The Thespian Spy

by Cheri Champagne

  They stood in silence for a moment, each pondering their own worry for the other fallen. During the scheme, several of Gabe’s fellow agents—and Gabe himself—had their identities compromised…and then the attacks had begun. Young Harris, a new recruit just out of intelligence training, had been shot in the shoulder on his first assignment. Greene had been stabbed in the back, and Barrows suffered with a severe head injury.

  Gratefully, the French spies responsible had been dealt with appropriately and would no longer be a threat to the other Crown spies or Hydra and his new family.

  Hydra’s blond eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, well…” he cleared his throat. “If you are well enough, preparation for a new assignment in Eastbourne begins tomorrow. If you decline I have another man in mind.”

  The hum of anticipation buzzed through Gabe’s veins. He needed to get out of town, to get into something sneaky and dirty, to get into the thick of enemy territory and take them out from within. And…to get away from Mary. Damn but she distracted him something fierce.

  “Aye, I am well enough te take on an assignment.”

  Hydra jerked his shaggy blond head in a single nod. “Very good, then. It’s a partnered assignment and the briefing is tomorrow at dawn.”

  Gabe’s lips curved upward in a grin. “I will see ye then, sir.”

  “Oh, and Gabe?”

  “Aye?”

  “You had better practice your English accent. You are going to need it.” Then he was gone, the small guest bedchamber in the Devon town house empty once more.

  A log popped in the fireplace behind him and Gabe turned to smile at his reflection in the tall mirror, the act pulling painfully at the stiches along his jaw. But he paid it no mind. He was going on another assignment. An infiltration assignment if Hydra’s warning to practice his accent was any indication. Damn, but he hadn’t done infiltration in some time. He couldn’t deny that he was excited.

  He’d become used to speaking with an English accent while he was in school, and he often used it during assignments. It had gotten to the point where his habitual accent was a mixture of Scottish and English, though when emotions were involved, he switched fully to Scottish.

  “Very,” he practiced to his reflection as he tugged the final knot in his starched white cravat. “Didn’t. You.”

  “I haven’t heard your English accent in some time.”

  Gabe’s heart slammed in his chest at the cultured female voice behind him. He swung around.

  “Damnit, Mary, donnae sneak up on me like tha’!”

  Her soft lips turned downward in a pretty frown. “Oh pooh. And you were doing so well.”

  Gabe suppressed the swell of pride that her words provoked.

  “Wha’ are ye doing here, Mary?”

  The joyous glint to her steel grey eyes fled and Gabe felt as though he’d lost something precious.

  “I came to see how you fared, but I can see you are well.” She affected a shallow curtsey. “Pardon me for intruding, sir. Good day.”

  She turned to leave but something made him stop her. “Mary, wait,” he called.

  She froze in the doorway then turned to face him, an expectant expression on her lovely features.

  Gabe let his gaze travel down her attire. She was dressed as a maid as she so often was when she was here. The drab black and white frock should dull anyone’s ardour, but with her dark auburn hair veritably shining beneath her mobcap and her voluptuous charms straining against the material across her chest, any man would want her. And, damn it, so did he.

  His covetousness warred with prudence within him and he ran his hand agitatedly through his already dishevelled hair.

  Mary’s eyebrows rose expectantly. “You really must spit it out, Gabriel, my rehearsals begin in three quarters of an hour.”

  Anger immediately burned in his gut as her words shook him out of his reverie. “Mary, ye shouldnae continue at the theatre.”

  A delicate frown creased her brow. “I do not wish to have this argument with you again, Gabe. You know how I feel about being an actress.”

  “Aye, I ken ye are a thespian,” he sneered the word, feeling like a petulant child, “but te let—nae, encourage—men te ogle ye then te use yer wiles…” That familiar, hated fury gnawed at him again… It was like a festering wound that wouldn’t damn well heal.

  * * *

  Mary Wright balled her hands into fists as she stared down the man that had once been a dear childhood friend…whom she had thought she would be with forever.

