The King's Code (The Lady Spies Series #3): A Regency Historical Romance

by Samantha Saxon

  “Ah, your precious codes,” Glenbroke nodded with understanding and more than a little amusement. “I thought Seamus McCurren was seeing to the decrypting.”

  “Oh, he has been. Done a wonderful job thus far, but this latest code is dangerous.” Falcon stared at the walls, the heavy weight of certainty pulling at his chest.

  “Dangerous? Aren’t all French codes dangerous?”

  “Yes, but this one . . .” Falcon shook his head, thinking aloud. “I sense that this one . . . is a great threat to the security of our country.”

  “Why this one more than any of the others?”

  “I don’t know.” And he did not, but Falcon had learned never to ignore his instincts and he was not about to now. “You see, the difficulty in decoding the majority of these French codes is in the detection.

  “Once the code has been detected, men such as Seamus McCurren make short work of deciphering them. Not so with this code.” Falcon sighed with frustration. “We have known of this code for two months and are no closer to decoding it than we were the day it was first detected.”

  “And you believe Juliet Pervill can help you break this code?” the duke asked.

  “She already has! Lady Juliet identified the code as a mere marker for a much more complex system of cryptography. A system, I fear, that is at the core of the French espionage effort here in London.”

  “I suppose it will keep that brilliant mind of Juliet’s occupied while my wife labors on her behalf.” The duke glanced up, now deadly serious. “Juliet Pervill is under your protection?”

  “Yes.” Falcon nodded and continued to reassure the man. “The lady has been placed in Seamus McCurren’s own office and I am just down the hall.”

  “Excellent.” The duke moved a pawn. “I should never hear the end of it if my wife believed I had knowingly placed Juliet in harm’s way.”

  “You may assure the duchess, Your Grace,” Falcon said with confidence, “that Lady Juliet’s position within the Foreign Office is nothing more than a glorified librarian and equally as dangerous.”

  On Friday morning, Juliet walked into her office at eight forty-five with seven books of various sizes and colors weighing her down. She dropped them on the table with a resounding thud and then removed her coat before seating herself at her functional, but at the same time charming, desk.

  She stared as rain crashed against the window, leaving streams of water that joined to form rivers. Juliet traced the lines with her forefinger, wondering what force was being exerted to pull the water in diagonal lines rather than directly down the windowpane.

  Was the irregularity of the glass a factor in the path the water took? There appeared to be too many streams to rely upon this variance to explain the water’s movements. Therefore, the water must hold some attraction to itself, enough of an attraction to pull it sideways. But how much of an attraction, and was the pull a constant—

  Juliet’s musings were interrupted when she heard the outer door open. She quickly reached for a book and opened it, bending her head as if she were engrossed by hours upon hours of riveting reading.

  The inner-office door opened and the silence made her grin. She had noted Mister McCurren’s irritation yesterday when he had arrived to find her already there. So, Juliet had risen at eight this morning to ensure that she arrived in the office before him.

  Childish, she knew, but satisfying nonetheless.

  “Morning.” The crisp baritone greeting sounded as though it had been pushed past clenched teeth.

  Juliet made a great show of reluctantly pulling her eyes from the fascinating book she had yet to read so that she might welcome her tardy colleague.

  “Good morning,” she beamed, glancing toward the door with the intention of returning to her book.

  However, when she saw Seamus McCurren framed in the doorway, his green jacket complementing his chestnut hair, his unusual golden eyes circled by dark lashes, his full masculine lips . . . Juliet simply stared, appreciating the view.

  Uncomfortable, the gentleman broke eye contact with a respectful inclination of his head and then walked toward his larger desk. She enjoyed that, too, his muscular thighs flexing beneath his buff buckskins as he sank into the leather chair. Juliet cocked her head, having one last look, before reluctantly returning to her far less appealing book.

  She sighed.

  Men were so lovely to look at, and Juliet wondered if she would be able to control her lecherous side, if she would be able to content herself with just looking at the multitude of handsome young men working at the Foreign Office.

  Her eyes wandered from the pages of her book, drawn by the ugly brown gown that she had forced herself to wear. Her nose wrinkled with distaste, but she knew it was for her own good.

  She was a weak woman when it came to men, always had been.

  She had adored kissing Robert Barksdale and he was not even her masculine ideal. If she had been born as beautiful as Felicity, she would have ruined herself years ago.

  Juliet gave a snort of laughter, certain that God had made her plain for that very reason.

  “Did you say something?”

  She could feel her cheeks burning when Juliet realized that she had laughed aloud.

  “Uh, no.” She shook her head. “My apologies, this book is rather amusing and I’m unaccustomed to reading in the company of others.”

  “Mmm.” The deep tone contained doubt and a note of superiority that irritated Juliet to no end, but Seamus McCurren did not stop there. “Does this novel you’re reading lend insight into the breaking of French codes?”

  Her jaw dropped at the insinuation that she was frittering away her time on some frivolous novel.

  “None at all,” Juliet sang, turning to face the arrogant Scot. “However, as the last marker will not appear until sometime next week, assuming of course that the French have a message to convey at all, I thought to amuse myself with a bit of research.”

