A SINFUL SURRENDER: Spies and Lovers

by Laura Trentham

  It was scandalous, embarrassing, and… something else. Something that sent heat rushing through her body.

  “Get off.” She squirmed.

  “Be still. They’ll see us. Your dress is a bloody beacon.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was being literal or had used a blasphemy. Did it really matter? She could hear voices now from above. The men were standing in the opened window. They had escaped by mere seconds.

  “Did they take it?” The clipped words were emotionless.

  “It’s gone. How could this happen in my home?” It was Lord Harrington then, and he sounded truly horrified. “I only did this as a favor to Edward. What was in the damn book?”

  “Not your concern.”

  “What are we going to do with the poor boy’s body?”

  “My people will handle the body and clean the mess before your servants see. Tell no one. This incident is not to make it to the gossip mongers, is that understood?” The threat was clear even to Delilah on the ground.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  What sort of men killed without remorse, disposed of bodies, and threatened lords? And what kind of man was on top of her? If he was in search of the same book, what methods would he stoop to in order to obtain what he wanted? Murder? Lies?

  “Should we give chase?” Harrington asked.

  “Whoever he was, he was an experienced assassin. He’ll be halfway across London by now.”

  “Gilmore should be warned.”

  “Let the office handle Gilmore. Forget this ever happened, Harrington.”

  She closed her eyes and wished she could do the same. She would spirit herself into her corner room and cozy canopied bed. She’d be safe with her mother on constant guard. Or would she? The danger Delilah had stumbled into wasn’t like catching a chill, being caught alone with a gentleman, or getting lost on the moor.

  The men’s voices faded. Delilah pushed at the man’s chest. This time he rose and held out a hand to her. She stared at it for only a heartbeat before allowing him to help her stand. Calluses along his palm made her suspect he was familiar with reins.

  “We can slip out the side gate with none the wiser.” He was already on the move, as quiet, graceful, and dangerous as the lion she’d seen pacing at the Tower menagerie.

  She followed him not because she trusted him but because his plan was expedient. She could be home before her parents and send a note back for them. Her family had a rented town house only a brisk walk away. Alone. At night. It wasn’t ideal, but needs must.

  She stayed close to him. When he stopped, she bumped into him. A wrought iron gate stood six feet tall, the hinges rusted and the ironworks peeling.

  He shifted and examined her head to toe. “Your dress will attract undue attention on the streets.”

  Not only were her skirts covered in drying blood, but with dirt and grass stains as well. A shot of anger made her stand up straighter. She hadn’t asked to bear witness to a murder.

  “As soon as we step outside this garden, we will go our separate ways and pretend this never happened,” she said.

  Instead of launching into the argument she sensed brewing behind his narrowed eyes, he shrugged out of his jacket and swept it over her shoulders. “That should distract from the worst of the damage.”

  She slipped her arms through the sleeves, the cuffs brushing her fingertips and the shoulders drooping down her arm. The jacket was of quality superfine, but it was well-worn and headed toward shabby given another season of wear. She tugged the lapels close together and buried her nose in the collar, noticing one of the buttons was loose. It was warm from his body and smelled of green rolling hills, not the smoky, foggy city. Goose bumps rose along her arms even though she wasn’t cold.

  The gate swung open with nary a squeak, and as they passed through, the faint aroma of animal fat drew her attention to the hinges. They were shiny with grease. She cast a sideways look at the man by her side.

  On his heels, she slipped through the mew’s alley toward the bustle of the main thoroughfare. Carriages clogged the fashionable street. The mundane, familiar noises of horses and coachmen and the rattle of wheels calmed her racing heart. She matched his brisk pace, shoulder to shoulder now and heading away from Harrington’s.

  What excuse would fool her mother? Her mind whirled. An upset stomach was the only reasonable option. A sliver of the truth would make her tale go down with fewer questions. She could relay the conversation between Sir Wallace and Lord Nash. Her mother would understand her humiliation.

