For Love and Country (Brothers in Arms Book 13)

by Samantha Kane

  He stopped in the street to wipe his brow with his handkerchief. How was he to face Barnabas today? Yet he’d promised to return to his house, to face more torture at his hands. For Melinda de Vere. He must remember he was doing it for her. He’d never imagined a woman could feel that way, glad that two men were illicitly involved, and yet she was relieved that he and Barnabas were lovers. Or would be. She thought they’d be. Because they weren’t. Perhaps they wouldn’t be. He wiped his brow again.

  Was her relief in part because she knew Ambrose had foolishly allowed himself to have feelings for her? Feelings she clearly did not return. He was tired of being alone. In the past he’d been accused of pursuing inappropriate women, women who were not of the same station, who had a checkered past, who were in need of rescuing. He began to walk slowly down the street. Was it true? Did he deliberately sabotage any chance of a future by choosing the wrong women? Why would he do that when he genuinely wanted to marry and have children?

  Yes, he had a habit of trying to help those in need. Just because a woman was not of his station or had fallen on hard times did not mean they were inappropriate or unworthy of his attention. As a gentleman he firmly believed it was his responsibility to take care of the gentler sex and protect them from harm. His father had firmly believed it and so did Ambrose. He felt it was unfair of others to hold it against him.

  Now, a man like Barnabas… He paused on the sidewalk in consternation. When had he started thinking of him as Barnabas and not Sir Barnabas? It was a dangerous precedent to set in his mind. He needed to maintain his distance from the other man. Keeping him at arm’s length, starting with his title. It was probably too late to insist that he call Ambrose Lord Wetherald. He’d most likely agree to do it only in bed.

  Ambrose closed his eyes briefly and grit his teeth. He would not think of Barnabas…Sir Barnabas and bed together in the same thought again. Yet another boundary it was dangerous to cross, even in his mind.

  He stopped suddenly, looking around him. Where was he going? With mortification he realized he was on Downing Street, his feet directing him where his thoughts had taken him. He turned abruptly and headed the other way. It was suppertime and he was hungry. He didn’t have to be back at Sir Barnabas’s house until this evening. He mopped the sweat from his brow. Last night had been difficult enough. He couldn’t fathom what tortures awaited him tonight.

  * * *

  Barnabas slammed the letter down on the desk with a growl. De Vere again. How many nefarious activities was the man involved in? How had his network extended so quickly right under Barnabas’s nose? The new coastguard had failed so far to capture any of de Vere’s smuggling operation. He could only surmise two things: de Vere had a man in government who was feeding him classified information, and he most likely was using it to benefit a shadowy patron. De Vere was wealthy, but smuggling wasn’t that lucrative, not anymore.

  Everything pointed to his involvement in the recently dissolved African Company of Merchants and de Vere’s extensive holdings on the Gold Coast there. But how and why? Britain still held the territory, despite the murder of the British governor last year in an Ashanti attack. De Vere had lost money and prestige in the region, but there had been no evidence of it in his accounts. Who were de Vere’s informant and patron? And what was their goal?

  He had to get inside Mrs. Jones’s head. It was quite likely she’d serviced both men without knowing who they were. It was the perfect scenario to cement such an unholy alliance. De Vere lets them do as they like to his young, beautiful, well-bred wife and then he uses their own perfidy against them, blackmailing them into doing his bidding. Or perhaps he just let them indulge their heinous passions at will, providing an outlet that was too tempting to resist. A willing whore was one thing, but debasing such forbidden fruit as Melinda was an irresistible fantasy to some, and de Vere knew it. She’d been useless to him as a wife, so he’d pimped her out to further his schemes. Just the thought of it made Barnabas’s blood boil. He’d enjoy wringing all their necks with a nice, tight noose.

  She trusted him now, not completely, but enough. And Wetherald’s companionship had merely increased her trust. He was Wetherald, after all. A man of unimpeachable character. If he was willing to let Barnabas violate the sanctity of his body, that was apparently good enough for Mrs. Jones. He laughed mirthlessly at the irony. Her character reference had won him Wetherald’s body. Wetherald’s submission had won him her confidence. It was at times like this that Barnabas felt every inch the manipulating bastard he’d been called more times than he could count.