  Curse her romantic heart anyway. The man had crushed it long ago and best she remember that.

  “It isnae right,” he said.

  Mary knew what he thought. He believed the same thing that everyone else believed. She was an actress, after all, and most actresses were considered as good as high-priced whores by London society. Of course, she used that to her advantage in her own way, but while she may not be as pure as the driven snow, she was most assuredly a maiden. Not that Gabe would believe her if she said as much.

  Instead, she made the same argument she had made countless times. “It is not as bad as you believe. I love being an actress and I love being a spy. In addition to that, it is the perfect identity for a woman in the Secret Service; men will tell me anything I wish, as they believe me too dimwitted to understand its significance.”

  “Ye may believe what ye say, Mary, but yer treated as a common doxy.”

  Hurt laced through her. “Yes, of course you would belittle my position in such a manner. Because I could not possibly be capable of separating my spy life from my true self, yes? Of course not,” her voice veritably dripped with sarcasm, “I will just lift my skirts for any man that walks through my door, like a harlot. Think you I do not understand the difference between the acquisition of intelligence and becoming a man’s lover?”

  His blue eyes widened slightly in alarm. “Nae I didnae mean—”

  “You have said quite enough, Gabriel. At least I now know what you truly think of me.” With a stubborn ache in her chest, Mary spun on her heel and hurried from the room and down the hall to the hidden servant’s passageway.

  Curse Gabriel Ashley anyway.

  Mary forced her legs faster down the passage. Would that she could return to her modest apartments and sleep the day away. But no, she must be professional. She would put aside thoughts of her aching heart and would do as she was taught.

  Tonight was the last performance of Lover’s Vows—written by the talented Mrs. Elizabeth Inchbald—at the Theatre Royal. She would conclude her role with one last assignment—as long as Hydra had a mark for her.

  Gabe thought that she used sex to glean information from her marks, but while she did use her sensuality, she by no means had intercourse. After the incident with the men in Carlisle, Mary had become hesitant and nervous around men, which put a damper on her lessons. As a means to harness her newfound fear of men, Mary wished to use their own barbaric nature against them.

  Per her request, Kieran Richards—or as the spies in the Secret Service fondly called him, Hermes—had introduced her to a very unique instructor. Mary now knew how to bring men fulfilment with the sway of her hips or the tip of her finger.

  Her newfound knowledge did not entirely remove her fear and trepidation, but it certainly gave her the confidence to face men and know that she could use her body and mind to control any circumstance that she might find herself in.

  She made her way down the narrow servant’s stairwell and through the winding passage until she reached the stone façade of the back side of a fireplace. She lifted her hand and thudded her fist three times on the warm stone, then waited. She could hear the soft footfalls on the other side of the thick stone before a responding thump. Mary quickly rapped twice, paused, then rapped thrice more in their practiced routine.

  A gust of air blew at the tendrils of hair sticking out from beneath her mobcap as the stone fireplace swung out like a door on hinges.

  “Mary!” Hydra stepped aside to
allow her to pass him into his study. “You know you may come in through my front door.”

  “That may have been the case when it was just spies in residence, sir, but with your wife’s family and their servants returned, I believe it would be prudent of me to observe the traditional roles of a downstairs maid.”

  He nodded. “Quite right, Mary. Quite right. And your prudence is appreciated.” He closed the hidden passageway with a quiet whoosh then returned to stand before his leather chair behind a great oak desk. “As a matter of fact, I am glad you came. I have a small matter to discuss with you.”

  He gestured to the chair across from him and Mary gratefully took a seat before he took his own. She had anticipated that he would wish to speak with her for, beginning tomorrow, her cover position as an actress would be put on hiatus. And as the war with Bonaparte was still very much active, the need for her sort of intelligence was imperative.

