by Beers, Laura
“No,” Baldwin argued with a shake of his head. “Kerley was already dead when we left. His face was slashed, and he’d been shot in the chest.”
“We should have taken his body with us.”
“If we had, then it would have slowed us down and we would have been killed, as well.”
Corbyn frowned. “We should have done more than we did.”
“We were ambushed by the French,” Baldwin said. “The mission was a disaster, and we had no choice but to retreat.”
“I just can’t help but think we failed Kerley.”
Baldwin’s voice grew determined. “We did all that we could, and we were lucky to get out of there alive.”
“I don’t feel lucky.”
“No?”
Corbyn shook his head. “Every time I close my eyes, I relive that mission and wonder what we could have done differently.”
“You need a wife.”
Corbyn reared back slightly. “I beg your pardon?” he asked. “What part of this conversation leads you to believe that I need a wife?
“You work entirely too hard, and you need something or someone to distract you,” Baldwin said.
“A wife wouldn’t solve my problems, it would create a whole new host of them,” he responded firmly.
“I worry about you.”
“There is no reason to worry about me,” he countered. “I assure you that I am doing perfectly well on my own.”
Baldwin let out a sigh. “I used to think that, until I met my wife.”
“I am truly happy that you found Madalene, but we are on entirely different paths. I am running the agency, and you have taken up your seat in the House of Lords.”
“That may be true, but—”
Corbyn cut him off. “I would prefer if you dropped it.”
Baldwin tipped his head in acknowledgement and wisely did not press the ridiculous subject any longer.
“This is my stop,” Corbyn announced as he banged the top of the coach with his fist.
The coach halted and Corbyn quickly exited it. As he stepped onto the crowded street, he was forced to acknowledge that his friend meant well; but he had no desire to speak about matrimony.
A wife was not conducive to the life that he led. He worked entirely too much, and he barely spent any time at his townhouse. A wife would change all of that.
No.
He most definitely did not need a wife.
So why did the image of Jane come into his head? He enjoyed her company. She had a quick wit about her and didn’t shy away from speaking her mind. He smiled at that thought. No, she didn’t have any issue in regards to that.
As he approached a small, one-level red brick building on Greenwich Street, he saw Hobbs and Bond leaning their shoulders against the front of it. They gave the appearance they were loitering, but he was well aware that they were alert and waiting for the fight that might be brought to them.
He tipped his head at them as he passed through the main door. Sanders met him in the hall with files in his hand.
“These are the last of the files from your other office,” he explained as he opened a door. “And this is your new office, at least for the time being.”
Corbyn stepped into a square room with a small window along the back wall. A desk sat in the middle of the room and chairs were set up in front of the desk. “This will do,” he remarked.
Sanders placed the files down on his desk. “I will leave you to put these away and embark on my assignment.”
“I want you to be careful,” Corbyn said, giving him a pointed look. “Hannity’s killer struck again and murdered one of my informants.”
“Is that why you ran off earlier?”
Corbyn nodded. “It was,” he replied. “I didn’t want to believe it to be true, and I wanted to see it for myself.”
“Was the informant shot and thrown out of the window like Hannity?”
With a shake of his head, he replied, “No, her throat was slashed.”
Sanders winced. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“As am I,” Corbyn murmured.
A silence descended over them before Sanders spoke again. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, but I want you to report to me on the status of your mission every night,” he ordered. “Do I make myself clear, Agent?”
“I understand,” Sanders replied as he headed towards the door.
After Sanders left, Corbyn sat at his desk. He had an extremely uncomfortable letter to write to the Undersecretary of the Alien Office. He reached for a piece of paper and the quill that was next to the inkpot.
How he dreaded writing this letter. It marked him as a failure. And he hated failing at anything.
Chapter Eight
Jane sat in the drawing room as she read a book on the settee. She had just turned the page when Pratt stepped into the room and announced, “Mr. Haskett has requested to see you, milady.”
“Mr. Haskett?” she repeated, lowering her book to her lap.
“Yes,” he replied. “Would you care for his calling card?”
“I would not, but please send him in.”
As she waited for Mr. Haskett to step into the drawing room, she leaned forward and put the book on the table. She was pleased when a maid slipped into the room and went to sit down in the corner. She had no desire to be alone with Mr. Haskett.
Mr. Haskett stepped into the room, his eyes nervously darting about. “I was told that Oliver has departed for the day,” he said. “I hope that is correct.”
“It is.”
A relieved look came to his face. “That bodes well for me, then.”
Finding herself curious, Jane asked, “May I ask why you have returned, Mr. Haskett?”
“You may,” he replied, walking closer to her. “I wanted to see you again and apologize for my hasty departure earlier.”
“I assure you that isn’t necessary.”
“But it is.”
She gestured towards the settee opposite of her. “Please have a seat, and I will pour you some tea.”
“Thank you, Lady Jane.”
As she picked up the silver teapot, she commented, “Oliver would be furious to learn that you came to visit me again.”
