“How very dramatic of you.”
“But accurate nonetheless.”
“Nonsense.” Celeste scoffed. “Now you’re merely feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Perhaps.”
“Admittedly, waiting is not something you do well but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you feel sorry for yourself.” She shook her head in a mournful manner. “How have you come to such a dreadful state?”
Evelyn narrowed her eyes.
“There are a number of things you have yet to consider,” Celeste said. “First of all, Sir Maxwell would not have asked for your assistance—”
“Asked?” Evelyn snorted in disdain.
“Unless he felt he had no other choice. But he is an odd and independent creature. It’s entirely possible that he may recover this file without any help from you at all.”
“Then why—”
“It was my experience with him that he always had several plans in reserve in case his original plan did not work. Plans B, C, and so on.”
“True enough.”
“And remember he only worked with you or I when Sir deemed it necessary. It was my observation that Sir Maxwell never especially liked working with, or having to depend upon, a woman. He is the kind of man who thinks women have a particular place in the world and it isn’t by his side so much as in his bed.”
Evelyn scoffed.
“Given his nature, there’s every reason to think you are nothing more than his reserve plan.”
Evelyn brightened. “There is, isn’t there?”
“It’s entirely plausible.”
“Then why contact me at all?”
“He said there was no one else he could trust except you. I suspect he would want you to be prepared if he needs to call on you.” Celeste shrugged dismissively. “Especially as he had to threaten you to gain your cooperation.”
Evelyn’s jaw tightened. “Do you really think he would tell Adrian about my years with the department?”
“To get what he wants?” She nodded. “Without question. Your real concern should be what Lord W’s response will be when he finds out, as inevitably he will one day. Have you thought about that? You’ve lied to him for two years.”
“I have not.” Indignation rang in Evelyn’s voice. “I simply didn’t tell him all there was to tell about my past.”
“A lie of omission—”
“Isn’t really a lie at all,” Evelyn said firmly. “It’s not as if he ever said to me ‘Evie, my dear, were you once a sort of spy?’ ”
“I believe the preferred term, darling, was agent.”
Evelyn waved in a blithe manner. “Spy, agent, the word scarcely matters.”
“Perhaps not. Nonetheless have you considered what the earl will say when he finds out?” Celeste shook her head. “He will find out one day, you know. Secrets of this magnitude rarely stay hidden forever.”
“Oh, I intend to tell him everything one day,” Evelyn said quickly. “I have given it a great deal of thought. When I am on my deathbed strikes me as the best time.”
“Rather cowardly, isn’t it?”
“And yet, it seems so right.”
“And if he dies before you?”
“Then he shall go to his grave content in the knowledge that he had a faithful and loyal wife who loved him without reserve,” Evelyn said in a lofty manner.
Celeste studied her closely. “Don’t you find it curious that he has never asked about your past?”
“Not at all. He values privacy as do I,” Evelyn said. “He knows about my parents, my family, my guardian. He knows I was educated properly and he knows I spent several years traveling and ... and doing all those social sorts of things young heiresses do.”
“Funded by the department.”
“As all I had was the name and the background. It’s difficult to flit through society as an heiress when one has no money to speak of.”
“It was rather fun on occasion,” Celeste said under her breath.
“Aside from the danger, the constant threat of exposure, and yes, the heart-in-your-throat fear at times.”
“All part of the adventure ...” Celeste murmured.
Evelyn was hard-pressed to argue with her. It had been exhilarating and exciting and, yes, she’d had a great deal of fun.
Evelyn had been twenty-two when she had joined the department, fresh from a two-year grand tour with the family of a boarding school friend. Her travels through Europe had changed her from a retiring girl, uncertain as to her place in the world, to a self-assured woman confident of her own worth. She’d learned as much about herself as she had about the places she’d visited. She’d always known she had a natural gift for languages but she’d had no idea she had a gift for flirtation as well. Gentlemen called her charming and delightful and enchanting. She’d been at boarding schools since the age of six, surrounded by female students and teachers. She’d never thought of herself as pretty or clever or anything at all before. Now, she was being lauded as the toast of any party, the belle of any ball. It was as intoxicating as champagne and gone just as quickly.
She had arrived back in London to be greeted by good news and bad in a letter waiting for her from Sir George. It seemed her parents had owned a modest house in Mayfair, a house she had lived in so long ago she couldn’t remember. Her guardian had let it through the years of her schooling, to pay for its upkeep, the letter said. Now, however, he was turning it over to her—as it was, in truth, hers—with the admonishment that he would no longer be responsible for the building’s maintenance or staff or taxes. Nor would he be responsible for Evelyn as she was of age and the money her parents had left their only child was gone. Sir George’s letter suggested she would be wise to sell the house at once or marry as she had no means of support. A brief meeting with her guardian’s solicitor confirmed the bad news. Even now, Evelyn’s stomach still clenched at the feelings of desolation that had threatened to consume her. She had declined her friend’s gracious invitation to return to the continent with her family until Evelyn could decide her future, knowing even as she did so, it was out of foolish pride. They thought she was simply alone, not penniless. Still, she had a place to live and the servants had been paid through the end of the month, which gave her very nearly three weeks to decide on her fate.
