After the Spy Seduces

by Anna Harrington

  Well, that made her feel better. Marginally. Yet she had a feeling that despite her victory in this battle, she’d still lost the war.

  “Why the sudden interest in Carlisle?”

  The quiet question jarred her. Her mind raced to find an answer that wouldn’t make her seem interested in the man. “No reason.” Only that I let him kiss me tonight. “I remembered that he had an affinity for fine horses and thought perhaps he’d be interested in purchasing the colt. That’s all.” Not all. Not even close.

  With a curt shake of his head, he took a sip of port and stretched out his long legs. “Garrett wants to keep the colt and train it himself.”

  Not if she didn’t find a way to bring him home. Forcing down her guilt, she smiled. “He’ll be very good at it.”

  “You’d be better,” he muttered. Then he blew out an exasperated breath. “But at least the boy will be doing something productive.” He frowned, disappointment visible on his brow.

  “He isn’t a boy, general,” she reminded him gently. “He’s a grown man.”

  “Then he’d best start behaving like it.” He set down the glass with a thud. “What kind of man lacks direction at his age? No sense of purpose, no interest in securing any kind of respectable living…”

  Her thoughts sped back to Carlisle. What kind of man, indeed?

  “When I was his age, I was already a major, with a wife, one child, and another on the way. I had responsibilities, a steady income, a means of proving my worth—”

  Diana cringed, just as she did every time the general compared himself to Garrett. Why couldn’t her father realize what the Morgan women had long ago come to know, that the two men were nothing alike?

  “He could have had a grand career in the military and risen quickly through the ranks. Especially now, with the army spreading to all corners of the empire.”

  “Another man like Christopher Carlisle, then?” She couldn’t help but goad him in an attempt to change the conversation, and smiled to hide her sadness that the two men she loved most in the world were always so disappointed in each other. “Someone either deserving of generalship or likely to be handed over to the enemy by his own men?”

  “No.” He grumbled only half teasingly into his glass of port, “Garrett’s men would have tarred and feathered him in the middle of their own training camp before they even set eyes on the enemy.”

  Her smile faded, the bitter truth of that smarting more than she wanted to admit. She loved her brother dearly, but he certainly hadn’t lived up to what their parents—especially the general—had hoped for him. Not even close. “Some men aren’t made to be soldiers, you know that. Their paths lie elsewhere.” She rested her hand on his arm. “Garrett will find his.”

  Just as soon as she found Garrett. Unfortunately, with Carlisle’s help.

  “Always loyal to your brother, aren’t you? To a fault.”

  “Loyalty is never a fault, general.” She pushed herself up to her full height, then reached for his glass. “Ask any of the men who served under you.”

  “Perhaps not.” His gaze followed her as she crossed to his desk and the silver tray where he kept his favorite liquor, the bottles and decanters all lined up with perfect military precision. “Yet no matter how much he fails, you always defend him.”

  She smiled as she refilled the glass. “Because I know the potential he possesses.” She replaced the stopper and set the bottle down, then extended the glass as she walked back to him. “Just as I know that you deserved to be made field marshal.”

  “Bah!” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand before taking the glass from her, but he couldn’t hide his expression of pride that her comment brought. “Wellesley was made field marshal, and look at what happened to him. The poor bastard was forced into politics.” He took a long swallow. “I’d rather have died quickly by bullet at Waterloo than from a slow death by political debate in Westminster.”

  She smiled wryly at that. Knowing that answering would only mire her into another argument about how politics and the military should never mix, she put an end to the conversation by placing a kiss to his forehead. Then she poured a second glass of port for herself and settled into the chair opposite his. She’d never shied away from so-called men’s drinks and had earned more of her father’s respect because of it.

  What haunted her, though, was that she’d disappointed him in so many other ways.

  “You should be off to bed.”

  She eyed him over the rim of the glass. “So should you.” Her gaze traveled to the memoir pages he’d been working over. Hoping to gain some insight into why the French wanted them, she asked nonchalantly, “How is your writing progressing?”

