go out. Aristos still ruled here in England, and they had immense power.

  Then Grey poked her in the back, which told her she was to continue walking and for some reason dissolved the foolish panic altogether. Grey would not give her up. Not for a thousand Engl
ish aristos.

  Galba said, “Essentially, that is correct.”

  “Nonsense. Oh, I know what happened, of course.” The aristo gave a fruity, aristo chuckle. “Reams barged in and made an ass of himself. Offensive to everyone in sight. Not quite a gentleman, the colonel. But useful. Useful. We have to tolerate men like him in wartime.”

  Galba said, “I will tolerate Reams. What I will not tolerate is his interference in Service affairs.”

  The popinjay’s noisy suit swished with each step. “Quite right. Quite right. Here your men snabble themselves up a bit of French crumpet. Reams goes blundering in, ruffling feathers, demanding a taste. Nuisance of a man. Now you and I have to smooth the whole fracas over. Tell you what. I’ll bundle our bit of French fluff off where she won’t be fought over. I brought a couple marines with me, don’t y’know. I’ll drop our game pullet off on my way home, and we’ll call that the end of it.”

  Grey continued down the stairs and along the hall, pushing her ahead of him with the greatest sangfroid.

  In the parlor, Galba stood in front of the mirror over the heavy and hideous sideboard and put on his gloves. “Miss Villiers remains with us.”

  “Devil take it, man. This isn’t one of your political games. This is a military matter.”

  “And I say it is not. Will you dispute prerogatives with me, on behalf of Colonel Reams?”

  “Are you claiming jurisdiction over a piece of French tail your Head of Section has a fancy for?” The aristo stabbed his walking stick into the rug. He looked, every minute, less the peevish fool. They played a game of power, these men. “When this gets out, your Service is going to look—”

  “Is this going to get out? We had hoped for an end to the leaks in your office.”

  Grey chose this moment to push her forward.

  “Ah, Robert. In good time.” Galba reached out. She had no choice but to let him bring her forward and place her firmly under the nose of this aristo and into the midst of their game. “Annique, allow me to present Lord Cummings to you.”

  “Your niece? A charming child. Charming. Anson, we should continue this in your office.” The Lord Cummings was not interested in her, except to be polite a moment because she was pretty.

  “But no.” She gazed upward through her eyelashes and curtsied like a schoolgirl. “I am Anne Villiers, my Lord.”

  “Villiers. Villiers? This is…?” The aristo’s face hardened. Oh, most excellent. He had been made to appear ridiculous by the Colonel Reams. “Reams said she was a…Reams said she was…older.”

  “Reams was mistaken,” Galba said, very dry. “I hope you slept well, mademoiselle.”

  Grey answered for her. “She slept fine.”

  So. It was to be obvious to this English lord that she had become the mistress of Grey. She swiftly considered several alternatives and decided to be very young and shy. That was a role with many possibilities. By thinking of some of the things she had done last night in bed with Grey, she made herself blush, a deception of great skill. She was proud to achieve it, especially before Grey, who would appreciate the genius that called it forth.

  She still held her bonnet, so she let it swing by its strings, as a child does. It would do no harm to play thus with the aristo.

  The Lord Cummings cleared his throat. His eyes flickered from her to Grey, who scowled, to the front window where carriages waited. “It could be temporary custody. Only temporary. She’ll be treated well.”

  “No,” Grey said.

  “I give you my personal assurance.” He shifted his cane from right hand to left. “See here, Major, you’re infantry. You understand how important—”

  “No.”

  “I’ll make it clear to Reams he’s not to…That is, I can see she’s young. I’ll tell him to treat her with every respect.”

  Of a certainty he would. He would know it meant nothing. He would give her to Reams to rape and torture, and he would feel badly about it for much of one evening. He would regret it for five minutes the next day. Then he would forget her altogether. The British called this “deploring the necessity.”

  Grey said, “Be damned to that.”

  “She is a French agent, privy to military information. We—”

  “I don’t care if she has naval codes stuffed in her corset. That bastard’s not going to get his hands on her.”

  “Enough, Robert. You’ve made your point.” Galba rested one hand on the high back of the crimson sofa, making a barrier, acting as if Grey were imminently dangerous and must be restrained. “Military Intelligence has no legitimate interest in Miss Villiers. Her work has always been political, and never directed against England.”

  It was time to play her own part. She took a hesitant step toward the aristo, working on tears. “Please. The colonel frightens me very much. Please do not send me to him.”