  Seamus McCurren stood to his impressive height, and with each elegant step he took toward Juliet, her heart leapt out of her chest.

  “And you find researching differential calculus . . . amusing?” he drawled, looking down at her with a raised brow of intellectual condescension.

  “Somewhat.” He was standing over her now and Juliet licked her lips to ease the words from her mouth. “The conclusions that ancient mathematicians have drawn are somewhat amusing in their simplicity.”

  “Such as?” The Scot held her eyes, the glistening of brown and gold in his rendering her speechless.

  She shrugged and Mister McCurren reached out to gently pry the thin book from her unsteady hands. His long, rough fingers brushed hers and her stomach flipped as Juliet watched him draw the book toward his spectacularly sculpted features.

  His head tilted downward as he read and Juliet suppressed the urge to stroke his perfect sideburns, which he no doubt knew emphasized the line of his even more perfect jaw.

  “This is written in ancient Greek?” Seamus McCurren’s beautiful eyes were once again on her, demanding an explanation.

  “Well, yes. I find that many of the subtleties of mathematical theory are lost in the translation from one language to—”

  “This is a Persian text.” Seamus McCurren had lifted another of her books.

  “Yes, the Persians were by far the most accomplished mathema—”

  “Is this Mandarin?” he inquired, his brows draw together in astonishment.

  Feeling the need to defend her diverse collection of texts . . . and herself, Juliet jumped up and reached for the tiny red tome.

  “Please, be careful with that book, Mister McCurren. It is very old and I have not yet learned enough Mandarin to interpret the theories fully. I have recently acquired the services of a tutor to assist me in translating the—”

  Juliet sucked in a breath, shocked when her words were smothered by Seamus McCurren’s sumptuous lips.

  The fingers of his right hand speared her severe chignon as he drew her head close
r with persuasive pressure at the nape of her neck. However, it was the large hand cradling her jaw that very nearly burned her as much as his demanding lips.

  Juliet closed her eyes, astounded by how different this kiss felt compared to Robert Barksdale’s.

  This man was assured, confident, and skilled in his movements. Very skilled at enticing a woman to want that little bit more, that one last touch. Juliet was becoming lightheaded the more that they kissed . . . and she was most definitely confused.

  Why would a man of Seamus McCurren’s obvious experience kiss her?

  And then the answer was clear.

  “Stop!”

  The slight Lady Juliet shoved him in the chest so hard that Seamus had to take a step backward to steady himself. He stared down at the lass in utter shock of what he had just done, his chest and lips on fire where they had touched her.

  The lass lifted her chin, her jaw setting as she stared up at him, saying, “I realize that you do not wish to work with me, Mister McCurren, but I would have thought this tactic quite beneath you.”

  “No,” Seamus protested, appalled that the lady would think such a thing but unable to explain his actions . . . even to himself. “You miscompre—”

  “Well, I can assure you that the Foreign Office will not be so easily rid of me,” the lady railed on, not listening. “You see, Mister McCurren, my mother’s marriage to my bastard of a father taught me one very valuable lesson. Perseverance. And whether you wish it or not, sir, I shall continue to work in this office come hell or high water.”

  With that declaration, the lass swept her dingy brown skirts to one side and resumed her seat behind her cluttered little desk. Seamus glanced about the office, so stunned by his own actions that he could scarcely move.

  Not only did Seamus not know what to say, but he now had no choice but to sit in the room with the very woman he had just taken liberties with while trying to pretend that he had not.

  And as to why he had taken those liberties in the first place, he had not a bloody clue.

  “As you wish,” Seamus mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

  Sitting in his chair, he discreetly put the back of his hand against his forehead and was disheartened to detect no fever. Seamus glanced at Juliet Pervill from the corner of his eye, baffled as to what had possessed him to kiss her.

  Her unsightly gown and ashen face had drawn his attention to the bright blue of her eyes and cherry red of her lips. And as those feminine lips continued to move, he had wanted . . . No, more than that, he had been compelled to kiss the woman.

  Surely, he was ill?

  “If I had my wish, Mister McCurren, we would not be working together at all.” What was she saying? He turned to listen. “I have been here all of two days and you have been nothing but a liability in my efforts to decrypt this French code.”

  “A what?” he scoffed, offended.

  Lady Juliet stopped writing and swiveled round in her wooden chair so that she might look at him. “A liability, a deficit, a hindrance. Surely, as an expert in the written word, you have come across that one.”

  Seamus’s previous humiliation dissolved with the lady’s continued insults. “I know the meaning of the word, Lady Juliet.”

  “Hmm,” she mused, expressing doubt.

  “Furthermore”—he was attempting to be reasonable— “if we are to continue working together, I suggest that we discuss the manner in which we—”

  “Let’s not.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Let us not ‘work together.’ Go our separate ways, so to speak.” She lifted her shoulders as if she were the most reasonable woman in the world. “I have all of the information compiled by the Foreign Office pertaining to this E code. You, at this point, are . . . superfluous to my investigation, and your constant attempts to make me leave this office indicate that you are unlikely to provide me with any meaningful assistance.”

  “My attempts to make you leave?” Meaningful assistance!