  “Slowly.” He let out a deep sigh. “It’s taking me longer to write about the first offensive than it took to wage the entire Waterloo campaign.”

  A prick of hope tingled inside her as warmly as the port trickling down her throat. Perhaps the general could provide information she could use to find Garrett…or at least to convince Carlisle not to turn her in as a traitor. “Is that what you’re working on now? Waterloo?”

  “Nothing as exciting as that, I’m afraid. Only the meetings leading up to the campaign.” He shook his head. “Paxton thinks everyone will want to read about those, so he’s insisting that we go over that bit in detail. Lots of details.” He grimaced. “Personally, I think he’s wrong to give the reading public credit for having an interest in such minutiae, but he’s not steered me wrong yet. Almost ten years now that he’s been my aid, do you realize that? He was only a green captain when I first met him. And you, sergeant, were nothing more than a tomboy in breeches.” His face shined with fatherly pride. “Now you’re a fine young lady, and he’s a major with solid prospects of becoming a general.”

  And…they were right back to where they’d started, with her father hoping she’d accept the major’s suit.

  She grimaced into her glass. There wasn’t enough port in Portugal for that.

  “That’s what I was planning on doing tomorrow.” He kicked out his long legs as he settled back, his glass balanced on his stomach. He waved a hand toward the papers on his desk. “Going over the entries from my diaries and making notes.”

  “About the time of Boney’s Hundred Days?” she pressed gently. Those were the pages that the French wanted—descriptions of the events leading up to the Waterloo campaign nearly ten years ago. God only knew why. “It must have been a very important time.”

  “Wellington’s memoirs about that period are far more interesting than mine, I assure you. While he was developing battle strategy, I was in meetings. One after another…with the Prussians, the French, the other Allies…followed by endless discussions and even more meetings.” He grimaced. “Not the most thrilling of material to sell copies of a memoir.”

  No. So why did the French ask for them? And why on earth did they refuse them once they’d been handed over?

  Her heart sank. She had no new ideas on how to free her brother. If he’d even been kidnapped at all. The night was ending in just as much swirling confusion as it had begun.

  She bit back a groan. How had her life come to this, that the only thing saving her brother was a promise from a Carlisle?

  The world had gone mad. Everything had been turned upside down, and she had absolutely no idea how to right it.

  After a few more minutes of quiet conversation, Diana said good night to her father and left for her own room, only to pause in the hallway outside her door. Finally alone, safely hidden in the shadows of the silent house around her, she sank back against the wall and touched her lips.

  Sweet mercy, they were still warm from Carlisle’s kiss, still tingling with the feel of his mouth capturing hers. And what a feeling it had been, too…that wonderful, heavenly sensation blossoming through her of utter femininity and physical awakening, making her feel beautiful and alive. How long had it been since a man made her experience those feelings, so intensely and deeply inside her that they were nearly
overwhelming? Not just giddiness over a new attraction, not even just physical lust—

  But the desire to lose herself completely in another.

  That’s what she’d felt tonight. A longing to simply melt into him and float away until bliss claimed her. She’d not felt that in so very long. Not even with Robert, who had been the only man she’d let seriously court her since returning from India. That was one of the reasons why she wouldn’t marry him, although she’d never told him, not wanting to hurt his feelings. She knew the passions and joys that could come from being with a man, and despite his handsome looks, he’d not stirred those feelings inside her.

  But God help her, Christopher Carlisle had. Even now the thought of it terrified her. Because for one desperate moment when she’d been in his arms, she’d wanted him to do so much more than just kiss her.

  What a goose she was, to ruminate over Carlisle, of all men! Perhaps the world hadn’t gone mad. But she certainly had.

  Pushing herself away from the wall, she hurried up the stairs to the second floor, where she quietly opened the door to the old nursery.