Thank goodness her social standing had not fallen with her fortunes. While she’d never had a London season, she was still the daughter of a viscount and had a large number of school friends she had kept up correspondence with. Two nights later, she had attended a ball at the insistence of one such friend where she’d danced with a dashing older gentleman. And while he was quite charming, she had decided then and there that she would not marry simply to survive. Although she had no idea what she would do. When the gentleman, Lord Lansbury, escorted her onto the terrace and said he had a proposal for her, she’d had more than a moment of unease. If she was not going to become a wife to save herself, she was certainly not going to become some man’s mistress.
She’d been seduced by then, of course, by the first man who had tried. A dreadful mistake and she knew it at the time, but she had fancied herself in love and she had learned a great deal. She’d learn to trust her instincts as well. So when Lord Lansbury said he had an honorable position for a young lady of her background, and a few casual questions around the room confirmed his identity and his credibility, she believed him.
The next day she went to the address on the back of his calling card, a large mansion not far from her own house. A discreet plaque by the front entry declared it to be the Department of Domestic and International Affairs. She very nearly left then but she had few options as to what to do with her life and decided to hear what Lord Lansbury had to say. She met with him in the very room she had met with Max, as nondescript then as it was now. Before she knew it, she was living the life of an heiress in public all the while ferreting out secrets of those who appeared to the rest of the world to be loyal British subjects. With Celeste by her side and oft
en with Max as well, the course of action and directions issued in writing by Sir.
Celeste was right; it had been a grand adventure. But it was long over and her life now was all the adventure she wanted. If the price for keeping it was one more assignment for the department—so be it.
“You’re absolutely right.” Evelyn raised her chin. “There’s no need to fret at the moment. This may come to nothing at all. Max was indeed notorious for his Plan B’s, C’s, and so forth.” She narrowed her eyes. “Annoying beast of a man.”
“Excellent attitude.” Celeste nodded in satisfaction.
“Now, then, due to your meeting with Sir Maxwell and your subsequent distress, we are a bit behind today.”
“You are exceptionally competent, you know.” There was far more to being the Countess of Waterston than most people imagined. That Evelyn handled the position with ease and grace was entirely due to Celeste’s efforts.
“Yet another role I play well.” Celeste handed her a slim file. “This is today’s correspondence, which includes a few invitations you might want to consider as well as your schedule for tomorrow. Don’t forget you have a meeting of the Ladies’ Literary Society as well as a dressmaker’s appointment.”
Evelyn nodded. “I shall deal with all this tonight after dinner.”
“Then I shall be off.” Celeste now resided in Evelyn’s town house, which gave her the privacy to live as she pleased. She rarely mentioned how she spent her evenings, yet another area where Evelyn did not pry. Celeste would tell her what she wished her to know. “I shall see you in the morning.”
Celeste bade her good day and took her leave.
Evelyn glanced at the file. Her life might seem staid and even dull to a casual observer, but it was what she had always longed for. She was part of a family with a husband who loved her and, hopefully, one day children of their own. She belonged now. She had everything she’d ever wanted and she would do whatever was necessary to keep anyone from destroying it.
Even herself.
Chapter 3
Something was wrong.
Adrian Hadley-Attwater, the Earl of Waterston, surreptitiously studied his wife over the top of the book he’d been trying to read. Evie sat at the desk on the far side of the small parlor and allegedly attended to her correspondence. Said attendance punctuated by the impatient tap of her pen and her unfocused gaze out the window and into the night. It was obvious she was distracted. He drew his brows together. His wife was never distracted. That she appeared so now was, in itself, most distracting.
Adrian had been attempting to read for nearly an hour but instead found himself watching his wife. Certainly he’d read King Solomon’s Mines when the book had first been published several months ago, but lately he’d felt the need for a bit of adventure, even if it was fictitious. Not that life was dull or boring or tedious. On the contrary, between his duties as earl, his management of the family’s finances, business, and properties, and his seat in Parliament, life—his life—was extraordinarily full. Why, he scarcely ever had an unscheduled minute. If a certain restlessness had grown in recent months, perhaps even as long as the last year, it was no doubt to be expected. It had been two years, after all, since his brother Richard had died and Adrian had inherited a title and responsibilities he did not expect. Two years since he had married Evie, also unexpected but far more delightful. No doubt every man knew a touch of restlessness after two years of a proper and respectable life.
Evie sighed and again tapped her pen absently on the table. His eyes narrowed slightly. Evelyn Turner Hadley-Attwater, the Countess of Waterston, never tapped her pen nor did she heave sighs of aimless frustration. This was not at all like her.
