Avenging the Earl’s Lady: Book Five, Sons of the Spy Lord

by Alina K. Field

  “No doubt.” She helped Jane out of the new gown and handed her a satiny robe. “But I assure you, if Guignard says the painting is safe, then it is. You will rest here on the sofa, and then Barton will help you dress later. Meanwhile, Jenny will go to Shaldon House for your evening slippers. Shall I have her carry along the gown you arrived in?”

  “No. Have her take it back to Gerrard Street. I’m returning there after the musicale.”

  Madame pursed her lips. “I suppose Kincaid will have men watching that house now also.”

  “Very likely.” Unless Shaldon himself came to make sure she was safe.

  She shook off the excitement the thought stirred. She needed to think about her son.

  Shaldon had offered him a position. Her best hope to keep Quentin out of Shaldon’s clutches was to put herself into them. Not in a marriage, though. Now that he knew she’d taken his painting, a simple transaction—the painting for Quentin’s debts, along with a promise to not embroil her son in his dangerous world—would suffice. Shaldon could flaunt his possession of the painting before the Duque and obtain his revenge, and she could render this final assistance to her son.

  If she could persuade Shaldon to agree to it.

  * * *

  The red-haired groom, Ewan, trotted up the stairs to the shop to fetch her to the waiting carriage, and she had a moment of tingling apprehension.

  Her slippers suddenly felt too heavy.

  “My lady?”

  Hazel eyes looked down on her. The boy had too many freckles and an air of dogged innocence. She took his arm and let him lead her. No fewer than four outriders followed the large town coach, and another groom rode on the back.

  With one foot on the carriage step she froze. No lamp lit the dark interior and no gown shimmered in the light from the street.

  A dark-clad arm and white-gloved hand reached out the coach door and snared her hand. “Shall we brave this, Lady Jane?”

  Lord Shaldon tugged her onto the seat next to him.

  * * *

  It was her nerves making her prickly, he decided. The attack on Guignard had upset all the ladies.

  “You did not expect me?” he asked. “No, I suppose not. At the last minute, Lady Perpetua sent a note that they would visit tonight, and the others decided to stay home. After the musicale, I’ll escort you to Shaldon House so you may also visit with the newlyweds.”

  “I shall return to my lodgings tonight.”

  “You intend to stay there?”

  “As long as Lady Hackwell will allow it.” She sat primly, her hands locked together in her lap. “I suppose you’ve spoken to Lord Hackwell about the arrangement?”

  “I sent a note regarding issues of safety. He assured me you may remain there as long as is needed.”

  She let out a breath and gazed out the window.

  “Though I should like for you to return to Shaldon House.” He reached for her hand. “I very much enjoyed our interlude last night. I will, I’m afraid, continue to importune you.”

  The tiniest of shivers went through her telling him that she’d enjoyed the night also.

  But when she glanced at him, her expression was bland. “Thus scandalizing both the ton and your children.”

  He shrugged. “The ton flits from scandal to scandal. As for my children, they are all grown and happily married, and may keep to their own business.” He slipped an arm around her back and slid his hands over the boning in her blasted stays. She was well turned out tonight in a pale, low-cut frock that showcased her fine bosom. “I’ve done my best for them in my own way, as you have for Penderbrook.”

  He could sense the tension rising in her and guessed at the emotion; exasperation, certainly, but also regret, perhaps even a grief he couldn’t wholly understand. Though he’d been an absent father for most of his children’s lives, it must be different for a mother.

  And it wouldn’t do for her to arrive in tears.

  “I am trying to secure a position for him,” he said.

  Her head snapped around. “He told me. And he will not be one of your spies.”

  Memories rushed in. His bungling of a mission had ruined this woman’s life.

  Her revenge was to steal the painting from him. She blamed him for her brother’s death. Hell, he blamed himself.

  They were so alike, both of them holding their secrets close through the decades, waiting patiently for the chance to settle a score.

