Checkmate, My Lord

by Tracey Devlyn

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I don’t.”

  She pushed out of his arms and paced away. The stubborn man was going to make her splay open her soul in all its foolish glory. “If you leave now, there’s a slight chance that I might survive this affaire.” Catherine raised her gaze to his, tears welling in her eyes. “Stay, and I am l-lost.”

  “Cat,” he said thickly, taking a step toward her.

  Unable to speak, she shook her head. One touch from him and she would gladly plunge into the abyss, for which only heartache lay at the end.

  “Will you answer one question?” he asked.

  She moistened her dry lips. “Of course.”

  “If I resigned my position as chief, would you have me?”

  Her heart fluttered. “Have you?”

  “As a husband?”

  “You would do that?” she asked, startled. “Give up the Nexus—for me?”

  “Without hesitation.”

  “But why, Sebastian? Why would you give up a cause that you have devoted your life to?” Her eyes narrowed. “I hope not because of some bothersome gentleman’s code. My honor does not need protecting.”

  “No.” The rich timbre of his voice prickled her skin. “Nothing so inconvenient as protecting your honor.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because I love you and want nothing more than to spend my days with you and your managing daughter.”

  The tears spilled over her lids and streamed down her cheeks. “Truly?”

  He smiled. “Truly.”

  “I deceived you in the worst possible way.”

  “Not the worst way, Catherine. Believe me.” He smoothed his thumb over her damp cheek. “You exhibited great courage during a dangerous situation. A quality to be admired, not judged.”

  “Cora knows you well.”

  His lips thinned. “Does she?”

  Catherine slid her hand up his chest. “I didn’t dare believe her when she said you’d understand why I did what I did.”

  “I hadn’t realized my agent had become a damned matchmaker.”

  “She wants you to have what she and Lord Helsford have.”

  “You may spare me the Raven’s wisdom,” he said. “I shall have to put up with her gloating looks for years as it is.”

  Catherine toyed with a pleat on the shoulder of his shirtsleeves. “Sebastian, I don’t want you to give up the Nexus. They need you. As does England.”

  The muscle beneath her fingers stiffened. “My position requires me to be away for long periods of time and often without notice.”

  Past hurts crowded into her mind. “Yes, well. I won’t lie and say that condition won’t be difficult. A few assurances on your part might be necessary.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “What sort of assurances?”

  Catherine tried twice to force the words out, but they remained lodged behind a lump in the back of her throat.

  He combed his fingers through her hair, soothing her like one would a distressed animal. “Don’t lose your nerve now, my love.” The tenderness in his gaze made the lump grow larger.

  “That you’ll always put us—Sophie and me—first.”

  “Done.”

  She raised a brow. “Just like that?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps you need something more tangible?”

  Catherine could do nothing more than stare like a young miss right out of the schoolroom.

  “Reeves offered me the under-superintendent position.” He fanned her hair over her shoulders. “I would be required to stay in London—no jaunts to the continent, no covert missions. My responsibilities would include coordinating the Nexus’s efforts with those of the Foreign and Home Offices.”

  “Does this position interest you?” Catherine tried to keep the budding hope from her tone.

  “Oh, yes.” He kissed her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “It would allow me to get started.”

  Her breaths came in short bursts. “Started on what?”

  “A family.”

  Warmth encased her heart. “I believe such a task requires a wife.”

  “Indeed, it does.” He whispered the words near her ear a moment before his lips closed around her earlobe.

  Tingles raced down her spine, and she arched her lower body into his hardness.

  “I believe one will become available next summer, after a certain mourning period has elapsed.”

  He worshipped her throat with slow, openmouthed kisses. Stopping only long enough to say, “Perfect. I have much to settle in the intervening months.”

  “Like locating Lord Latymer?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Before this incident, he was nothing more than a French pawn, for reasons I still don’t understand. Now he’s an active participant, which makes him a great deal more dangerous.”

  “Who will replace you as chief?”

  “A good question,” he said. “Helsford, Cora, and Danforth are the most experienced of my agents. All three are trustworthy, intelligent, and strong.”

  “Whatever choice you make will be the right one.” She could see the decision troubled him, so she redirected their conversation back to a topic of great importance to her. “You will visit us often?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  He kissed her forehead. “I will have no need to visit, because you and Sophie will be with me.”

  “In London?”

  “Yes, or Bellamere. Or Winter’s Hollow. We can divide our time between the city and the country. But no matter where we settle, we’ll be together. So much so, you will become sick of me and beg a reprieve.”

  She snaked her arms around his neck, more happy than she’d been in years. More complete. “Never, my lord.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you would say.” He pulled her closer. “Now, have I ever told you about the delights to be found in this particular section of the garden?”

  He backed her into the shadows until the ground beneath their feet softened and the sweet scent of freshly shorn grass reached her nose. Then slowly, inexorably, he lowered her to the velvety carpet and proceeded to show her how a spymaster loves his lady: Above all else.

