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

by Alina K. Field

  “Gerrard Street?” Quentin looked from her to Shaldon and back again.

  “Lady Hackwell is allowing me use of her home there.” She walked with him to the door. “Thank you for defending my honor.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Yes, you did. And you would have certainly been killed had Lord Shaldon not intervened. I am glad you were not.”

  He frowned down at her. “You should not have come out today, Mother. It’s not done.”

  Bully her, would he?

  She glanced over at Shaldon. Would he chastise her also?

  “I’m not some helpless female,” she said.

  “Listen to your mother, Penderbrook,” Shaldon said. “She’s not a bit helpless. You’ll find most women aren’t.”

  He nodded to her, and sudden heat bolted through her, magnetic, overpowering. She whipped her gaze back to the young man in front of her, beating back sudden moisture. Shaldon would see that all went well for her son. He would take care of Quentin, and herself if she would allow it.

  “Thank you, Mother.” Quentin lifted her hand, kissed it, and slipped out.

  She wrapped her arms at her waist and felt the pulling of the stitches and the weight of the wound. When a hand firmed under her elbow, she leaned into it.

  * * *

  The door closed on Penderbrook, and Shaldon drew her close.

  She gasped.

  “Damn it, I’ve hurt you.” He gentled his touch.

  “I’m fine.”

  “We’re a pair, aren’t we? Between the two of us we’ll have but two able arms for the next few days.” In truth, his own shoulder was beginning to throb more. He led her back to the chair. “I have more I must say. We are not finished. Can you manage the teapot?”

  She frowned but obliged him, filling a cup. When she lifted her gaze to his, color had risen in her cheeks. Wisps of hair framed her face and her eyes had turned midnight blue.

  She was not finding her way back to Gerrard Street. He would not allow it.

  But…but if he must let her go, he would, if what he had to say drove her away.

  His wife had chosen to gamble his life for a painting, but theirs had been a marriage arranged for the good of both families. By God, with Jane they would marry for his own good and hers, and they would start out with the greatest risk of all—honesty.

  They would start with that in a moment. He filled a small plate with slices of bread, beef, and cheese for each of them. “An ample repast. Do have some.”

  “What do you wish to tell me?”

  She’d pursed her lips and straightened her back, and the challenge excited him. Not a compliant woman after all, but he hoped she would be a forgiving one.

  “Let us eat, and then we’ll talk. I’m in need of sustenance.” Or he must be. It couldn’t be entirely a falsehood—he hadn’t eaten much since the night before. “Forgive my manners.” He folded the bread in half and took a bite, and the warm loaf and savory meat did indeed rouse his appetite.

  Her face softened as he’d hoped it would and she took a mouthful, and then another.

  When he’d finished, she pushed aside her plate. She’d been eating by rote also.

  He tugged at her braid and she brought her hand down over his. Slender and small, her hand was all softness like the rest of her.

  Softness wrapped around a strong core, that was Jane. He should carry her to his bed and ravish her again. And he would do so, as soon as their wounds had healed and he had secured her agreement.

  “I don’t know what skills you employed or what fates came together for you to see my meeting with the Duquesa last night, but I will tell you the entire truth. I met her to make arrangements for Payne-Elsdon’s undoing, and yes, I accepted a kiss from her. The Duquesa bestows passionate embraces on every Englishman she meets clandestinely, in the hope of being seen by one of her husband’s spies. She claims to have no relations with her husband and takes every chance to goad him. The Duquesa is a beautiful woman, but I was not aroused, my dear.”

  “She purposely risks putting men in the way of a challenge?”

  “She doesn’t see it that way, and truly, there is no danger. Her passion is only for her father’s political cause and the Duque knows it. Besides, since his French friends were driven from Spain, the Duque usually lets other men lift his sword for him.” His thumb swept across the back of her hand. “Jane, she is not my lover. I have no other lovers but you.”

  She tilted her head, studying him, clearly skeptical. “She is a cool one. And if she made Payne-Elsdon disappear…well, that is a kindness. I almost believe you.”

  She tried to pull away, but he held on.

  “Believe me, because it’s the truth, and I want the truth between us, Jane. I’m asking you for your hand again. Both your hands. All of you. Claim this bedchamber and make it your own, as Lady Shaldon.” He kissed her palm. “But before you say, ‘Yes, of course I will marry you, Ned,’ there’s something else. I must tell you what happened the night your brother died. I didn’t kill him, but the blame is mine.”

  Chapter 24

  The blame is mine.

  She held her breath and let the words sink in.

  He blamed himself for her brother’s death?

  At first, her father had raged on about Shaldon, because Shaldon was there, because Reginald was working for him.

  But before he died, Father had laid the blame squarely where it belonged. Her brother’s death had been her fault entirely.

  Shaldon had claimed his guilt matter-of-factly, but that vein pulsed in his temple and his eyes glowed, as they had two nights ago when he’d come to her bedchamber. She knew he was as unsettled as she was.

  And she couldn’t have him carrying this guilt, this man who must carry the responsibility of so many hard choices.

  She clasped his hand, struggling for breath. Shaldon would have all her secrets tonight. Let him do with them what he wanted. “You are wrong of course.”

