Dashing All the Way : A Christmas Anthology

by Eva Devon

“A man of action is what we need. Someone who’s seen battle.” Pike slammed his fist into his palm with a thwack, clearly just warming to his topic. “Someone who knows first-hand how important the work we do here is to the—”

  The click of a lock and the creaking of the heavy oak door at the far end of the room stilled Pike’s lips. Indeed, a hush fell over all of the men in the chamber as they waited to meet their new minister.

  “Let’s introduce you to the men who will be under your charge, my lord,” echoed the voice of Greeves, Uncle Jarvis’s aide-de-camp, as he stepped into the room, followed by a tall figure.

  Claire’s stomach rolled, and her heart kicked in her chest. She peered down the long expanse, trying to glimpse the man who would turn her out on her ear if he even suspected she wasn’t who she claimed to be.

  But it was no use.

  The black chambers of Abchurch were, by necessity, clandestine. No windows opened onto the street to allow curious eyes to see in, much less to let in any natural light. Instead, this room resembled a darkened laboratory. The only pockets of light were oil lamps, the fires in the grates, and smaller flames for steam kettles and such, which burned at the tables where the men went about their secret business.

  Claire cursed the room’s air of obscurity. While it undoubtedly helped her maintain her disguise, it also kept her from seeing the man who held her future in his hands.

  She squinted her eyes and saw that the two men had stopped to speak with Peter Finch. Finchy, brilliant at maths, could decipher complicated French codes that used over 1,200 numerals with the seeming ease of a schoolboy doing sums—once said code had been broken. He was also notoriously cantankerous. Yet whatever the new minister said to the man brought a series of nods and, rarer still, an actual laugh.

  A moment later, Greeves ushered the stranger to the next table. Claire’s station was at the very back of the room, making her the last “man” to be introduced. But they’d get to her soon enough. The knot in her stomach tightened and she turned away, back to the Russian missive and back to her work—for as long as it would remain hers.

  So lost was she in the syntax of the language, the foreign ebb and flow of letters and words, that the men were upon her before she realized.

  “And lastly,” Greeves was saying from behind her, “is our most keen linguist. Aside from English and French, of course, he’s fluent in Greek, Latin, Spanish, Italian, and a variety of Balto-Slavic languages. Invaluable, he is, at finding hidden codes within foreign missives for the others to decipher. Couldn’t have won the battle of Vitoria without him.”

  Claire closed her eyes briefly, willing her heart to cease its rapid tattoo. Then she took a breath, pasted on her brother’s ne’er-do-well smile, and turned to face whatever came.

  And her racing heart stopped dead.

  Greeves gestured towards her. “May I introduce you to Sir Clar—”

  But the new head of Abchurch interrupted the aide, his voice sounding as shocked as she felt.

  “Claire?”

  After serving five years in a brutal war—part of it as a prisoner in France—very little had the power to shake Lord Andrew Sedgewick.

  But he must say, finding Miss Claire Barton, dressed as a man, in the War Department’s hidden enclave of code breakers shook him straight to his polished Hessians.

  He blinked once…twice… Perhaps the flickering shadows in this damnably dark chamber played tricks upon his eyes.

  But no. Claire definitely stood before him. In trousers. And a cravat. A badly tied one at that.

  Her cerulean-blue eyes widened in the awkward silence before she recovered herself.

  “Sedgewick,” she chided, in a voice so like her brother’s that Andrew took another hard look at her.

  His gaze touched on her hair, red-golden locks trimmed short in a fashionable men’s cut that curled slightly around her face. He took in her wide shoulders and thick waist. Padding could accomplish both, he knew, as well as fill out the boots upon her feet. His eyes drifted to her bosom, or lack thereof. If there were feminine curves hidden under the burgundy jacket and cream-colored waistcoat, they were bound flat.

  Yet her breath caught, just slightly, at his frank perusal. And if he wasn’t mistaken, pink tinged her cheeks. Definitely Claire.

  “You’re lucky we’re old friends,” she went on gamely. “The last person to call me ‘Clare’ got planted a facer, you know. I detest that blasted nickname.” Then she laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “When did you get back from the continent, my friend?”

  Greeves, apparently his new aide-de-camp, looked between the two of them, brow scrunching. “You know Sir Clarence already, my lord?”

  Claire’s eyes flashed a warning, even as her smile widened.

  Andrew still reeled. He couldn’t fathom how she’d come to be here. Couldn’t imagine a scenario where her brother would allow it. And if she was here, where was Clarence? Myriad questions burned his tongue, but in front of an audience of curious onlookers was neither the time nor the place.

  He found his voice. “I do.” Turning his gaze back to Greeves, he said, “Barton and I attended Harrow together, which was why I was so taken aback when you presented him as your best linguist.” He hoped that was enough explanation to cover his blunder. Humor should take care of the rest. He chuckled and tossed Claire a cocky grin. “If I remember correctly, pup, you copied your Latin and your Greek off of me.”

  She snorted. “True, but Cambridge cured me of that,” she said, not missing a step. He had to admit, she played her part well. “Since you had to go and desert me for the Royal Military College, I was forced to learn the stuff myself. Found I actually had an affinity for it, and here we are.”