  In case you missed it, here’s an

  excerpt from Tracey Devlyn’s debut

  A Lady’s Revenge

  Available now from Sourcebooks Casablanca

  ***

  1804

  Near Honfleur, France

  Guy Trevelyan, Earl of Helsford, stopped short at the sharp smell of burning flesh. The caustic odor melded with the dungeon’s thick, moldy air, stinging his eyes and seizing his lungs. His watery gaze slashed to the cell’s open door, and he cocked his head, listening.

  There.

  A sudden scrape of metal against metal. A faint sizzling sound followed by a muffled scream.

  He stepped forward to put an end to the prisoner’s obvious suffering but was yanked back and forced up against the dungeon’s cold stone wall, a solid forearm pressed against the base of his throat.

  Danforth.

  Guy thrust his knee into the bastard’s stomach, enjoying the sound of air hissing between his assailant’s lips, but the man didn’t release his hold. Nearly the same size as Guy, the Viscount Danforth wasn’t an easy man to dislodge. Guy knew that fact well. For many years they had tested each other’s strength.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” the viscount whispered near his ear. “We’re here for the Raven. No one else.”

  Guy stared into Danforth’s shadowed face, surprised and thankful for his friend’s quick reflexes. What would have happened had he stormed into the cell to save a prisoner he knew nothing about, against odds he hadn’t taken time to calculate? Something in the prisoner’s cry of pain struck deep into his gut. His reaction had been swift and instinctual, more in l
ine with Danforth’s reckless tendencies than his own carefully considered decisions.

  “Leave off,” Guy hissed, furious with himself. He pushed against Danforth’s hold, and the other man’s arm dropped away.

  He had to concentrate on their assignment, or none of them would leave this French nightmare alive. The mission: retrieve the Raven, a female spy credited with saving hundreds of British lives by infiltrating the newly appointed emperor’s intimate circle and relaying information back to the Alien Office.

  Guy shook his head, unable to fathom the courage needed to pull off such an ill-fated assignment. The ever-changing landscape of the French government ensured no one was safe—not the former king, the Ancien Régime, the bourgeoisie, or the commoner. And, most especially, not an English secret service agent.

  Although Napoleon’s manipulation of the weak and floundering Consulate stabilized a country on the brink of civil destruction, the revered general-turned-dictator wasn’t content to reign over just one country. He wanted to rule all of Europe, possibly the entire world. And, if his enemies didn’t unite under one solid coalition soon, he might achieve his goal.

  Another muffled, gut-twisting cry from the cell drew his attention. He clenched his teeth, staring at the faint light spilling out of the room, alert for movement or any signs of what he might find within.

  Sweet Jesus, he hoped the individual being tortured by one of Valère’s henchmen wasn’t the Raven. In his years with the Alien Office, he had witnessed a lot of disturbing scenes, some of his creation. But to witness the mangled countenance of a woman… The notion struck too close to the fear that had boiled in his chest for months—years—giving him no respite.

  On second thought, he hoped the prisoner was the Raven. Then he wouldn’t have to make the decision to leave the poor, unfortunate soul behind, and they could get the hell out of this underground crypt posthaste.

  “Are you well?” Danforth asked, eyeing him as if he didn’t recognize his oldest friend.

  Guy shoved away from the stone wall, shrugging off the chill that had settled like ice in his bones. Devil take it, what did the chief of the Alien Office expect him to do? Walk up to the prisoner and say, “Hello, are you the Raven? No? What a shame. Well, have a nice evening.” Only one person knew what the agent looked like, and Somerton did not offer up those details before ushering them off to France. Why? he wondered for the thousandth time. It was an answer he intended to find as soon as they got back to London, assuming they survived this mission.

  “I’m fine.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Now cease with the mothering and get behind me.”

  He barely noticed the fist connecting with his arm, having already braced himself for Danforth’s retaliation. Some things never change. Inching toward the cell door, he tilted his head and concentrated on the low rumble of voices until he was close enough to make out individual words.

  “Why do you force me to be so cruel?” a plaintive voice from inside the chamber asked. The Frenchman spoke slowly, as if talking to a child, which allowed Guy to quickly translate the man’s unctuous words. The gaoler continued, “All you have to do is provide my master with the information he seeks.”

  A chain rattled. “Go to the devil, Boucher,” a guttural voice whispered.

  Guy’s jaw hardened. The prisoner’s words were so low and distorted that it was impossible to distinguish the speaker’s gender. Every second they spent trying to solve the prisoner’s identity was a second closer to discovery.

  The interrogator let out a deep, exaggerated sigh. “The branding iron seems to have lost its effect on you. Let me see if I have something more persuasive.”

  An animallike growl preceded the prisoner’s broken whisper. “Your black soul will burn for this.”

  Boucher chuckled low, controlled. “But not tonight, little spy. As you have come to discover, I do not have the same aversion to seeing you suffer as my master does.”

  Something eerily familiar about the prisoner’s voice caught Guy’s attention. His gaze sliced back to Danforth to find puzzlement etched deeply between his friend’s brows.

  Guy turned back, the ferocity of his heartbeat pumping in his ears. His stomach churned with the certain knowledge that what he found in this room of despair would change his life forever. He steadied his hand against the rough surface of the dungeon wall, leaned forward to peer into the cell, and was struck by a sudden wave of fetid air. The smell was so foul that it sucked the breath from his lungs, and he nearly coughed to expel the sickening taste from his mouth and throat.