  He didn’t give a damn about the blasted painting. He’d give it to her, except that he needed it a bit longer to deal with the Duque.

  “Did you hear what I said, Shaldon?”

  What she said?

  “My son will not be one of your spies.”

  He squeezed her waist. “No, he won’t. I do not think he has the constitution for the work.”

  That caught her up and she swallowed whatever she was about to say.

  “Your son, I believe, is too honorable for deception, much like his mother.”

  She shook her head. “You are forgetting my most recent theft, as well as the last twenty-five years.”

  “No, Jane. I always wondered why Cheswick never found you a husband. Now I know. You wouldn’t present yourself to a man as an innocent, or hand over to a careless husband the funds that supported your child, or abandon the boy while you busied yourself with a new family. You practiced no deception. You merely kept a private matter private and honored your duty.”

  A shudder rolled through her and she leaned stiffly away from him.

  He admired her obstinacy, though she hadn’t yet realized his determination. Each act of resistance merely put them one step closer to her surrender. “As for the so-called theft, I understand all about that. I will help him, Jane, and you.”

  “Will you? Or, once you have the painting, will you send Quentin off on one of your missions and have me hanged?”

  His wife would never hang, nor would her son ever make a spy.

  Once you have the painting…Surely, she couldn’t know all of his plans?

  He’d underestimated her before.

  His heart stirred, and he squashed a smile. “You will not be accused of theft. You don’t have the painting, is that correct?”

  “You know that I entrusted it to Guignard.”

  “With Madame’s help.” He cleared his throat. “There you have it.”

  She gasped. “You cannot mean to prosecute them?”

  What a loyal creature she was. The idea had never crossed his mind. Still, he enjoyed poking her, and it was better for her to arrive with a high color from anger than weepy with worry.

  He eyed her silently.

  “If you try that, Shaldon, I shall turn myself in to the authorities and confess.”

  He squeezed her again. “Kincaid informed me that Guignard wouldn’t tell you where the painting was located.” Leaning closer, he whispered “What if it can’t be found?”

  Her lip trembled and he was instantly remorseful.

  “Do not worry about your son,” he said.

  She sighed. “Well, I suppose if it can’t be found, the treasure it maps will stay at the bottom of the sea, and then the Duque will come after me.”

  “The Duque shall not lay a hand on you or harm you in any way. And I suspect the treasure was ever a phantom, Jane. Captain Kingsley copied the coordinates and has been looking for it these many years.” Their carriage stopped in front of a house glittering with light. “And now, my dear, we’ve arrived.”

  * * *

  Blast it. She’d been too astonished to find words to negotiate a transaction with him. And he would tempt her with that tidbit of information about Captain Kingsley and leave out the rest of the story. Oh, he was a sly one, and surprisingly sanguine about the painting’s location.

  Too sanguine. He might trust Guignard to safeguard the painting as much as Madame did. Or he might himself know the painting’s location. Or he might not care, because if the painting truly couldn’t be found, then the Duque couldn’t have it e
ither.

  For the Duque, the painting might represent treasure, but for Shaldon it meant revenge—as long as the Duque wanted it and couldn’t have it. And if the painting was truly out of Shaldon’s hands and lost, wouldn’t that be a far better revenge against the Spaniard? Shaldon could go on with the rest of his life and be done with the Duque.

  They climbed the steps to the salon where the musicians had assembled. Astonished gazes met their appearance together. Pretending to not notice the buzzing around them, Jane greeted acquaintances and allowed herself to be introduced to other guests.

  They found seats and waited for the singer being featured, an Italian soprano newly arrived in London. Across the aisle from Shaldon, a large mustachioed man watched them through shifty eyes. He had an unsavory look about him.

  She was grateful for Shaldon’s presence.

  “Who is that man?” Jane murmured.

  Before he could answer, Quentin appeared, bowing over her hand and asking permission to take the empty seat on her other side.

