Charming the Spy (Scandals and Spies Book 4)

by Leighann Dobbs

  Somehow, Catt and Rocky had to find the time to hunt Monsieur V. Morgan—not to mention the rest of Britain—was counting on them. Catt darted a look across the hothouse toward Rocky, who worked in the corner today. The only way they could make progress without devolving into an argument about plant care and who had done what was if they chose opposite ends of the hothouse. After working in the heat next to the oven yesterday, he’d wolfed down his breakfast in order to choose first.

  Since the hour approached eleven of the morning, this should be the last batch of deliveries. Every member of the staff had entered the room at one point or another to fetch bouquets for the driver, Hollander. Even David had stopped by, though in his case it had been more to brag about his conquest the night before. Catt had been happy for the excuse of work, and for Rocky’s glower chasing the hostler away.

  As Catt affixed ribbons to the last order of bouquets, he frowned. The leaves of this lily…were they perforated? Catt ran his fingers lightly over the oblong leaf. Could they have a pest in the hothouse that he and Rocky were unaware of? It could be disastrous to the plants.

  No, these holes couldn’t have been made by vermin eating the leaves. They were too regular, each the same size and shape, a tiny pinprick in the membrane as if made with a needle. Had someone pierced the leaves on this plant on purpose? He checked the other bouquets, but found nothing telling on the other plants. An ominous feeling tightened his stomach.

  “Rocky.”

  “I’m nearly finished,” she said, her voice a grumble. She used her teeth to tie the ribbon around a bunch of tulips. When she lowered the bouquet to notice his rigid posture, she faltered in mid-step.

  “Did you prepare the lilies?” Try as he might, he couldn’t recall if he had.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Were the leaves like this when you harvested them?”

  With a dubious frown, she trudged toward the table to examine the leaves he indicated. Her posture stiffened as she saw them. “Pests?”

  “I don’t think so. Look closer.”

  She did nothing of the sort. As she straightened, worry was written on her face. “If the hothouse is infested, it could endanger the rest of the plants.”

  Did she think he’d taken up botany yesterday? He knew that.

  “The holes are manmade. I think it’s a code.”

  Rocky made a face. “You must be mistaken. We weren’t taught any code involving plants. I would have remembered.”

  So would he. He rubbed his temple. “I know we weren’t taught the code, but I’m certain that’s what it is. What other reason could someone have for poking holes in a plant leaf?”

  “Such a code wouldn’t be sustainable,” Rocky argued. “Every leaf is individual. There would be no uniformity. If V poked a pattern of holes in this leaf, the next one might have an imperfection that could interfere with reading it.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I considered that. That’s why he’d have to pick and choose the flowers he uses carefully, and possibly why we haven’t seen the code until now.”

  Rocky shook her head and crossed her arms. “You’re jumping to conclusions. It’s more likely to be a pestilence.”

  Under normal circumstances, he might agree with her. But they were hunting a French spymaster who had eluded capture for almost a year. The Crown had little to no knowledge about him, which considering the scope of spies in London and abroad, was astounding in itself. They had just as little knowledge about the methods Monsieur V used to pass information to his spies. This could be the key to solving that lingering question.

  But, if Rocky was determined to be stubborn, there was no use arguing about it. It would only waste valuable time. Turning to the table, Catt ran his fingers over the lily bouquet inch by inch, searching out anything else suspicious.

  “What are you doing?” Rocky asked, exasperated.

  “Proving my point,” he gritted out.

  She walked away.

  In less than a minute, he felt something on the flower itself. Was there something stuck in the throat? He beckoned Rocky closer as he tipped the flower to try to see inside.

  “There’s something in here.” He tried to reach it, but the stigma was too delicate and his fingers too clumsy. If he tried, he would crush the stigma and alert someone to the fact it had been tampered with.

  “Let me.” Rocky nudged him aside. For once, she didn’t seem belligerent or accusing. She was focused, her eyebrows set and her lower lip held between her teeth as she used a pair of forceps to painstakingly remove a small slip of paper.