“It’s a risk that I’m willing to take.”
Jane placed the teapot back down and picked up the teacup, which she extended towards Mr. Haskett. “What is it that you want, Mr. Haskett?”
The man smiled flirtatiously. “Nothing but the pleasure of your company.”
She leaned back in her seat. “May I be frank with you?”
“I would prefer it,” he replied before taking a sip.
“I think it would be best if we did not associate with one another,” she said.
“No?” he asked in an amused tone.
Jane shook her head. “You are a rake amongst the ton and a known gambler, much like my brother, Oliver.”
Mr. Haskett huffed. “Not anymore. Oliver has been redeemed.”
“Pardon?” She had not been expecting that.
“Oliver has changed since he came back from Lockhart Manor,” Mr. Haskett revealed. “He hasn’t been out gambling or drinking with us since then.”
“He hasn’t?”
“Frankly, we haven’t seen much of him.”
“Do you not frequent The Gutted Fish with him to gamble?”
Mr. Haskett gave her a blank stare. “The Gutted Fish?” he repeated. “I haven’t heard of that gambling hell.”
“It is near the docks,” she shared.
“Why would Oliver go to a gambling hell near the docks?”
“He said it was more lucrative.”
Mr. Haskett leaned forward and placed his teacup onto the table. “I’ll have to ask him about The Gutted Fish the next time we speak.”
“When will that be?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Mr. Haskett replied, “but I hope it will be soon.”
Jane reached for her cup and took a long, lingering
sip of her tea. She found it odd that Oliver hadn’t continued his association with his friends. Why would he attend these disreputable gambling hells without them?
“Would you care to go on a carriage ride with me through Hyde Park, Lady Jane?” Mr. Haskett asked.
“I would not.”
Not deterred by her rejection, Mr. Haskett pressed, “A turn around the gardens, then?”
Jane lowered her cup to her lap as she kept her back rigid. “I believe I have already explained why that would be a foolhardy thing to do.”
“Because I am a gambler.”
“And a rake.”
His lips curled into an obnoxious smile. It was evident by his behavior that he was a man who was used to getting what he wanted. “But I am also a man, and you are a very beautiful young woman,” he said, his words sounding entirely too smooth, rehearsed.
She was done with this ridiculous conversation and rose abruptly. “Mr. Haskett,” she started, “I think it would be best if you left.”
He rose in response. “Are you in earnest?”
“I am.”
Mr. Haskett leaned forward and placed his teacup onto the tray. “Then I wish you a good day, Lady Jane.”
After he left the room, Jane dropped onto the settee in an unladylike fashion. That man had some nerve to flirt with her so blatantly, and in her own home, no less.
Pratt stepped into the room. “Lord Brinton is here to call upon you, milady.”
She perked up at that news. “Please send him in.”
“As you wish,” Pratt said before departing.
Rising, she turned towards the door and watched as Lord Brinton entered. He approached her but stopped a short distance away, leaving more than enough distance to be considered proper.
He bowed. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Jane.”
“It is my pleasure.”
Lord Brinton glanced back at the door before saying, “I couldn’t help but notice Mr. Haskett leaving.”
Jane frowned. “Yes, he decided to call on me again.”
“Again?” Lord Brinton repeated in surprise.
Her lips twitched. “He came earlier, and Oliver promptly removed him from Hawthorne House.”
“Oliver removed him?”
“Yes, quite forcefully.”
Lord Brinton gave her a puzzled look. “But he came back?”
“Yes, he wanted to apologize for his sudden departure and asked if I wanted to take a carriage ride through Hyde Park.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him no.”
Lord Brinton nodded his head in approval. “I don’t think any good would come from you associating with Mr. Haskett.”
“I would agree with you there.” She gestured towards a chair. “Please have a seat, Percy.”
“I am surprised to find you alone,” Percy said after they were both situated.
“And why is that?”
“Because I’d just assumed your legion of admirers would be paying court to you,” he stated with a smile.
She laughed. “Hardly.”
With a glance at the window, he asked, “Would you care to take a turn around the gardens with me?”
“I would,” she said, rising.
Percy stood and offered his arm. “May I ask where your mother is?”
“She went shopping on Bond Street.”
“You didn’t go with her?”
Jane shook her head as they walked towards the rear of the townhouse. “I wanted to stay home and read.”
“How scandalous of you,” he teased.
“I think not,” she replied. “Reading is an acceptable pastime for women of my station.”
“Yes, but the more you read, the more you start getting ideas of grandeur,” he said, feigning outrage. “Soon you will be trying to run the government.”
“Wouldn’t that be grand?”
Percy chuckled. “I daresay that’s not likely to happen.”
“Agreed.”
A liveried footman opened the rear door and discreetly followed them onto the veranda.
As they started walking along the footpath, Percy cleared his throat. “There is something that I wish to discuss with you.”
“It sounds serious,” she remarked lightly, glancing over at him.