  The man took her elbow and steered her toward a shadowy lane. She shook him loose and pointed. “My family’s town house is this way.”

  “You must accompany me. I need to hear everything you observed. You are the lone witness to the night’s dark deed.”

  “I only saw the back of the man for an instant, and he wasn’t known to me. Neither was the dead man.” She held her breath and his gaze. His eyes held no trace of the humor that had carved the lines at the edges.

  “You can’t traipse down this street in a bloodied dress with my jacket as your only protection.” Although he tried for cajoling, there was a desperate sharpness she didn’t like. “You’ll be recognized, and then what? My rooms are just—”

  “You are most definitely addlepated if you think I’m going to accompany you to your rooms. There’s still a chance I can avoid ruination by returning home now.”

  “You care about your reputation when a man is dead, and a killer is on the loose?” The exasperation in his voice only fired her own ire higher.

  The passions and impulses her mother had dedicated herself to stamping out in Delilah had never been extinguished, only dammed, and the night’s events had punched countless holes in her control. The onslaught of emotions was overwhelming. Anger, sadness, and terror all jockeyed for dominance.

  “What do I have except for my reputation, sir? What does any young lady have? If my reputation is ruined, my family loses their foothold into good Society where my father might expand his business. If I lose my reputation, my life will be forfeit to others’ whims. If I lose it, what will I be?” She was regurgitating one of her mother’s most recent lectures, “The Importance of a Reputation.”

  “What will you be? By my estimation, you’ll remain a woman with quick wits and staunch courage.”

  Her mouth opened, but no retort was forthcoming. Tears burned her nose and eyes, and she blinked furiously. “I wasn’t courageous at all. I cowered behind a curtain in fear while a man was murdered.”

  “Balderdash.” He chafed her arms. “Most ladies would have swooned dead away and not had the presence of mind to hide. You would have been killed along with the poor man in the library.”

  “Quinton. His name was Quinton.”

  He ceased his soothing ministrations and gripped her arms. “The dead man?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you didn’t know him.”

  “I didn’t. The second man—the killer—called the first man by that name.”

  “What else can you tell me about the killer?”

  “He wore a slouched hat like a country squire.” She needed to get home before her mother and father raised the alarm. Plus she didn’t want to dissect and relive the moment. “I must go.”

  He gave her a little shake, not releasing her. “What did the killer sound like?”

  “Normal, I suppose.”

  “What do you mean, normal?”

  “Like anyone at the ball. His evening clothes and boots were very fine, and his voice…” She looked away and bit her bottom lip.

  While his accent was that of a thousand other well-bred gentleman educated at Eton, something intangible and cold, like an etching in stone, set it apart.

  “You believe he is part of the ton?” he asked.

  “He didn’t need to come in through the window. I assume he was invited.” She raised her brows.

  “Point taken.” The small flare of amusement in his face faded quickly. His mouth
was set in a grim line, and he nodded as if coming to a sudden decision. “Wait here while I hail a hackney.”

  A sigh of relief gusted from her. She would be home with no one to bear witness to her scandalous behavior. Except the strange Irishman, of course. He returned and herded her to the curb and into the waiting hackney.

  “I have no coin, I’m afraid.” She settled onto the lumpy squab and rattled off her address.

  The man spoke to the jarvey, but his words dimmed under the roar in her ears as a sudden realization jolted her. She hadn’t brought her reticule to the ball, but she was missing something else. Her dance fan. She’d left it on the settee. Who had found it? The killer or Lord Harrington? Neither scenario boded well.

  The hackney rumbled on its way. Only when the blur of fine townhomes gave way to an unknown section of town did the reality of her situation hit her. She wasn’t pointed toward safety and her home. She was being kidnapped.

  “Where are we going? Take me home immediately!”

  “Now, lass, I can’t do that.” His mild, apologetic voice sounded as though he were informing her the kitchens were out of scones, not that he was abducting her.