  She raised her chin, just slightly, but he recognized the subtle challenge.

  “Here we are, indeed,” he murmured. She shouldn’t be here. This place was dangerous enough for grown men, given the secrets that passed through Abchurch every day. Secrets someone was willing to kill for.

  A young woman shouldn’t even know such a place existed.

  But he’d have to be patient. He couldn’t reveal her for who she was. Her reputation would be left in tatters, at the very least. But beyond that, if Claire had gone to this kind of trouble, she had a reason. A reason he wanted very much to know.

  Still, he couldn’t spend time lingering in conversation when he was supposed to be discovering who’d murdered his predecessor. It would draw attention, and that was the last thing either of them needed.

  Andrew tipped his head in a quick nod. “Good to see you, Barton,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll speak again…soon.”

  Claire held his gaze for a moment, then dropped her chin and turned back to her work.

  As Andrew turned on his heel to continue his tour with Greeves, he knew one thing for certain: He wouldn’t allow Claire to escape Abchurch Lane tonight until she told him exactly what she was doing here.

  Chapter 2

  Claire hugged her greatcoat to her and pulled the beaver hat lower over her brow as she slipped out into the night. A bitterly cold wind whipped round the corner of the nondescript brick building and stole her breath.

  Thank goodness for trousers. Were she wearing a gown, that gust would have blown straight beneath it and frozen her nethers!

  There were many things to hate about her current situation, but trousers weren’t one of them. And no matter how tightly she had to bind her breasts beneath her lawn shirt and waistcoat, she was infinitely more comfortable than she’d been in boned stays. Yes, aside from the confounded cravats, her new attire was about the only bright spot in the endless darkness she’d found herself in since the loss of her twin.

  And Andrew Sedgewick had seen straight through it.

  Her chest squeezed with a chilly tingling that had nothing to do with the crisp air she breathed.

  What was he doing here? She hadn’t even known he was back in England. And why, of all people, had the War Department chosen him to replace Uncl
e Jarvis?

  Claire rubbed her gloved hands together, partly against the frigid night, partly to alleviate the anxious energy that had rushed through her at seeing Andrew again. How had he known she was herself and not her brother? What had she done to give herself away?

  But none of those questions mattered as much this one: Just what did he intend to do about it?

  She reached the hackney and mumbled her address to the jarvey. At his nod, Claire jerked the door open and pulled herself up into the conveyance. A feeble flame flickered from the battered carriage lamp, casting just enough light about to see that no blanket or foot warmer awaited her. With a sigh that sent a puff of white from her lips, Claire settled onto the hard seat, wrapped her arms around herself, and tucked her chin into her chest for warmth.

  The carriage rocked, but rather than jerking forward into a roll, it dipped to the side. Claire snapped her head up just as the door whipped open and a massive figure filled the space.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. Dear God. She’d known that in taking Clarence’s place, she'd become a target herself. It had been worth it to her to flush out her brother’s killer. But tonight she’d been so distracted by thoughts of Andrew that she hadn't kept a careful eye on her surroundings.

  Would she now pay for that lapse with her life?

  She scooted into the corner with an unmanly squeak, pressing herself against the back of the squab as her hackney was invaded, first by a dark head, then wide shoulders that narrowed to a trim waist, and finally by the long legs of a man.

  A man who smelled of bergamot and bay…and of memories.

  Andrew Sedgewick rapped on the roof of the hackney to signal for the driver to depart, then settled himself beside her as if he had every right to be there.

  And before she had the chance to recover from her shock, he cupped her cheeks in his warm palms and kissed her.

  Christ, Claire tasted exactly as he remembered. A bit like peaches, a bit like honey…sweet, yet not without bite.

  He’d dreamt of their last kiss so many times over the last few years that the memory perched on its own pedestal, one that reached all the way to heaven.

  And yet this…this surpassed even his most fevered remembrance. Because it was real. She was real. He finally had Claire in his arms again and this time, he would not let her go. No matter what Clarence had to say about the matter.

  She’d tensed when his lips first met hers, but now she relaxed into him with a soft sigh, opening to his caress with a fervor that was all Claire. He groaned and clutched her to him, fighting to leash years of longing.

  Her tongue brushed against his once, twice—and then the minx suckled his into her mouth and he nearly came undone.

  “Claire,” he gasped, fire rushing through him and obliterating all else. He sent one hand to her nape to hold her to him, another to her waist to keep her from getting too close. He remembered how quickly things could burn between them. He didn’t exactly trust himself—or Claire—in this moment, yet he couldn’t stop his lips from returning to hers.

  He spread his fingers into her hair, knocking something from her head. But instead of the heavy silken locks he remembered, short curls entwined his digits. His other hand, too, encountered strange differences—rough fabric, an unnatural firmness to her side. The oddness of these sensations pulled at his mind, towing him through the lust-filled fog back to the present. Yes, this was Claire. But Claire disguised as a man, for some purpose.

  One he needed to know.

  He dragged his lips from hers, not without effort. She mewled a protest and tried to pull him back to her, but he resisted and pressed his lips to her forehead instead as he tried to slow his breathing.