  Mary’s gaze travelled over the furnishings while she waited for Hydra to speak. His study was rather ordinary; bookshelves with books lined two of the four walls, dark wooden panels covered the others. A tantalus with glinting glass bottles of liquor stood in one corner, and a settee and two armchairs rested before the fireplace. Small trinkets and vases ornamented the two small round side tables and the fireplace mantle, and a large painting of men on the hunt, proudly mounted on their horses while hounds bound before them, hung on the wall behind the grand desk. The two tall windows on either side of the painting allowed the sun to brighten the darkly appointed room, lending it warmth.

  The room smelled of leather book bindings and sandalwood soap.

  “I have an opportunity for you to take on a new role,” Hydra’s deep voice shook her from her observations. “There have been reports from some of our men of suspected traitorous activity among our past marks. I must confess, after first learning of this, I was hesitant to send any men out to investigate, particularly after the leak of information, and subsequent attacks.”

  “But the parties responsible were—”

  “I know, Mary.” Hydra raked his fingers through his hair. “They were all dealt with, and our identities protected. It was merely a residual fear, I assure you. Our duties must now return to normal, and that means new assignments.

  “There will be a briefing for you tomorrow at first light.”

  A new role. Could this be for a position as actress, or would she get to practice her infiltration? She very much wished to know. But regardless of the position, Mary was anxious for something to do.

  “I will be there, thank you,” she said. “As you must know, tonight is the last performance of Lovers’ Vows before rehearsals for my next role in The Devil to Pay.” She clasped her hands together in her lap. As many times as she had asked this question, she always felt a mite uncomfortable at its significance. “Is there a mark you wish me to seek out this evening?”

  He cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, yes. I have it under good authority that the Earl of Reddington will be attending tonight’s performance…”

  “Consider it done, sir.” She moved to rise, but Hydra stopped her.

  “One more thing, Mary.”

  She looked at him expectantly.

  “This task is unique, yet crucial to your next assignment.”

  Mary nodded, intrigued.

  “You are to obtain an invitation to a house party that your mark is attending at Kerr House in a fortnight. I hate to ask it of you, Mary, but you must acquire that invitation, whatever it takes.”

  She’d never had to exert much effort in obtaining information from men, but garnering an invitation posed a challenge that she was eager to conquer.

  “I will do all that I can, sir,” Mary said.

  “I have every confidence that you will. Though as this assignment is time sensitive, I will require the result before the morrow.” He raised a hand in a placating gesture. “Rest assured, you needn’t make the short journey to me; I will come to you. Our signal will remain the same.”

  Mary nodded, another lock of her auburn hair falling from beneath her mobcap. “Very good. I shall expect you.”

  Chapter 7

  The brilliant light of candles shone all around her, lighting the stage and the hundreds of faces that watched, enraptured by the performance. The occasional cough or clearing throat were the only sounds but for the act. The theatre was filled with the merging of scents, from melting tallow to freshly-sprayed perfume. Mary loved it.

  But right now, Mary was not Mary and her fellow thespian, Mr. Murray, was not Mr. Murray. Enacting Act two, Scene two of Mrs. Inchbald’s Lovers’ Vows, she was Miss Amelia Wildenhaim and he was her very dear Papa, the Baron, with whom she currently spoke about matrimony. She was in love with Mr. Anhalt and engaged to Count Cassel.

  “You put me out of patience,” the Baron said. “Hear, Amelia! To see you happy is my wish. But matrimony, without concord, is like a duetto badly performed; for that reason, nature, the great composer of all harmony, has ordained, that, when bodies are allied, hearts should be in perfect union.”

  In that moment, Mary did something she had never before done. She dropped character. She said her lines, naturally, but she was certain that it sounded dull to the audience, as her thoughts were elsewhere. On Gabriel.

  How could he be so cruel? She was not a lightskirt—not that he would know, she supposed. He had never witnessed her acquiring intelligence from a mark; he did not know that her cover did not involve taking a different man into her bed each night.

  She determinately suppressed a scowl. And what if she did take lovers to her bed? Men did it with startling—and abhorrent—regularity. Why should she not enjoy the delights that were reportedly found in the marriage bed?