  “Mr. Gantry to see you, sir,” his secretary said from the doorway. He was watching Barnabas uneasily, clearly sensing his ill temper.

  “Send him in,” he snapped. When Simon entered, in lieu of a greeting he told him, “Shut the door.”

  “And good afternoon to you, too,” Simon said. “I’m fine, thank you for asking. And you?” He looked like hell. His clothes were wrinkled and his eyes bloodshot.

  “Are you sober?” Barnabas asked coldly.

  “Yes. Just barely,” Simon said. “Since it is an unwanted condition, I recommend you get directly to the point or I will leave and remedy it.”

  “You used to show me more deference.” Barnabas sat back in his seat, frowning in displeasure. The truth was he didn’t care one way or another whether or not Simon deferred to him. He was merely unhappy about his former agent’s continuing disintegration.

  “Yes, well, you used to have the power to have me shot,” Simon said, falling into the chair across the desk from Barnabas.

  “I still do,” Barnabas reminded him.

  “It at least takes some sort of writ these days,” Simon said. “Now that you’re walking the straight and narrow corridors of justice for king and country and all that rot.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Barnabas said. “I’ve added secret doorways and various tunnels to the corridor to accommodate my needs.”

  “Of course you have,” Simon said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m a bit under the weather, Sir Barnabas. Could you please just inform me who you want me to kill so I can do it and get on with my day?”

  “I don’t need you to kill anyone. I need you to spy on someone. Infinitely easier.”

  “I disagree. It takes more time and requires that I see you on a regular basis.” Simon groaned. “Fine. I’ll do it. If I say no you’ll just torture me until I do it anyway, so we might as well skip that part.”

  “I wish everyone were as agreeable as you,” Barnabas said. “Torture is so unnecessary, and really, it wastes such a lot of everyone’s time.” He shook his head. “No one is concerned with efficiency these days.”

  “Whom am I spying on?” Simon asked impatiently.

  “No small talk today?” Barnabas asked just to irritate him some more.

  “No small talk ever,” Simon said flatly. Barnabas hid a smile. “Come on, then. All this procrastinating has me fearing the worst.”

  “I need you to infiltrate de Vere’s inner circle,” Barnabas told him. “I have reason to believe that he has a spy in the Home Office, and perhaps a patron financing whatever operation he’s running with his ill-gotten information. Someone with your background and skills is always useful to a man like that. In your present condition it shouldn’t be a problem. He’ll assume he can easily manipulate or blackmail you.”

  “In my present condition?” Simon asked sharply. “And what condition is that?”

  “Well, clearly inebriated half the time, and the other half dissipated and ill, not to mention disagreeable. You’re just his cup of tea.”

  “I’m in a lull between occupations,” Simon said.

  “What occupations?” Barnabas asked, curious.

  “Spying and dying,” Simon told him. “A man has to have hobbies while he waits for the grim reaper.”

  “Some men paint, or raise horses,” Barnabas offered, not showing his dismay over Simon’s apparent low state.

  “I drink
,” Simon told him, standing up. “I’m very good at it. I don’t see why I should learn to paint when I have a perfectly good hobby already.”

  “How is Daniel?” Barnabas asked suddenly.

  Simon looked surprised at the change of topic. “Still pining for his handsome face, are you?” he asked cattishly. “I’m sure I don’t know. He’s enjoying some sort of bucolic fantasy with his lover, his lover’s ex-wife, her new baby and her fiancé.” He frowned. “Haven’t you see him lately?”

  “As you say, he spends more time in the country than he does in London lately. What the devil is so attractive about the country?” Barnabas was honestly bemused. “All there is to do is sneeze and outwit the parson’s mousetrap.”

  “From what I’ve seen of Ashton on the Green, no one outwits the parson,” Simon muttered.