  Diana paused just inside the large room where Meredith and her nanny spent most of their days. She’d painted the nursery herself last winter, to celebrate Meri’s leaving her crib for a real bed, creating a fairytale world of forest and flowers, with a blue sky and white fluffy clouds sailing overhead. She’d even glued tiny bits of colored glass and mirror to the ceiling so that, when the lamps were put out at night, the firelight would shimmer across them and make the mosaic sparkle like a field of stars. Toys filled the room, from the large rocking horse to the tiny table where Meri played at tea, along with dozens of dolls and shelves of picture books. On the end wall, where Diana had painted a castle so that Meri would feel like a princess when she was in the room, sat a little pink and white canopied bed.

  She smiled. The little bump beneath the coverlet, nestled down among all the pillows, rose and fell with each slow and steady breath, deep in sleep.

  Diana carefully sat on the edge of the bed so she wouldn’t wake Meri. She peered down at the round face with its long eyelashes lowered against the tops of her cheeks and pouty pink lips parted slightly in sleep. An angel. Slowly, she reached to brush her hand through the silky chestnut curls lying across the small pillow—

  A shadow moved in the doorway to the connecting room, and Diana froze guiltily. Then she took a deep breath as Meri’s nanny came from her own bedroom, tying the belt of her dressing gown as she approached.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you, Mrs. Davenport,” she whispered. “I just wanted to look in on Meri before I went to bed.”

  “No apologies necessary, miss.” The woman reached the side of the bed and smiled down at the little girl. “She’s a sweet thing, she is. Never any trouble to speak of.”

  “Never,” she agreed softly, unable to resist stroking a fingertip across Meri’s cheek.

  Hiring the kind nanny to care for Meredith when they’d arrived in England and settled in at Idlewild had been a stroke of brilliance by her mother, proven by how well the woman had cared for Meri during that awful time when Mama fell ill and died. Meri had been just old enough to know that Mama was no longer with them, and days of listening to Meri’s inconsolable cries and screams for Mama had nearly destroyed Diana.

  Pushing down the terrible memories, she focused on the little girl in front of her. “Did she eat dinner?”

  “Aye, miss. And played well, too, ’til t’was time for bed.”

  Guilt pricked at her. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t here to tuck her in.”

  “The general put her to bed, with lots of silly stories about fighting dragons.” Her face beamed. “The wee one loves her father a great deal.”

  Her father? No. She didn’t.

  Diana blinked. Over the years, she’d grown used to unexpected pricks of grief like this until that was all she needed to right herself. One hard blink. But tonight, thanks to her fear for Garrett and Carlisle’s intrusion into her life, it wasn’t enough, and she had to turn her face away before Mrs. Davenport saw any stray emotion lingering there.

  “Has she played with the new doll I gave her?” Diana forced a smile, yet worried that the sadness behind it would be visible.

  “Not yet, miss. But you know how children are. She’d rather play with that raggedy old horse you gave her last year than with pretty new things.” Mrs. Davenport reassuringly rested her hand on Diana’s shoulder, but Diana knew it wasn’t out of any deeper sympathy than for the unwanted doll. “She’s lucky, that one is, to have you for her sister.” Her hand fell away, and her voice quavered. “Poor duckling…what a shame that she has to grow up without a mother.”

  “Yes,” Diana choked out in a rasping whisper through her tightening throat. “What a shame.”

  Chapter 5

  The Next Night

  Seven Dials, London

  The door of the brothel’s upstairs room swung open to the sound of a prostitute’s peeling laugh and lecherous growls from the man with her. He grabbed her around the waist to simultaneously yank her through the door and bury his face in her cleavage.

  From a chair positioned directly across the room, Kit cleared his throat. “Good evening.”

  The bear of a man froze as the lightskirt gave a short scream of surprise. Lifting his head from the woman’s bosom, he narrowed his gaze as Kit leaned back in the wooden chair, his boots kicked up upon the washstand and his hand holding a pistol pointed directly at the large Russian’s chest. Nikolai Ivanov’s face broke into an icy smile. His only movement was to possessively rest a hand over the woman’s bottom, making no mistake that he’d purchased the ginger-haired cockney for the night.