  When she unrolled it, he positioned himself next to her to read over her shoulder. Not that either one of them could decipher the script.

  “It’s definitely a code,” Rocky pronounced.

  Not one he recognized by sight alone. Although he’d packed a few books to help deciphering known French and British codes, he had a feeling that they would be of no help in this case. This, like the holes poked into the leaf, was a new code.

  Rocky tilted her face up to meet his. Her eyes were fearful. “What do we do?”

  He wished he knew the right answer. Rocky was usually the first to reach a conclusion and offer an appropriate solution. In fact, her quick mind was one of the things he admired most about her. At least, when she didn’t oppose his ideas on principle. His life was a lot simpler if he went along with her suggestions. That she was now looking to him for a solution made his stomach cramp. What if he chose the wrong course of action?

  She asked, “Do we stop the code from going out?”

  He could tell from the tight look on her face that she wanted to, if only to thwart the French in some small way. But this was different than thumbing their noses at the enemy. Lives might rest on their decision.

  He had to make one. “No. V will know we’re onto him.”

  He braced himself, waiting for her to argue against the notion. She didn’t. Trepidation was written across her face. Her lips were pursed.

  “Do you have any paper? We’ll take a tracing of the leaf and copy out the code to send to Morgan. Maybe he can puzzle out its meaning.”

  If anyone could, it was Morgan Graylocke. Not only was he in charge of training new recruits like Catt and Rocky, but he was also their mastermind at coding and could decipher a new code faster, even, than the Lord Commander of Spies.

  Rocky had to tear a page out of a journal they used to monitor the changes in the plants. Catt used a graphite pencil to gently rub out an etching of the leaf, replete with the holes, in order to send to Morgan. He scrawled the message beneath the etching and carefully folded the page while Rocky replaced the slip of paper.

  As he tucked it into his pocket for safekeeping, she paused. “Are we certain we want to let this message go out? By the time the duke deciphers the code, it will be too late.”

  His chest tightened. He should have known that she would question his choice. Surprisingly, when she turned to look at him, her gaze was questioning, not accusatory.

  He answered slowly, carefully choosing his words. “Morgan assigned us to watch, not to intercept. If the message never gets to the recipient, V will know we’re on to his game. He could switch households or even corner us. It’s better if we play this out. These ones have no cards, but maybe we can find out to whom these will be delivered. The recipient must also be a spy. We can pass that on to Morgan as well.”

  Rocky hesitated. Catt heard movement in the corridor, muffled by the thick walls.

  “Someone’s coming,” he hissed. “Replace the code, quickly.”

  Rocky used the forceps to position the scrap of paper in the throat of the lily once more. Catt retreated across the hothouse and pretended to tend to one of the plants near the hot brick wall. The heat slid over him, an uncomfortable sensation when combined with the ominous prickle on the back of his neck.

  The door opened and Eliza, the cook’s daughter, stepped through. “Don’t mind me, I’m coming to fetch some garnish.”

  It wasn’t t
he first time she’d done so today. Catt and Rocky stiffly pretended to go about their tasks as the assistant cook claimed a sprig of leaves and left the room. She didn’t so much as glance at the bouquet of lilies. Once the door shut behind her, they exchanged a glance. Catt crossed to Rocky.

  “It could be her,” Rocky whispered.

  Catt frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “One of the people who came in this morning must have tampered with the lilies. It could have been her.”

  Catt glanced at the door, still firmly shut. It offered no answers. “She’s a woman,” he pointed out.

  Rocky scowled. “Thank you for pointing that out. I hadn’t noticed.”

  He raised an eyebrow as he met her gaze again. Sarcasm did not become her. “V is a man. Even with a disguise, I doubt Eliza could be mistaken for one.”

  Though she was a good deal thinner and more gangly than Rocky. Side by side, dressed in men’s clothes, Catt’s attention would be much more drawn to Rocky. If it was dark…

  No. It was preposterous. V couldn’t be a woman. How would she disguise her voice?