  He chatted politely about the singer and the evening’s program. He was gentlemanly and polite and his good manners calmed her racing heart. If he hated her, he was hiding it well. Perhaps there was hope for her to be a real mother to him.

  She saw the moment Quentin caught sight of the mustachioed man. He paled and his lips thinned, and he turned to greet the gentleman taking the seat next to him.

  She touched Shaldon’s arm. “Who is the man across from you?” she whispered again.

  Shaldon craned his head toward the man and stared until the man broke the contact and turned away.

  Her heart clattered within her. There was more afoot tonight then her conversation with Quentin.

  “He’s a sold-out major and I’m surprised he was invited. He’s not someone I want to make my acquaintance.” He touched her hand. “Or, if I may be so bold, my dear, yours.”

  When she glanced across the aisle again, the Major had disappeared.

  * * *

  At the interval, Shaldon sent a meaningful look to Quentin, and he in turn inquired whether she’d like some fresh air. Nerves rattling, she followed her son down a short corridor to an alcove overlooking the garden.

  They were alone, the rest of the crowd having gone to chat with the soloist and to take refreshments.

  Quentin began by thanking her prettily for agreeing to speak to him. It was rehearsed and stiff and she didn’t know what to make of it until he sighed.

  “I’m truly sorry for my reprehensible behavior yesterday,” he said. “You have supported me all these years?”

  “I’ve helped. I knew the Walkers would not be able to afford many luxuries. I chose them to raise you because they were said to be kind, especially Mrs. Walker. Nor were they fussy about official matters.” She took a breath. More truth-telling. “Certain details of your baptismal record were forged, and they knew it.” Mr. Walker’s allegiance was to a higher authority than the state or even the episcopacy. “They were quite happy to pass you off as one of Mrs. Walker’s distant relations. Were they kind, Quentin?”

  “Yes. Kind and genteel, and firm, as I now admit was sometimes needed. My uncle—that is what I call him, is quite the scholar. My aunt was the salt of the earth. She died a few years ago.”

  “I heard and I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded. “It was unkind of me to speak to you so rudely. Lord Shaldon helped me to see that you’ve paid a price for…for me, whilst I lived quite comfortably. You may dispense with your support, though, because he has…he has seen to the debt and has offered me a position. So, you see, all will be well.”

  His smug smile, so like his disreputable father’s, tore at the hole in her heart. She sucked in a breath and reached for his hand. “Quentin…your father…your father was Reginald Dempsey. He died never knowing about you. He was killed on one of Lord Shaldon’s missions, along with my brother.”

  A breath of air, a slight noise, a sense of another presence, stilled her words. She’d lived most of her life attuned to such nuances and keeping her secrets.

  In the distant music room, a violin wailed as a bow was dragged across it.

  “I should like to know more, but we had better return to our seats,” Quentin said. He clasped her hand between his. “And you’re not to worry a bit about me. I’m perfectly capable of making my own way.”

  She walked numbly next to him, her hand tucked around his arm. He’d all but dismissed her until a more convenient time. Or perhaps Shaldon had already told him all of her story.

  At the door to the music room she stopped. “I’m afraid I’ve a hem needing a stitch,” she said, dropping her hand from his arm.

  He bowed and went off, and when she turned, she almost bumped into a tall wall of muscle. The mustachioed Major blocked her way.

  Chapter 14

  “My lady.”

  His smile was knowing and his eyes scanned her from head to toe, sending a cascade of cold dread down her spine.

  She stood taller. “I do beg your pardon.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you?”

  Up close, he was probably of an age with her. Perhaps he thought he was being engaging.

  She stepped to the side and he matched her movement.

  “This is not a country dance. Do move your insolent self out of my way so I may pass.”

  Eyes sparkling, he moved aside, and as she passed, he whispered, “When you tire of the puppy, I should be happy to linger in an alcove with you.”

  Hot wrath rose in her, but she moved one foot in front of the other and made herself walk calmly on.