  “I did not pay for an audience,” Ivanov drawled in a syrupy aristocratic Russian accent. “And I do not need any help with what to do with this one.”

  He slapped her bottom so hard that she jumped.

  She wheeled on him, scowling in irritation. When she began to stomp away, he grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her back to him, his other hand covering her breast. The woman stilled, knowing not to struggle. Ivanov had paid for her, and at this particular brothel that meant he could do anything he liked to her, short of maiming and murdering. Mrs. Smith’s establishment provided very particular services for very particular customers. Which was why Kit had surprised Ivanov here, when the man’s guard was down.

  Kit coolly slid his gaze to the woman and nodded toward the door. “Jenny, would you please go downstairs and have yourself a cup of tea?”

  By the astounded expression on her pretty, young face, she hadn’t expected that.

  “I’d like a few minutes alone with the gentleman, if you don’t mind.”

  He tossed her a sovereign, and she snatched it out of the air, downright flabbergasted. She knew him. He’d spent enough time here chasing leads and contacts that he was familiar to all the girls. But he’d never paid one before.

  “She stays,” the Russian growled like an attack dog and hunched his shoulders. “You will leave. Now.”

  Kit calmly cocked the hammer of the flintlock. “I will kill you where you stand,” he mockingly mimicked the rhythm of the man’s speech. “Now.”

  Gritting his teeth, Ivanov grudgingly released the woman’s wrist.

  She jerked her arm away and retreated to the door, tucking the coin into her bodice between the tightly laced corset and her plump breasts. When she reached the safety of the doorway, she paused, her curiosity keeping her halfway in the room and half in the noisy, smoke-filled hallway behind her.

  Around them, the building was alive, with music playing from the downstairs drawing room and laughter, shouts, and moans coming from the rabbit warren of rooms on the upper floors. The whole building pulsed with a crazed mix of desperation and debauchery, and over it all lingered a seedy depravity that put a bitter taste in Kit’s mouth.

  But such places had their benefit to him, because such places gave him access to men like Ivanov.

  �
�Will you be here when I get back?” she asked Kit, foolishly not realizing the rash jealousy such a question would stir in the Russian. Or what she would have to do later to appease him for it.

  “No.” The sharpness of that blunt, dismissive answer was for her own good. If he was kind to her, Ivanov would be cruel. “Leave.”

  With a toss of her head and a flounce, she stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. Instantly the noise of the brothel was shut out, if not the musky scent of sex and the faint vibration of movement conducted through the building’s beams.

  Ivanov ignored the gun pointed at him and crossed to the bedside table, where a bottle of cheap port and a questionably clean glass waited for him. “So you are holding me at gunpoint.” With an amused chuckle, he splashed the dark liquid into the glass. “Do you have any idea who I am?” He gestured at Kit with the bottle. “Or what I will do to you for interrupting my evening?”

  “Nikolai Mikhailovich Ivanov.”

  The man paused, the port raised halfway to his lips.

  “First Secretary to His Excellency Khristofor Andreyevich von Lieven, Russian Ambassador to London.” Kit arched a brow. “And currently the man who’s bedding the ambassador’s wife, Dorothea.”

  The glass lowered as all amusement fled from Ivanov’s face.

  “And you won’t do one damned thing to me.”

  Murderous rage blazed in the man’s eyes for a fleeting heartbeat. Then with a laugh, it was gone, or at least hidden behind a cavalier smile. He took a long swallow of port and paused to study Kit over the rim of the glass.

  “Who are you?”

  “Just a man making use of a brothel.” Kit sat forward in the chair, finally bringing its two front legs to the floor and resting his forearms over his knees, the end of the pistol never moving its aim from the man’s broad chest. “So let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

  Ivanov said nothing.

  “You and your men have been monitoring French communiqués between London and the Continent.”