  Leaning close enough to him that Catt caught a whiff of flowers—perfume or a byproduct of time spent in the hothouse—Rocky whispered. “Consider the facts. She was outright cold to me when I searched for gossip the other day. She has had the opportunity when she entered the hothouse earlier. She might not be V, but she could be working for him.”

  Catt took and released a deep breath.

  Rocky added, “She could be assisting her father.”

  A man Catt had yet to personally meet because he was so often away from the kitchen. Tightly, Catt nodded. “It bears investigation, at least.”

  Rocky looked smug.

  Chapter 8

  Rocky peeked into the kitchen and quickly retracted her head. Next to her, out of sight from the room beyond, Catt lifted his eyebrows in askance.

  “They’re both in there,” Rocky hissed.

  After the afternoon they’d had yesterday trying to pin both Eliza and her father down in the same room, the fact that they’d finally succeeded was a minor miracle in itself.

  She caught Catt’s gaze and held it. “Are you ready?”

  He made a face. “Ready to flirt with a sour-faced woman who will likely try to sharpen her tongue on me? Why not. I’ve had practice.”

  Rocky glared at him. Was he trying to imply that he’d practiced with her? She couldn’t tell from his casual stance, so she turned her back. “Let’s do this.”

  The cook and his daughter were currently the only two people in the kitchen. Rocky took advantage of that fact, approaching the tall, wide man who stirred a savory pot of broth over the stove while Catt advanced toward Eliza, who monitored the baking bread. As he reached her, he leaned against the counter, offering her a warm smile.

  A tight, unpleasant sensation crawled up Rocky’s spine. He couldn’t have been referring to her as his practice—after all, he’d never smiled at her that way. In her presence, he was composed, occasionally joking, but he never wore quite that wicked a grin. So who had he been flirting with?

  It doesn’t signify. She tried to push it from her mind as she reached the cook, Mr. Dowden. He hummed off-key under his breath as he stirred.

  Trying to match Catt’s smile, Rocky said, “I don’t mean to bother you. I don’t suppose you have a minute to help me find something to tide me over until dinner?”

  A broad smile broke across his face. He set down the spoon and fished a handkerchief out of the pocket on his apron. Patting the sweat dotting his wide forehead and receding hairline, he said, “Of course. We have some mincemeat pastries that should be about ready to come out of the oven.” As he stepped away from the stove, he hollered, “Eliza, how are those pastries doing?”

  Rocky winced. The kitchen wasn’t that big. He didn’t need to shout. Not to mention, it drew Eliza’s attention to Rocky once more. Rocky met the woman’s gaze as trepidation filled her. Did she suspect why Rocky sought to talk to her father?

  The assistant cook made a pinched face. “Those pastries are for supper. If you go handing them out, we won’t have any left.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Dowden said, his voice booming as he crossed to the oven to check on the contents. “What are they for, if not for eating?”

  Eliza glared. Balling her fists, she muttered under her breath. It sounded something uncannily close to, You didn’t slave over them.

  Coupled with her murderous expression, Rocky expected the barb to hit home. Instead, Mr. Dowden shrugged it off. His smile didn’t waver as he bent to check on the tray of pastries. He shut the oven door without pulling them out.

  “They still need a few minutes more,” he said, his tone jovial. “Why don’t you sit and I’ll put on a pot of tea.”

  When Rocky accepted, Eliza’s mouth thinned. Anxiety flashed across Catt’s face before he smoothed it. No doubt he lamented having alluded that it was Rocky’s demeanor that had driven Eliza’s friendliness away, not her questions.

  Rocky met Catt’s gaze and lifted one eyebrow, smug. Go ahead, lover boy. Show me how to charm a woman.

  He didn’t get the opportunity. No sooner had Mr. Dowden filled the kettle with water than Lady Belhaven entered the kitchen. Relief crossed her face.