  “Touché,” Barnabas said. So Daniel hadn’t seen Simon lately. Barnabas would wager Simon’s current state had something to do with Harry Ashbury’s ex-wife. If he remembered correctly, Simon had had a brief liaison with her when she’d arrived in London searching for Harry. Perhaps this mission would be good for him. He clearly needed something constructive to do. It wouldn’t be the first time Barnabas had helped Simon get over a broken heart. When he’d joined the service, he’d been near dead of one.

  “How am I to get close to de Vere?” Simon asked wearily.

  “Go out and debauch yourself,” Barnabas suggested.

  “Too late,” Simon said drily. He waved away Barnabas’s reply. “Never mind. I’m sure I’ll figure it out. Lord knows I infiltrated enemy camps on the Peninsula without you. I can handle one English bully.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Barnabas said. “If you’re still alive on Tuesday, send a report my way.”

  “Your confidence in me is appreciated.” Simon bowed mockingly. “If you discover anything of import, try to remember I’m debasing myself for you.”

  “I said debauch,” Barnabas corrected as Simon opened the door.

  “Once again the nuances of the English language escape me,” Simon said in parting as he walked out of the office.

  Chapter 12

  “You are prompt, as usual,” Sir Barnabas said when Ambrose was shown into his study. He sounded as he always had, impatient at the interruption and slightly annoyed as well. There was no sign of last night’s seducer.

  Ambrose hesitated at the threshold. “If it is an inconvenient time, I’m sure that we can reschedule our appointment,” he offered, unsure what Sir Barnabas’s mood indicated.

  “It is not inconvenient,” Sir Barnabas said, frowning. “And it is not an appointment. It is a fuck.”

  Ambrose flinched, but tried to hide it. “Please, control yourself,” he said drily. “Your enthusiasm is unseemly.”

  To his shock Sir Barnabas burst into laughter. “You have no idea,” he said, pushing his chair back from his desk. “I have been unseemly all day anticipating it.” He indicated the front of his trousers, and against his will Ambrose looked down. He blanched at the unmistakable evidence of the other man’s arousal. Sir Barnabas shook his head with a snort of disgust. “Come on,” he said. He walked past Ambrose and opened the study door.

  “Where are we going?” Ambrose asked warily, not moving.

  “Well, I had thought to take you somewhere more private for our liaison, such as my chamber, but if you’d rather fuck right here, I can do that.” He started to shut the door, but Ambrose stopped him with a hastily placed hand.

  “No, no,” he said. “Not here.” He shuddered at the thought of someone hearing them, or walking in on them.

  Sir Barnabas simply walked out, obviously expecting Ambrose to follow him, which he did. He didn’t like it one bit, as if he were some naughty schoolboy being led to the headmaster’s study.

  “I was actually surprised you came,” Sir Barnabas said as they went up the stairs. Ambrose looked around nervously, but there were no servants to be seen anywhere.

  “Why?” he asked. The hair on his nape had risen as if he was being watched and he jerked his head to the side to look down into the hallway below.

  “No one is watching,” Sir Barnabas said calmly. “It’s true my servants are paid to spy on people, but not on me. Let me reassure you, they are very discreet.”

  “Whom do they spy on?” Ambrose asked in alarm.

  “Whomever I tell them to,” Sir Barnabas said. He stopped suddenly and Ambrose nearly ran into him. “Welcome to the lion’s den,” he said with undisguised amusement as he opened a door.

  Ambrose peered into his bedchamber. It was comfortable without being austere or ostentatious. Dark wood and blue paper covered the walls, while a large pale carpet hid the floorboards. The bed dominated the space, large with rumpled blankets.

  The last surprised him. Sir Barnabas must have seen it. “No one enters my bedchamber without my express consent,” he said. “That includes the maids. Usually one of them enters while I am dressing and tidies up before I leave.”

  “Why?” Ambrose asked. Sir Barnabas put a hand behind his back to urge him forward, but his feet refused to move. Sir Barnabas ended up practically shoving him into the room.

  “Because I believe I will live longer that way,” Sir Barnabas replied evenly.

  Ambrose stopped two steps into the room and he heard Sir Barnabas close the door behind them. The sound of the latch clicking kicked up Ambrose’s heartbeat.

  “Would you care for a whiskey?” Sir Barnabas asked. He walked over to a small table that held spirits and glasses.