  “I am not wrong, Jane. I’d followed a man to Kent. A spy, who’d been gathering information on our fortifications. The French were plotting their invasion. In fact, they’d landed a small force in Wales under an American colonel.”

  “I remember that. Father was very worried about his estate.”

  “With good reason.” He paused, probably choosing his words carefully even though the war was long over and there were no more armies with secret invasion plans.

  “You may also recall that a mill had been planned in the area, two heavyweights with a great following of gentlemen attending. Worrisome in itself to have so many peers on the coast, and perfect cover for our man to meet his contact arriving there. Reginald Dempsey was one of my newer men, too green, too inexperienced, but I used him because he secured the invitation to stay with your family. He spent part of his visit scouting the coast. His task that night was to help follow the mark and see who he met with. No one expected your brother to be there.”

  She swallowed a lump. “Father forbade my brother from going. He didn’t approve of the sport.”

  “When your brother appeared, they both plagued me to allow him to stay. I should have sent him out of harm’s way, but I didn’t.”

  She felt her chest squeezing. Shaldon didn’t know the truth.

  He shook his head. “I lost sight of the man we were following, and I lost sight of Dempsey and your brother.”

  She squeezed his hand, grateful to know the details Father had never shared.

  “Dempsey ran off following him to the cliffs, his only back-up your brother. A boat below had brought in the man’s French contact. Dempsey, the fool, didn’t wait for the rest of us. He confronted them and your brother joined in.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She could imagine it—Amsden, who’d always been ready to step up and fight.

  His death had been far more honorable than what her father had led her to believe, that he’d been brought down in a drunken brawl.

  Had father known the truth? He must have, if he�
�d found fault with Shaldon.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Thank me? I failed your brother, and Dempsey, and you. Had I known about you and Dempsey, Jane, had Dempsey lived. I would have made him—”

  “Made him what? Marry me?” She shook her head. Marriage to Dempsey would have been appalling. She knew that now. “He would have made a dreadful husband. I don’t believe my dowry would have been enough for him. He left debts, even in the village.” Her father had been so angry about that too. “I’m thanking you because my father would not say what happened.”

  “We couldn’t tell him the details. Very likely he suspected enough to curse me.”

  “Yes, there were some curses hurled your way.” She choked and turned away. “In any case, he didn’t blame you entirely. He mostly blamed me.”

  * * *

  “You?”

  Her blue gaze lifted, trouble churning within.

  “It was my fault that my brother was there. Father had no say over Reginald but he’d forbidden my brother from going off to the prizefight and he kept him close that night. Meanwhile, I borrowed my brother’s coats and trousers and followed Reginald.” She took in a shaky breath. “When he discovered me missing, Father sent my brother and a servant to retrieve me. Once they’d found me, Amsden thanked me for helping him escape, packed me up with the servant and sent me home.” She bit her lip. “It was my fault he was there.”

  His stomach knotted and twisted. His guilt was so much worse than merely getting her brother killed. He’d set a wolf like Dempsey into an innocent girl’s home. “Did Dempsey encourage you to follow him to the inn where he planned to lodge that night?

  She looked away and froze. “No.”

  “Did Amsden?”

  She turned toward him and blinked. “He brought me his clothing.”

  “And saw that your father became aware of your absence.” He squeezed her hand. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  She studied her hand knotted with his.

  “Your brother was older than you, Jane. He found a way to get himself to that mill, and he made the choice to stay.”

  She nodded.

  “And yet your father lashed out at you.”

  “Yes.” She breathed the word out.

  “Then he discovered you were carrying Dempsey’s child.”

  She swallowed hard. “In the midst of haranguing me yet again, he suffered an apoplexy.” Trembling, she choked in a breath and pain sketched a deep line between her eyes. “He died in his study, in front of me.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for that,” he said.

  “How can I not? No matter what my brother did to get away that night, I had already been reckless with Reginald.” She squeezed his hand. “So, you see, you must put aside your self-blaming. You may not have always been the invincible Spy Lord, but in this matter, you bear no guilt.”

  He swiped a thumb across her cheek, the small movement of his muscles snaking up his arm and making his shoulder throb. She no doubt was aching from her wound also. They would both need to rest soon.

  She could not travel across town, not in this state.

  “I failed Dempsey that day, and your brother, and you.” And that failure had driven him, had made him harder, colder. “And I’m sorry, Jane. So very sorry. It’s no wonder you wanted revenge against me.”

  Instead of softening, her mouth firmed. “Revenge? What are you talking about? That’s your compulsion, not mine, Shaldon. And don’t pity me. I abhor pity.”

  “Pity you?” She was still fighting the inevitable, dear Jane. “There is nothing pitiable about you.”

  She shook her head and her laugh sounded forced.

  “It’s true. You’re beautiful, and intriguing.”

  “What rubbish. I am not beautiful, Shaldon, nor intriguing, except for my secrets, which you wanted to winkle out of me as relentlessly as you do with everyone else.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “And now you know them. My foolishness brought about my brother’s death, my father’s death, and left that young man not much better than a foundling.”