  The cell was twice the size of the others they had searched. Heaps of filthy straw littered the floor caked with human waste and God knew what else. Several strategically placed candles illuminated a small, circular area, leaving the room’s corners steeped in darkness. In the center stood a long wooden table with a young man strapped to its surface by thick iron manacles.

  A young man. Disappointment spiraled through him. He glanced at Danforth and shook his head, and then evaluated their situation. The corridor beyond the candlelit chamber loomed like a great, impenetrable abyss.

  The intelligence Danforth had seduced from Valère’s maid suggested the chateau’s dungeon held twelve cells. If the maid’s information was correct, that left four more chambers to search. Would they, like all the others, be strangely empty?

  Guy narrowed his gaze, fighting to see something—anything—down the darkened passage. It yawned eerily silent. Too damned silent. The lack of movement, guards, and other prisoners scraped his nerves raw. That and the realization they would not be able to slide past the nearby cell without drawing attention from its occupants.

  Dammit.

  He ignored Danforth’s warning tap on his shoulder and peered into the young man’s cell again. The prisoner’s filthy legs and arms splayed in a perfect X across the table’s bloodstained surface. A few feet away, with his back to the prisoner, stood a slender man dressed in the clothes of a gentleman, his unusual white-capped head bent in concentration over an assortment of spine-chilling instruments. Boucher.

  Guy watched the man assess each device with the careful attention of an enraptured lover, masterfully prolonging the young man’s terror. Give a victim long enough, and he’ll create plenty of painful scenes in his own mind that the interrogator need only touch his weapon to the prisoner’s skin to elicit a full, babbling confession.

  He couldn’t walk away from the poor soul struggling on the table, nor could he cold-bloodedly put an end to his misery. The young man was a countryman, not his enemy, and he would never leave one of his own in Valère’s hands.

  With great care, he withdrew a six-inch hunting knife from his boot. He heard Danforth curse softly, violently, behind him, and then a rustle of movement. His hand shot out to stay his friend, and a short struggle ensued. Their roles now reversed, Guy whispered in Danforth’s ear, “There’s no way around, and I’m not leaving him here.”

  “We don’t have time—”

  “I’m. Not. Leaving. Him.”

  After a moment, Danforth gave a sharp nod and settled into the rear support position once more, anger dripping off him in waves.

  He couldn’t blame his friend for wanting to press on. Evil penetrated every crack and hollow of this place. Even with his vast experience with the darker side of human nature, Guy felt trapped and edgy and unusually desperate.

  Guy shifted his attention to the prisoner just as the young man’s head swiveled toward the open doorway. Bleakness and terror etched his swollen, blood-encrusted face, but something more blazed behind the young man’s steady gaze—strength, fortitude, and a hint of hope.

  He was a fighter, a warrior entombed in a rapidly weakening young man’s body. A rush of fury mixed with a healthy dose of respect surged through Guy. How did one so young get involved with the likes of Valère?

  The prisoner’s chest rose high with each
deep, agonized breath. As his torturer intended, the young man knew Boucher’s next attempt at pulling information from him would be far worse than the last.

  Candlelight flickered over his youthful features. When the prisoner focused in on Guy’s position, his terrified blue-green eyes—or eye, as one was little more than a bloated slit—opened wide.

  Guy’s heart jolted, fearing the young man would call out. With an index finger to his lips, he motioned for the prisoner to remain quiet.

  Familiarity washed over Guy again. His gaze cleaved to the prisoner’s; his focus sharpened.

  Blue-green eyes. An unusual color Guy had seen only once before. His muscles contracted. A wave of frigid heat swept across every inch of his skin, and nausea twisted in his gut.

  He knew those eyes.

  The young man wasn’t a man at all. But a goddamned woman.

  Cora.

  Acknowledgments

  A huge thanks to my amazing editor, Deb Werksman, and my patient agent, Donald Maass, for believing in my stories and me and for helping me make them shine.

  Much love to my husband, Tim Curtin. You are my rock, my love, and my sunshine. Thanks for enduring the rigors of my sophomore book and for keeping me supplied with Slim Jims, Starbucks, and pasta puttanesca. On top of all that, you’re a fabulous beta reader, too!

  Sending a shout-out to my awesome publicist, Beth Pehlke. Thanks for all your support and for making my releases seamless and fun. Heartfelt thanks to the rest of the Sourcebooks team—Skye Agnew, Susie Benton, Cat Clyne, and my incredible cover designer, Aleta Rafton. A special thanks to Danielle Jackson.

  Big hugs to my critique partners Adrienne Giordano, Kelsey Browning, Theresa Stevens, and Tara Kingston. You are the best, most amazing buds a girl could have. Thanks for always being there for me.

  This acknowledgment would not be complete if I did not express my gratitude to my friend and fellow author Dyanne Davis. Enormous thanks to you (and Bill!) for spotlighting local writers at Bolingbrook Community Television. It’s always a pleasure to be your guest. You’re an incredible advocate for the romance genre and to writers at every level.