  She judged the distance to the door and wondered if she could throw herself free of the hackney without getting run over by another carriage or trampled by a horse. The way her night was progressing, it was doubtful. “I’ve told you everything.”

  “You may believe that to be the case, but shock is keeping you from remembering everything. Besides that, a killer roams. A killer only you can identify. You may well be in danger.”

  “But… but he didn’t see me. I was hidden.” While what she said was true, she pictured the man examining the glass she’d discarded, and what of her fan? Had he found it? Could the man deduce her identity based on her dance partners or lack thereof? Would he feel the need to eliminate even the slightest connection to the murder?

  The hackney jerked to a stop. The man glanced out the window. “My rooms.”

  She tightened his jacket around her. “I can’t accompany you to your rooms, sir.”

  “I’ll take care no one recognizes you.” He swung out of the hackney and looked up and down the street. “You can’t return home in your state.”

  She didn’t move. “Are you telling me you have a spare dress in your rooms?”

  A small twitch at the corners of his mouth betrayed a natural good humor the night’s events had stymied but not smothered. “I will procure you a clean dress.”

  She had no coin for a hackney and no idea how to navigate the streets home. Plus he was correct. Her dress would draw too much attention. Still, she hesitated.

  He cocked his head and lay a hand over his heart. “My word as a gentleman, I have no evil designs on you. Anyway, we’ll not be unchaperoned. My valet is upstairs and will vouch to my good character.”

  She knew what his bare hand felt like in hers and what his body felt like stretched out over hers, yet she didn’t have a notion who he was. “I don’t even know your name,” she whispered.

  “Marcus Ashemore.” He executed a bow. “And you are?”

  “Delilah Bancroft.”

  “Delilah. How charming.”

  The use of her given name was a breech in etiquette her mother would never forgive, but hearing it lilt off his tongue stopped her knee-jerk reaction to correct him.

  She slid her hand into his once more and allowed herself to be guided into the darkened building and up a flight of stairs to the second floor like they were a pair of birds in flight. Male laughter and conversation filled the hall and stairways, but no actual man spotted her. Breathless, she kept her head down as he unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

  A single candle on the mantel cast a half circle of wavery light, revealing a worn brocade chaise, a squat bookcase with only a few volumes, and a faded rug with frayed tassels. The room might be cramped and the furnishings shabby, but it was neat and smelled fresh.

  Marcus made straight to a small table holding a bottle of liquor, poured himself a tot, and knocked it back with relish. Still holding his glass, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and raised his brows. “Would you like a glass?”

  Remembering the warmth the liquor had imparted in the study before everything went to hell, she nodded. However false, she needed a small measure of comfort. “Please.”

  He poured a glass and handed it to her before refilling his own. Instead of quaffing the entire amount as he was doing, she took a sip and blinked against the burn.

  Faint whistling grew louder, and an older man with flaming-red hair entered the room. His surprise to find them there was comical. He clutched his chest, his thick, fuzzy eyebrows jumping high. “Ach, lad. You crept in without me knowing.” His voice was a hair too loud and echoed through the room.

  In turn, Marcus raised his voice. “You wouldn’t hear an elephant breaking down the door, O’Connell.”

  While the man was obviously hard of hearing, there was nothing dull about his blue eyes. “And who might this be? Surely you haven’t involved her in your mischief? Is that blood on the lass’s frock? Ach, laddie.” He shook his head in a parental disappointment so familiar to Delilah she almost smiled.

  “Why do you assume I’m to blame?” Marcus’s Irish lilt thickened as he spoke to the man. “I saved her from certain ruin and possible death, thank you very much.”

  “Death seems a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Delilah interjected.

  “No, I don’t. You would have been sacrificed without a second thought by these men.” The solemn truth in his voice had her taking a larger sip of her drink.