  “I see no another explanation for your kissing me.”

  He certainly had none to provide.

  “And while you might be accustomed to women swooning in your dazzling presence, I simple don’t have the time. You see, I have a code to decrypt.” The lass stood, straightening the papers on her desk and then her ugly skirts. “As a matter of fact, I have just thought of a line of inquiry to which I must attend. So, if you would be so kind as to excuse me.”

  The lady left the office and Seamus was still staring at the door when Mister Habernathy walked into the office carrying his morning coffee.

  “No coffee today, James.” Seamus waved off the black libation. “I believe I shall work from home.”

  “Everything all right, sir?”

  “Grand,” Seamus said, feeling anything but. “However, there is nothing more for us to do here until the newspapers are published Monday next.”

  Nothing he could think of, anyway.

  Seamus took one step toward the door when James asked, “Is Lady Juliet expected in today?”

  Feeling a flash of guilt, Seamus glanced at the small desk and stared at the spot where they had been standing when he had kissed Juliet Pervill.

  Seamus shook his head, dumbfounded, as he racked his brain for a possible line of investigation that he had overlooked.

  “I’ve no idea where the lady has gone,” he finally admitted to his secretary . . . and himself.

  ≈

  Juliet stood on the chilly front steps of the Foreign Office and attempted to breathe.

  It had taken a great deal of determination for her to remain in that room after Seamus McCurren had kissed her. Juliet had sat in her chair lest she fall down and only prayed that the man did not notice her hands shaking like leaves in a stiff wind.

  But she would be damned if she was going to run out of the room as he wanted her to do.

  Mister McCurren had no idea, of course, that she had no other place to go, had no idea that his exquisite kiss was all she had at the moment to occupy her muddled mind.

  Still, she wished that he had not kissed her. Now, she would have to sit in that office day after day, knowing how marvelous the man felt. How delightful his warm power had felt beneath her hands.

  Damnation!

  Restless, she walked down the steps and onto the crowded walkways of Whitehall. “A line of inquiry!” Why on earth had she told him that? To get under his skin . . . as he had hers. The only problem with her little act of vengeance was that she had nothing new to investigate.

  Idiot!

  Felicity’s carriage was not due back until four o’clock that afternoon and she really should return to the safety of the Foreign Office. But she could not bring herself to do it. Juliet would rather die at the hands of a footpad than admit to the breathtakingly arrogant Seamus McCurren that she had no “line of inquiry” to pursue.

  “Come on, Juliet! You’re a clever girl,” she muttered beneath her breath.

  She could go anywhere in London. But where?

  Juliet stared at the low-hanging winter sky for several contemplative moments and then called for a hackney, saying, “The London Herald, please,” as the driver assisted her over a steaming pile of horse manure and into the hired black carriage.

  The interior of the hackney was old and worn, but thankfully clean. Juliet leaned back against the squabs as the conveyance rocked her down the cobblestone streets of London, giving her a considerable amount of time to think.

  The E anomaly appeared in specified publications on specified weeks. Therefore, if she were able to identify the last marker, it would stand to reason that Falcon would be able to post agents at the identified publication and wait for the French cryptographer to arrive.

  It might take several weeks to identify the courier, but it was, as far as she could see, their only course of action.

  Satisfied with her reasoning, Juliet sat back and tried to think of anything but Seamus McCurren. However, trying not to think of the man just brought him to min
d, and the vicious circle was broken only when the conveyance blessedly rolled to a stop.

  Juliet stepped from the hackney and handed her driver a generous amount of coin, asking, “Please, wait for me here.”

  The driver tipped his dusty hat, grinning from ear to ear, and Juliet tried not to stare at the forest of black hair peeking from his upturned nostrils like two burst caterpillars that writhed as he talked.

  “I’ll be glued to this very spot, my lady, never you worry.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Confident that the hairy driver would not abandon her on these unfamiliar streets, Juliet turned toward the large building standing before her.

  The red bricks were made even darker by the years of unattended soot, and the drab, square building boasted utilitarian function rather than architectural aesthetics. The only stylistic element she could see at all was the gold-leaf wording the London Herald painted on the glass panel inset of a battered wooden door.

  Determined to show the Scot something for her efforts, Juliet pushed open the door to one of London’s many daily news publications. However, the moment she stepped inside, Juliet instinctively put her hands over her ears, the sound of the printing press louder than she had expected.

  Startled by the sight of a female in the print room, a young man covered in what appeared to be black ink ran toward her and silently pointed Juliet toward a door at the far end of the enormous room. She nodded her understanding and then walked to the distant door and turned the round knob, ruining her white glove with a mixture of grease and black ink.

  Juliet pushed the grimy door open and, upon entering, removed her soiled glove as she looked about the hectic front office of the London Herald.

  She was not impressed with what she saw.

  A lone clerk stood behind the tall wooden counter while several older gentlemen sat behind him at well-used desks with their heads buried between mountains of papers.

  Juliet had two men waiting in front of her as she proceeded to queue, thankful for the moments to formulate her questions now that she had seen a daily publication at full function.

  The first man concluded his business and left with a nod as the elderly man in front of her shuffled forward to speak with the lanky clerk.