  * * *

  From his spot by a potted urn, Shaldon saw Jane turn away from Penderbrook. Minutes later, Major Payne-Elsdon entered, wearing a satisfied smile. Penderbrook had found his way back to their seats and was chatting affably with an acquaintance. For Penderbrook, the meeting had gone well, but Jane had pivoted away from the boy stiffly.

  And then there was the appearance of the Major.

  Shaldon caught Payne-Elsdon’s eye and walked over. He’d prefer not having to get near this slithering bit of pond slime, but there was nothing for it.

  “You’re in good spirits, Major. Payne-Elsdon, isn’t it?” Shaldon said.

  The man bowed. “Lord Shaldon. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Is it?”

  “Met your son, Charles Everly, at White’s.”

  “I see.”

  “I suppose he spoke of me and that’s how you know who I am.” His gaze narrowed. “Or, I suppose you make it your business to know many people.”

  “I thought we might have met,” Shaldon flicked a spot of dust from his coat, “in Spain.”

  Payne-Elsdon blinked. It was just a beat, but one that a careful observer like himself would not miss.

  “Oh? Were you there?” He laughed. “Nothing like it, is there? Warm weather, warm women, eh?”

  Penderbrook had been in debt to this distasteful man? How careless of the boy.

  “You’re quite the swordsman, I hear.”

  The man smirked. “In both senses of the word. Haven’t lost a duel yet.” His gaze roamed the room and settled on a group of white-gowned girls. “Or disappointed a lady.”

  “No pistols at dawn for you, eh?” Shaldon asked.

  He understood now the man’s game with Penderbrook. Payne-Elsdon would insist on all the ancient protocols. He hadn’t called Penderbrook out because under those rules the challenger didn’t get to choose the weapon, and he wanted to fight with the sword.

  Had Penderbrook spent time at Angelo’s learning that skill?

  Lady Jane appeared in the doorway, her face a set mask. Payne-Elsdon spotted her too and a feral light flashed in his eyes.

  “You’re a lucky man, my lord, escorting such a lovely lady tonight. Or is she under Penderbrook’s protection?”

  “The lady is esteemed by all the members of my large, extended family,” Shaldon drawled, “as well as our friends, and the best society.�
��

  He turned his back on the man and walked away.

  Payne-Elsdon was seeking to provoke a challenge. Someday, someone would have to kill him.

  * * *

  On the carriage ride home, Shaldon silently parsed Penderbrook’s polite chatter about the evening’s performance. With his debts paid, and his apologies made, the young man’s cheerful self-assurance had returned.

  In that regard, he was just like his father, Reginald Dempsey.

  The present crisis was settled, but the boy’s over-confidence, his cockiness, would provoke more to come. Had he not been stacked up against such a villain, and had it not been for Jane’s involvement, he would have let the young fool flounder himself out of the pond and onto dry land.

  The carriage pulled up in front of Penderbrook’s lodgings.

  “Thank you, my lord,” he said. “I cannot thank you enough for your generosity.” He reached for Jane’s hand. “And you, my lady, I should like to call on you soon and hear more of what you have to say.”

  It was all said too handsomely.

  Without waiting for Jane’s response, Penderbrook opened the carriage door and stepped out.

  He turned and leaned in. “My lady.” He fumbled his hat. “My lady, I was wondering if, in private, I may call you Mother?”

  He felt Jane’s sharp little breath and the jerk of her head as she nodded.

  “Yes,” she said. “I should like that very much.”

  Penderbrook’s smile gleamed white in the light of a gas lamp. He closed the door and they pulled away.

  * * *

  Jane collapsed against the squab, her mind a jumble, her body conscious of Shaldon’s warm bulk next to her and the possibility of his comfort.

  His hand settled over hers. “Did it go well?” he asked.

  Had it? How she wished to be close to the young man she’d thought about every day of his life. Still…he’d had twenty-four years of abandonment. He wouldn’t have got over that so quickly.