  Cummings did not look directly at her. Oh, but she knew the men of his type. He gave his orders in some pleasant office in London. Never did he involve himself with the torture of women in basements or directing artillery fire into towns to bury children under the rubble.

  “She was one of Vauban’s cadre. Vauban dealt directly with the traitor in Military Intelligence. I’m bleeding secrets from my whole department, and she may know the name of the man who’s doing it. Give her to me.” The aristo had abandoned all pretense of being a fribble. His words were hard as horseshoe nails.

  “Your bloody incompetence doesn’t give Military Intelligence the right to pirate my operation.” Grey matched snarl for snarl.

  “This is a military matter. It falls in my jurisdiction. The sooner Reams cracks that name out of her…”

  She thought like lightning. “But it is Reams’s own office where the traitor is. It is his—”

  Everyone turned. She lifted her hand to her mouth, as if she had said more than she should. Dieu. She should bite her lip and stammer like a schoolgirl. This aristo expected no more from her.

  The lordship had gone perfectly rigid. “What do you mean, it’s Reams’s office?”

  “Hush, Annique,” Grey said quickly. “You shouldn’t talk about that.” One would swear they had worked this out beforehand, he did it so smoothly.

  “But you must not give me to Colonel Reams.” She selected a tiny sliver of her fear and blew it into her voice. To build a role out of the blocks of emotion already within one—this was a great art. “If you send me there, I will not live to speak. Do not do this to me.”

  “Reams won’t touch you.” Grey was grim as stones. She did not think he was acting. “This is a waste of time. He’s frightening Annique,” he said to Galba, “and we’re going to be late.”

  “I demand to know what she meant by that.” The aristo almost danced in frustration.

  “Our investigation has only begun.” Galba picked up his hat from upon the hideous sideboard. “Too much has already been said. Leave her to us, Cummings. It’s in neither of our interests to release her to Colonel Reams.”

  The Lord Cummings did not speak at all. Much internal calculation was going on behind his eyes. She had been correct to conclude he was no fool.

  Galba collected a pair of small black books from the marble top of the bureau. “Now I must ask you to excuse us. As Robert says, we are late.”

  “You can’t take her…I mean, where are you taking her?”

  Galba raised his eyebrows. “Is it possible you have forgotten what day this is?”

  “Day?” Lord Cummings was bewildered.

  “It is Sunday, as I pointed out. We are going to church. A pleasant morning to you.”

  Thirty-one

  THE HACKNEY AWAITED THEM AT THE CURB. SHE followed Galba decorously down the steps, and she did not let an eyelid twitch with all the vast amusement that was bouncing around inside her. Grey held the door, and Galba helped her tenderly in.

  “The men are in place?” Grey slid in next to her. As the coach started, he opened a panel in the upholstery, removed a gun, checked it, and returned it. Then he
reached past her and did the same on the other side. This was a hackney carriage very well supplied with guns. He had one in his coat as well. She felt it bumping against her thigh.

  “Will’s been up since five. He assures me we’re adequately covered.” Galba filled the seat across from them with his large, square body. She should not have called him fat. He was simply one who took up a great deal of room, like an old tree, strong in its fiber. He had his own gun, a small one he held just clear of his jacket pocket.

  “Well, that was fun.” Grey scanned the streets on the right as the carriage rolled along. Galba was watching the other side. “Annique wasn’t what he expected.”

  “Reams is an imbecile.”

  “Whatever else happens, Cummings is going to flay Reams alive for making him look like a fool in front of you. Annique, why did you say the traitor is in Reams’s office?”

  He looked at her, straight and level. She was jolted into remembering that Grey was not just a lover in her bed, he was the Head of Section for England and master of many spies. She must decide, this moment, what she would give to the British.

  A hundred yards of pavement rolled under the horses’ hooves. Were there depths of treason? Small trivial treasons and large ones? She waded in dirty water, deeper and deeper.

  But she had only one choice, unless she wished to visit Colonel Reams’s interesting cellars. “The lordship is wrong in one thing. It was not Vauban who dealt with the traitor in your Military Intelligence. It was Leblanc.”

  Grey and Galba stayed silent. Silence is a potent weapon in interrogation. After another hundred yards had passed, she said, “Our spy is in Reams’s office. He has been in the pay of France for three years, recruited only for money. We have deposited to him hundreds and hundreds of pounds through an account at Hoare’s Bank. His name is Frederick Tillman.”

  Grey hit the cushion beside him, an eye-blurring boxer’s jab. “Got him! We got the bastard! Tillman. Reams’s brother-in-law, for God’s sake. His second-in-command.” He grinned, tight and fierce. “This is going to bring Reams down.”