Perhaps she, too, felt a stirring of unrest. He was not so foolish as to think that women, even those who had everything a woman could possibly want, were so different from men as to be immune to boredom. Indeed, Evie’s life before they had wed had been somewhat adventurous, what with her travel and social engagements and whatever. Not that they had ever really discussed her past or his, for that matter. He didn’t see the point. They had agreed from the first that essentially life had begun when they had met, that nothing before mattered or was at all significant. It was as accurate as it was romantic. His life was empty until she had entered it.
She walks in beauty like the night.
The poet’s words flashed through his mind as they had from the beginning. She was the epitome of grace and charm and intelligence, everything he’d ever wanted but hadn’t known was possible until her. The poem could have been written with his wife in mind. He’d thought the same from the first moment he’d looked into her brown eyes. The first time he’d heard her laughter across a crowded ballroom. The first time he held her hand in his. Adrian Hadley-Attwater—a bit of a rogue when it came to the fairer sex—had been lost the instant Miss Evelyn Turner’s gaze had met his and she’d smiled.
Of cloudless climes and starry skies.
Two years later, he was still lost.
But was she? Tonight was the first time he’d noted any difference in her manner, but then would he have noticed? He prided himself on his powers of observation, but he was extremely busy, as was she. It was not uncommon for them to go a day or more with little contact between them save in passing at the breakfast table. Business and politics often kept him out late into the night, as did her charitable events. It scarcely mattered. He had no doubt she was as in love with him as he was with her.
Admittedly, it was bothersome when his mind drifted on occasion to the fact that he was not the first man in her bed. But they’d married when she was twenty-seven, and she was, in most respects, a woman of sophistication. And his perfect match. He’d be the worst sort of hypocrite to condemn her for the same sort of activities he’d partaken of in his unmarried days, even if women were held to a higher standard. Still, it had been nice to discover she was not overly experienced although she was most enthusiastic. He bit back a grin. He doubted there was anything to compare to a wife with enthusiasm.
And all that’s best of dark and bright ...
He’d had no particular intention to marry. The world was filled with lovely women and they were most enjoyable. Besides, he had reached the age of thirty-six without so much as a broken heart. Indeed, had they never met, it was entirely possible he would never have married at all. Of course, then Richard had died and Evie had come into his life and everything had changed. Restless or not, he was a lucky man.
Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
Her gaze jerked toward him. “Did you say something, darling?”
“Not a thing.” He studied her for a moment. “You seem distracted tonight, my dear. Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I have just fallen behind in my responses.” She heaved another sigh, even more heartfelt, as if she were trying to make a point. “I do so hate to fall behind.”
“I know.” He chuckled but studied her closely. “Is that all?”
“Yes, of course.” She favored him with a brilliant smile that nonetheless struck him as the tiniest bit forced. Nonsense perhaps but his instincts had always been right about such things, especially her.
“You do know,” he said in an offhand manner, “if there is anything wrong, you can tell—”
“You are a dear sweet man, of course I know that. There is nothing wrong and certainly nothing for you to worry about.”
“Ah, well then, my mistake.” He smiled and lowered his gaze to the page in front of him. He could feel her staring at him and wondered if she knew that he knew she was not being entirely truthful. It might not be obvious to anyone else but it was to him. There was the vaguest look in her eye, the slightest hint in her voice, and something in the way she sat. No, the Countess of Waterston was definitely hiding something from her husband. The question now was what.
She wasn’t the type of woman to hide expenditures or exorbitant bills. Indeed, she took spending money—his money—as her due. T
he Earl and Countess of Waterson did need to keep up appearances. No one would ever call her frugal but she’d never been especially frivolous in her purchases. He suspected if she ever was, she would not keep it from him as she’d no doubt find it amusing.
It couldn’t be an illness of some sort. One could see she was in excellent health by the glow of her skin alone. Besides, she knew full well how Richard’s denial of his eroding health had taken a toll on Adrian. Evie would never do that to him.
Could his wife be feeling the same sort of restlessness gripping him of late? The need to do something. Anything. The desire for the unexpected, for a touch of excitement. The odd longing, for once, not to know what was going to happen next.
The thought struck him without warning. Wives who were restless ... A cold hand squeezed his heart. He ignored it. What utter rubbish. His wife was certainly not dallying with another man. Other men’s wives perhaps but not his. That was the worst sort of conclusion to leap to and not at all warranted. He trusted her completely, with his life if necessary and certainly with his heart.
He drew a deep breath. Evie had never done anything to make him question either her affection or her fidelity. She was not the type of woman to be led astray. That the tiniest doubt now surfaced was probably more a result of his own current state of unrest rather than anything of a substantial nature on her part. He’d never really known jealousy before yet apparently he was not immune to it. That, too, was distressing—he had thought he was a better, or at least a more rational, sort of man.
“Oh bother,” she muttered, and his gaze slipped back to her. She pushed away from the desk and stood. “I’m going to finish this in the morning, which will only put me even more behind, but it can’t be helped, I suppose.” She brushed an errant lock of hair away from her face and frowned at the need to do so. “You’re right, you know.”
My Wicked Little Lies Page 3