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Whatever could it be?”
Percy stopped and turned to face her, his face solemn. “Jane, I was wondering if you would do me the great honor of allowing me to court you.”
Jane stared back at him in surprise. She had not been expecting that. “Pardon?”
He reached for her hand, then said, “I think we would suit nicely, you and me.”
“But we are friends.”
“That is why I believe us to be perfect for one another.”
“In what way?”
Percy brought her hand up to his lips. “I want a wife that can make me laugh,” he said. “Someone that I am anxious to see every day.”
“I must admit that your declaration has taken me by surprise.”
“I am well aware, but I thought it would be for the best if I declared my intentions.”
Jane slipped her hand out of his and stepped back. “I am unsure of what to say.”
“Just promise me that you will think on it,” Percy said. “I am hoping you will agree that a union between us could be immensely rewarding.”
Her eyes searched his. “But why now?”
“I suppose I decided it was time for me to settle down and have an heir.”
Jane pressed her lips together. “How romantic,” she muttered.
Percy smiled indulgently at her. “I know that you must want love, and I truly believe that will come naturally after we wed.”
“Do you, now?”
“How could anyone not fall in love with you?” he asked, taking a step closer to her. “You are beautiful, kind, and clever.”
An image of Lord Evan came to her mind at his words. He didn’t love her, nor would he ever. So why was she spending her time pining for him?
Percy broke through her musings as he continued to plead his case. “I can promise that we will have such fun together, and as my countess, you will not want for anything in this life.”
“I shall have to think on it,” Jane asserted.
“Of course,” he replied. “Until that time, I intend to woo you so brilliantly that you will come to realize rather quickly that you want to marry me.”
“Is that so?”
He nodded. “If you are amenable, I was hoping to take you on a carriage ride through Hyde Park tomorrow.”
“I could agree to that.”
“Wonderful,” he said, offering his arm. “But first, you need to give me a tour of your lovely gardens.”
As she placed her hand on his arm, Jane replied, “I’d be happy to.”
With the morning sun behind him, Corbyn sat at his desk in his townhouse as he attempted to read through his correspondence, but his thoughts kept returning to Miss Polly and Hannity. Who would have killed them, and why was the murderer toying with him by sending notes? If this person wanted him dead, then why hadn’t he struck yet?
What was worse was that he had no leads. He had nothing to pursue, and it irked him. He didn’t like to be in this position, and he refused to let this person win. He would hunt him down and bring him to justice.
The door being thrown open drew his attention and the tall, fair-haired Lord Daniel Bradley stormed into his study. “What in the blazes are you about, Corbyn?”
Corbyn rose from his chair to greet the Undersecretary of the Alien Office. “It is good to see you, Lord Daniel.”
“We don’t have time for pleasantries,” Lord Daniel stated firmly. “I want to know how your previous building was compromised.”
“I am looking into it—”
“Not well enough, if you ask me,” Lord Daniel said curtly.
“Frankly, we have very little to go on,” Corbyn admitted with a fro
wn.
“When has that stopped you before?”
“It hasn’t, and it won’t.”
Lord Daniel nodded in approval. “I am glad to hear that,” he said. “Do you have any leads?”
“The suspect killed an agent and one of my informants. Furthermore, he knew the location of our office,” Corbyn informed him. “He has even been gracious enough to leave notes for me, leading me to believe that I am ultimately the target.”
“He left notes?”
“Yes, cryptic notes.”
Lord Daniel paused. “Could it be a previous agent targeting you?”
“For what purpose?”
“You have made a lot of enemies over the years.”
“I have,” he agreed, “but why kill Hannity and an informant? Why not just kill me?”
Lord Daniel sat down in the chair in front of the desk. “I don’t know,” he replied, “but I am not an agent, am I?”
“No, you are not,” Corbyn remarked, sitting back down.
Lord Daniel grew silent, then said, “I just worry that your mind may be muddled at this time.”
“Pardon?”
Lord Daniel’s demeanor was compassionate. “I’ve heard that your father is very sick and is fading fast.”
“That’s true, but it has nothing to do with this case.”
“Perhaps your mind is focused elsewhere, then?” Lord Daniel asked, eyeing him closely. “No one would fault you for that.”
Corbyn stiffened. “I assure you that my mind is focused on the case.”
“It might be best if you take some time off—”
Corbyn spoke over him. “I don’t think that is wise. Not when there is a suspect on the loose; a suspect who wants me dead.”
“Let the other agents handle it,” Lord Daniel encouraged.
“I don’t think I can.”
Lord Daniel looked displeased by his response. “You haven’t taken a holiday since you returned home from the peninsula nearly four years ago.”
“I don’t require a holiday.”
“I appointed you to lead this agency because I wanted an experienced agent that would be willing to take risks.”
Corbyn interjected, “And I have.”
“I would agree, and those risks have paid off, exponentially.” Lord Daniel rose and walked over to the window. “But I worry that I may have pushed you too hard.”