  Focus, Mary, she told herself. This is the last performance. Focus.

  Still in a daze, she completed the scene, each line going quicker than the last. Before long, the third act had begun. She was not in the first scene, but she stood to the side and observed. In the next moment, the curtain dropped, and she went on stage, ready to play her part.

  The first few lines were easy enough. Her love, Mr. Anhalt, was a splendid actor.

  “A very proper subject from the man who has taught me love, and I accept the proposal,” she said.

  “Again, you misconceive and confound me,” Mr. Anhalt said.

  She replied in a carrying voice, “Ay, I see how it is—you have no inclination to experience with me “the good part of matrimony:” I am not the female with whom you would like to go “hand in hand up hills, and through labyrinths”—with whom you would like to “root up thorns; and with whom you would delight to plant lilies and roses.” No, you had rather call out, “Oh liberty, dear liberty.”

  “Why do you force from me, what it is villainous to own?” He stepped forward and earnestly gripped her shoulders. “I love you more than life—oh Amelia!” Mary did not hear the remainder of his lines, for she was lost in thought once more.

  Curse Gabriel Ashley for that. What she would not have given, at one time, to hear Gabe say such a thing to her. Love… What a simple yet unattainable thing.

  She must banish Gabe from her thoughts. She was a thespian…and she was a spy. She pushed her shoulders back and notched her chin higher.

  I am Miss Amelia Wildenhaim, she told herself. I love Mr. Anhalt…

  * * *

  The din was nigh deafening in the back rooms of the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden, but Mary did not pay the crowd of actors, actresses, and their many admirers any mind. She had eyes for only one man.

  She spotted him immediately across the crush and started toward him. She wove between the many bodies, the cloying scent of perfume and warm perspiration assaulting her senses. The chandeliers hung high above, lending a cheerful glow to those below.

  Her mark turned his back to her as he whispered something into Mary’s fellow actress, Kitty’s, ear. The girl giggled, a pretty blush on her pale cheeks.

  Mary’s lips curved upward in a s
elf-assured smile as she reached his shoulder. She hastily adjusted the gauzy shawl about her elbows and gave an extra tug to the bodice of her already daring evening gown. She had the frock specially made to entice; she wore no petticoat, so the fine green striped silk of her skirts perfectly accentuated the outline of her body beneath.

  It was entirely wicked.

  With deliberate sensuality, Mary trailed her first finger from her mark’s wrist to his shoulder. This had the desired effect of taking his attention away from Kitty.

  “Why, Lord Reddington,” Mary purred, “you do look fine this evening.”

  His lascivious green gaze turned to encompass her and his smile broadened. “I must return the compliment, Miss…”

  “White,” she gave him her stage pseudonym.

  “Miss White. My, what a charming name.” Turning his back on Kitty, he faced Mary fully.

  She bit back a laugh at Kitty’s pout. The young actress was better off without this man in her life anyway.

  Mary ran her fingers over his narrow shoulders and down his chest, earning a shudder from her mark. She grinned openly at him. He appeared to be nearly thirty years of age and was rather startlingly handsome. He had wavy blond hair, emerald-green eyes, a strong jaw, patrician nose, and a wicked smile. He also smelled of liquor and was—if her previous experience was any indication—obviously easily seduced. This was going to be quicker than she had thought.

  Deliberate coyness and artificial naiveté were stratagems that Mary often employed, but she knew from the moment she had set eyes on Lord Reddington that such tactics would not win her the desired reaction. Idiocy, yes. Wanton abandon, naturally. Blatant sexuality…absolutely.

  She winked at him, her smile seductive as she leaned her breasts against his arm and stretched up to press her lips to his ear. “Come to my dressing room,” she crooned provocatively, “and you will experience something beyond your wildest imagination.”

  Mary pulled away from him the moment she felt his breath quicken, and with one last heavy-lidded glance, she spun about to make her way back through the crowd, exaggerating the sway of her hips. She knew he would follow. No man of his ilk could deny his curiosity when a woman made such a bold statement.