  He leaned in and gathered her close, ignoring his pains. “You caused no one’s death, and Penderbrook grew up well cared for, perhaps even a bit spoiled. I am relentless only with enemies, and there I’ve failed far too often.”

  “And sought revenge. Oh yes, I know about your efforts against the marquess who plagued Paulette, and Sirena’s villainous cousin, and Graciela’s despicable guardian. You’ve been on a quest for revenge.”

  “Not revenge. Justice.” He put a finger under her chin and raised it. Tears glistened but her gaze was clear-eyed. “Be honest, Jane. Is not revenge part of the reason you stole the painting?”

  “No.” She bit her lip. “Well perhaps, in the deep recesses of my heart. But Perry told me it was to have been her inheritance, and she didn’t want it, and…” She took in a deep breath. “I needed to help my son.”

  By God, he loved her.

  “Is this the end, Shaldon? Will the Duque’s loss of a toe at my hands be enough to avenge you?”

  He wanted to laugh. The Duque would find being shot by a woman humiliating.

  But was it enough?

  “The Duque cut you.”

  “And I shot him.”

  “We could have the Duquesa spread the tale through her father’s people.” He stroked her cheek again. That would not be enough for him.

  “You’re frowning, Shaldon. You must not seek to avenge the Duque’s assault on me. You must be satisfied with his toe.”

  “Must I be?”

  She sighed. “You must put the past aside, live in the present, look to the future. You’re alive. You’ve won. And you still have the painting he coveted. Did your men bring along Guignard’s copy?”

  “The one you brought with you today disappeared from the field of battle. Captain Kingsley saw the Duque’s man stuff it inside his coat.”

  A frown creased her brow. “I meant him to pay me for it. It was a very fair copy. Will he be crowing that he has won back the original, do you think?”

  “And sailing off on another chase for sunken treasure? Probably. Perhaps Captain Kingsley would like to raise his privateer flag and follow him. I’d stand him the cost of a ship for that endeavor.”

  She eased in a breath and her gaze finally softened. More hair had slipped out of her braid, and the thin lawn of her nightgown clung to her breasts.

  “Devil take the Duque and the painting,” he said. “The original is here in the vault and it is yours. Sell it, give it away, do what you wish with it.”

  He owed her that, he owed her that for all he’d taken from her. Let it be a revenge against him, whether she wanted vengeance or not.

  He pressed his lips to her neck and breathed in her clean smell. “If I put the past behind me, will you come with me into the future? I want that very much. I want you very much.”

  * * *

  His kiss sent a shiver through her, his late-day beard scratching her jaw and the gape of his banyan revealing dark chest hair laced with gray. She settled a hand there, over his pounding heart.

  He was alive, and virile, and no small prize, this man. He knew the worst of her failings, and he claimed he wanted her still.

  And God help her, she wanted him also.

  Could they both truly leave the past behind them?

  She felt her belt loosening, and his hands, large and hot, slipped around her waist, under the robe.

  “Shaldon, I…I don’t want the Duque or his minions bothering us or any of our children ever again.”

  “Our children.” He kissed her cheek. “I like the sound of that.”

  His grin sent warmth buzzing through her, but she held him off, thinking.

  The Duque wanted the painting because he wanted the treasure.

  “Did Captain Kingsley discover the painting’s treasure?”

  “Kingsley and I have both been too busy to talk.”

  When she turned her head, his stubble rasped agains
t her lips. “Shaldon, your condition…”

  He drew her to her feet and pulled her against him, smiling down at her.

  He was aroused, in spite of his injuries and a night without sleep, and very proud of it.

  She laughed and shook her head. “Good heavens.”

  A warm hand came around the outside of her robe and began working her plait loose. “Yes, good heavens. Now, what is your answer? I’ve offered you solid employment and a home.”

  “Employment?”

  “Running the Shaldon domestic empire, I believe is how Lady Bakeley sees it. She will gladly surrender the burden.” His hand worked the last of her hair free and he lifted a hank and sniffed deeply. “And in payment, my lady, I’ll give you my name and my worldly goods, at least those that are not entailed. And the painting of course.”

  When he brushed her arm, pain shot through her.

  He dropped his hand, frowning. “The damn Duque shall—”

  “No.” She touched his cheek and made him look at her. “No, Shaldon. You are finished with the Duque. Leave the matter of vengeance to me.”

  Frowning, he leaned in to nuzzle her neck. “What are you planning? Will you shoot off another ducal toe?”

  “No weapons will be employed.”

  He studied her a long moment. “I am enchanted, my lady. Very well. Besides my name and my worldly goods, my heart, my honor, and the rest of my life, vengeance is yours.”

  “And the painting.”

  “Of course.”

  A smile lit his face, and he took her elbow, leading her back to his bedchamber.

  And she went.

  Epilogue

  On a rainy morning a few days later, Jane sat next to Shaldon in the front pew of the Bavarian Chapel on Warwick Street, her hand resting in his.

  Her arm still ached from her wound, as did Shaldon’s shoulder from his injury. But after a day and a half of rest, Shaldon had stopped urging her to stay abed and had proclaimed that he himself was recovered enough to go out.