  “Rocky, Mr. Catterson, thank heavens you’re here.”

  She exchanged a look with Catt. They both straightened and approached their employer.

  “Forgive us,” Catt said. “We were only out of the hothouse for a moment.”

  Lady Belhaven waved her hand through the air, dismissing the notion. “I’m glad I’ve found you. I need a delivery made posthaste.”

  Rocky and Catt followed her into the corridor as she led the way toward the hothouse. When she reached out to touch the walls to steady herself, Catt offered his arm. The progress was slow, but Rocky tried to stifle her impatience.

  “Which flowers do you need?” she asked.

  “I’ll need six bouquets. They were made up this morning. The ones without the cards. You’ll need to deliver them yourselves, though. I can’t spare anyone else.”

  That was unusual. Rocky exchanged a glance with Catt, he seemed just as confused as she was, but neither of them were about to question it. Lady Belhaven was about to give them the exact address that the lily with the code would be delivered to.

  The recipient was a Lady Montrose who lived a brisk ten-minute walk away in Mayfair. Rocky and Catt hastened to the hothouse and wrapped the bouquets in oiled cloth to shield the flowers from the elements, then bundled themselves just as tightly.

  Rocky was surprised to discover that the air was almost balmy, certainly more than it had been over the past several weeks. Fat snowflakes drifted from the sky to collect on the townhouses and the street. Tracks through the snow indicated the routes of carriages. Rocky and Catt trudged along the gutter of the road, allowing room for the vehicles to pass them.

  “Do you suppose anyone is tampering with the plants while we’re away?”

  A shudder crawled down Rocky’s spine at the notion. “It’s afternoon. This is the last of the deliveries. They would have no reason…”

  She pressed her lips together. She shouldn’t discount that the French spymaster might seek to prepare another code to go out in the morning.

  Squaring her shoulders, she said, “We’ll check the plants when we return.”

  It would take hours. But if they managed to intercept another message from Monsieur V and copy the information for the Duke of Tenwick, that would make the endeavor worthwhile, wouldn’t it?

  “Do you think this lady Montrose is a spy?” Rocky asked.

  “Hard to know,” Catt said. “There are six bouquets. Perhaps its someone else in her household. We’ll have to keep an eye out and see if anyone seeks the lily bouquet in particular.”

  Rocky didn’t say anything more. She was too preoccupied with the fact that they were carrying a secret code to an enemy spy to worry about it. The fact that they were, i
ndeed, delivering the code irritated her, but Morgan’s instructions had been clear. They were not to interfere.

  By the time they reached the address in question, Rocky’s shoulders were taught with tension. She and Catt stepped up to the narrow, stucco-sided building and knocked on the door.

  After a moment, it was opened from within by a plump, middle-aged woman with graying hair. She wore a warm pink gown that looked too expensive to belong to a servant.

  Hesitantly, Rocky said, “We’re to deliver these flowers to Lady Montrose? They’re from Lady Belhaven.”

  A broad smile broke across her face. “Oh, yes, of course. Please, do come in.”

  She stepped back, revealing a long, dark corridor with closed doors punctuating the length. When she shut the door behind them, Rocky blinked as she waited for her eyes to adjust. One door along the hallway was ajar, letting in a sliver of daylight from the room beyond.

  The woman beckoned to them. “I am Lady Montrose. Right this way, please.”

  Since there was no place to set down the flowers in the narrow entryway, Rocky followed the woman down the corridor and into that room.

  It was a cozy sitting room with one sofa opposite a chair, a table in between with a silver tea service on it, and a chuckling fire in the corner. A painting on the wall depicted a man and woman staring soulfully into each other’s eyes.

  “You can set the flowers on the table,” the lady said. She claimed the armchair, wiggling as she found the most comfortable spot. As Rocky trudged to the table and set down her burden on the end opposite the tea service, Lady Montrose gestured toward the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

  Rocky frowned. “We aren’t at liberty to stay, my lady. We have work to be about.”