  “Yes,” Ambrose said fervently. “The bottle, please.”

  Sir Barnabas ignored him and poured him what seemed to be a very small amount of whiskey. He began to walk it back to Ambrose. As he passed the window, he raised it. “Fresh air,” he said.

  As he walked across the room, he was transformed. He no longer looked like the irritable Sir Barnabas James. Even his walk was different. He prowled as if hunting prey. His eyes were heavy lidded as he watched Ambrose. Here was the seducer of the night before. For one brief moment Ambrose felt a wave of relief. Then confusion took its place. Why would he want the seducer and not the adversary?

  “Why did you come tonight?” Sir Barnabas asked quietly as he handed Ambrose his drink. When Ambrose reached for it, their fingers brushed and he felt a shiver of awareness. Sir Barnabas’s eyes narrowed, but he made no comment.

  Ambrose’s confusion was the only excuse he had for speaking the truth. “Because I said I would. And because I need to know.”

  “Need to know what?” Sir Barnabas asked over the rim of his glass before he took a sip. Ambrose was unnaturally focused on his mouth as he did so.

  “Why I did not throw your ultimatum in your face along with my glove and call you out for attempting to manipulate me into your bed.” Ambrose downed the whiskey and set the glass on the table as it burned its way down his throat. His eyes watered a bit, but he refused to cough.

  “I’d like to propose an answer to that, if I may?” Sir Barnabas said. At Ambrose’s nod he, too, set his glass down on the table, half full. “I think it’s because you’re intrigued by me and the whole situation. It isn’t often a man is desired by someone such as I.”

  “Someone such as you? What does that mean?” Ambrose asked.

  He stood his ground as Sir Barnabas sidled closer. Close enough that Ambrose could smell his cologne and feel his heat. Both were enticing, and he was rattled by his response.

  “I’m worldly, you are not,” he answered. “I am experienced. You are not.” He put a finger on Ambrose’s shoulder and trailed it down over his lapel. “I am powerful.”

  “And I am not?” Ambrose finished for him.

  “On the contrary,” Sir Barnabas said as he reached up and started to undo Ambrose’s cravat. “You are quite powerful in your way, as I am in mine. We are, for want of a better example, iron and magnet.”

  Ambrose grabbed his wrists to stop him. “Don’t,” he said in a harsh whisper. Sir Barnabas surprised hi
m by not fighting his hold. Instead he leaned closer and pressed his nose to Ambrose exposed neck, breathing deeply. Ambrose could hardly breath at all. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I like the way you smell,” Sir Barnabas said softly. “Clean and pure. Very exhilarating.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “Never.” Sir Barnabas straightened. “I just want to touch you, Ambrose. I may call you Ambrose, yes? And you shall call me Barnabas.”

  “Yes.” Ambrose was trying not to panic. He wanted Barnabas to touch him. “I must be mad,” he whispered. Sir Barnabas caught his eye, and Ambrose was trapped by the desire he saw in his gaze.

  “We are both mad,” Sir Barnabas said.

  He rested his hands against Ambrose’s chest and Ambrose grew lightheaded. He had to let go of one of Barnabas’s wrists to lay his palm flat against the wall behind him and lean back. Barnabas followed, leaning his shoulder on the wall beside Ambrose. He unbuttoned Ambrose’s jacket and slid his hand inside to caress Ambrose’s abdomen through his thin linen shirt and Ambrose was mortified to realize he was growing aroused. He bit his lip.

  “Oh, no,” Barnabas whispered. He pressed a finger to Ambrose’s mouth and gently pulled his lip from between his teeth. “None of that. You don’t want to mar perfection.”

  He leaned over and lightly bit Ambrose’s earlobe, and to his complete and utter horror Ambrose moaned. Barnabas chuckled. He let go and slid his lips across Ambrose cheek. When Barnabas’s mouth touched his, Ambrose jerked away.

  “Men do not kiss,” he said breathlessly.

  “Who told you that?” Barnabas asked. He traced the corner of Ambrose mouth with the tip of his tongue and Ambrose had to swallow another moan.