  “O’Connell, may I present Miss Bancroft. It is miss and not lady?” At her nod, Marcus continued, “And this is Mister Conn O’Connell, horse trainer, valet, and my trusted companion since I was in short pants.” Affection warmed Marcus’s voice. A man who held a servant in such high regard couldn’t be all bad, surely? Her inclination to trust him gained momentum despite the detour he’d forced upon her.

  The old man dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “Whose blood does it be?”

  “A man named Quinton. I’m not sure of his role, but he was killed this evening by an unknown player.” Marcus rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Miss Bancroft needs a clean dress. Any ideas on how to acquire one?”

  “A secondhand shop?” The man sent an assessing gaze over her frame as if sizing her up.

  “We need something tonight, so she can return home before dawn.”

  O’Connell hummed. “Lemme see what I can scrounge up.” He slipped out of the rooms, leaving them alone.

  The lack of a proper chaperone was the least of her worries. She had witnessed a murder, climbed out the window, accompanied a stranger to his rooms, ruined her dress and possibly her reputation, and lest she forget, her dance fan might be in the hands of a killer.

  Her stomach gave a heave, and she directed her focus on what she could control. “Whether my dress is bloody or not, how am I to avoid ruin? When will you take me home? My parents will be frantic.”

  He topped off their glasses and gestured toward the settee. Delilah hesitated until he sat, and then she took the opposite end. He sprawled in the corner, his head lolling on the back.

  “It’s a bloody awful mess, and I’m not referring to your pretty frock,” he said softly. The lilt in his voice softened the curse. He raised his head. “I need you to relay what happened in that study. Every word that was said. Every detail, even if it seems inconsequential.” Lines had deepened around his mouth. He was a desperate man. What would he do if she denied him?

  “I want to forget it ever happened.” She took a sip and gripped the glass tighter. In contrast to her threadbare surroundings, the glass was heavy and expensive. Perhaps a family heirloom.

  He leaned closer but didn’t touch her. “Please, Delilah.”

  “Who is the Edward who gave the book to Harrington for safekeeping? Do you know him?” What sort of “mischief” was Marcus involved in?

&nb
sp; “Edward is—” Marcus paused and cleared his throat, “—was my father.”

  Feeling as if any words were inadequate, she settled for a softly whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

  “These men framed my father for treason. I want to make them pay and clear my father’s name, but I can’t prove anything. Yet.” Pain and anger squat next to him like guests who had long overstayed their welcome. “Please help me.”

  O’Connell banged through the door with an emerald-green dress draped over his arm. The fabric was shiny and thin-looking. “It’s the best I could find, laddie.”

  “It will have to do.” Marcus rose and held out his hand. “Would you like to clean up and change?”

  “Water should still be warm. Come with me, lass,” O’Connell said.

  She followed O’Connell into a bedchamber with the same shabby feel as the sitting room. A man’s bedchamber. Marcus’s bedchamber. Her face heated.

  O’Connell laid the green dress at the foot of the bed, rumbled a fake-sounding cough, and backed toward the door without meeting her eyes. “I’ll leave you to change, shall I, lass? Give us a shout if you need anything.”

  She nodded, but he was already gone, the door snicking shut behind him. With only a moment’s hesitation, she locked it. Trust had become a scarce commodity.

  She held up the green dress and gasped, surprised she could still be shocked after the events of the evening. The bodice scooped lower than anything her mother had approved for her at the modiste. Which was worse—a bloodstained frock or a scandalous one?

  It took some maneuvering and flexibility and a torn seam, but finally her ruined dress puddled around her ankles. Her chemise also bore stains. She daubed at them with the warm water and ended up smearing them. Giving up, she focused on her hands and scrubbed long after they were clean, feeling as though Quinton’s blood had worked its way under her skin, leaving her forever tainted.

  In the small looking glass propped on the wash stand, she gasped at the sight of her hair. The clustered curls that had looked so jaunty at the start of the evening drooped like flowers left to wilt in the sun.