  “Damn,” he murmured against her skin as he came to his senses. What had he been thinking? The last time he’d kissed Claire, it had cost him his best friend. “Your brother is going to kill me.”

  Claire went very still against him, as if she too were considering the ramifications of these past blissful moments. Then her breath hitched and she slowly pushed away from him.

  “Clarence won’t do anything of the kind,” she said, her voice so thick with emotion that the hair rose on the back of his neck.

  He sharpened his gaze on her, peering at her face through the dim flicker of the carriage lamp. Even in the low light, her eyes shown with moisture and he knew. Yet he couldn’t believe it, even when she confirmed his fear.

  “Because he’s dead.”

  Andrew’s stomach clenched, as though he’d absorbed a gut punch. The ache spread through him and the air around him went very cold. Clarence dead? “How?” he croaked. “When?” And why had he heard nothing of it?

  Claire’s eyes went stormy, her eyebrows crashing together as a fierce frown gathered on her face. “What do you care, after all this time?”

  He closed his eyes as fresh pain stabbed him. Of course Claire would be angry. He doubted her brother would have told her the truth about why Andrew had walked out of their lives. What she must think of him…

  “Of course I care,” he rasped, pinning her with his gaze, willing her to believe him. “I’ve always cared. Things just got…complicated.”

  That was as close as he’d come to telling her of the horrific fight he and Clarence had had that last night. Over her.

  “Please, Claire. What happened?”

  She shook her head, but then her shoulders slumped and the fight seemed to go out of her. She scooted back into the corner of the carriage, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. The gesture made her look so young, so vulnerable, that his heart ached.

  Yet her eyes still flashed. “I suppose you need to know,” she said, “since you are taking over Abchurch.” Her tone clearly said that if it weren’t for that, she’d not tell him. That hurt. “Clarence was murdered. Just after All Hallows’ Eve.”

  Andrew flinched, though he’d prepared himself for her answer. He’d gone beyond the place where he could be shocked any more, beyond the place where he allowed himself to feel. During his months of captivity in Paris, he’d learned how to separate his mind from the rest of himself, and it was from that place that he acted now.

  “Tell me everything.”

  Tell him everything?

  Blast it all, that was the problem, wasn’t it? She did want to tell him everything. She wanted to pour out her fear, her grief. She wanted to rely on him, as she once would have.

  But she was no longer that trusting young girl, and she’d learned the hard way that he had never been the man she’d thought him to be.

  Shame burned through her at how easily she’d succumbed to his kisses. Reveled in them, even. One touch of his lips upon hers and she’d been swept back to that autumn six years past, when her sun had risen and set in Andrew Sedgewick’s moss-green eyes. When merely a glimpse of his tousled brown hair and arrogant grin made her burn in places she didn’t yet understand. When she’d lived for the moments they were able to steal away together, as he’d introduced her to pleasure upon pleasure that was certain to culminate in a glorious union of hearts and bodies and souls.

  Until she’d found herself alone, waiting beneath the mistletoe at the Danburys’ Christmas Eve ball for a man who never came.

  The sharp ache of betrayal burst beneath her breastbone, as brilliant and painful as it had been that night and the days, weeks, and even months that followed with no word from him. Damn, she’d thought she’d buried those hurts long ago.

  Luckily, fury came to her rescue. How dare he, after six years of nothing, come back into her life and, without a word of explanation, kiss her senseless? The bounder!

  And now he demanded that she tell him everything?

  Claire straightened in her seat, her fists clenching by her sides. She needed to stop acting like some love-struck ingénue and put everything that Andrew had once meant to her out of her mind for good.

  She lowered her boots to the floor of the hackney, then bent to retrieve her hat—a convenient diversion as she re
gained control of her emotions. By the time she sat back up with the beaver smashed upon her head, she’d managed an expression of cool disdain.

  “What, precisely, do you wish to know?”

  Andrew might be the only person she could turn to in this, now that Uncle Jarvis was gone. He was the new head of Abchurch. But she’d be damned if she gave him any more of herself than he needed to help her solve Clarence’s murder.

  He blinked, seemingly taken aback by her response. She’d heard via the marriage-minded-mama grapevine—who kept tabs on any eligible bachelor, whether he currently resided on English soil or not—that Andrew had quickly risen in the ranks of Wellington’s army, recently being promoted to Lieutenant Colonel. Perhaps he was unused to someone answering his questions with a question.

  Well, he’d best get used to it. She’d never toady to him.

  He cleared his throat, the sound reverberating in the close confines of the hackney. A deep V formed between his brows as he regarded her for a moment. Then he crossed his arms and threw his right ankle negligently onto his left knee in a pose that said he had all night to discover what he wanted to know. It also left him sprawled into her half of the small bench seat.

  Her breath hitched involuntarily, and she scowled at him.

  He gave her the lazy half smile she remembered so well, which only made her scowl deepen.

  His smile widened.

  But then his face turned serious and his gaze sharpened on her, his voice brooking no dissemblance.

  “Let’s start with how I came to find you in one of the most well-kept secret rooms within all of the War Department, shall we?”

  Chapter 3

  Judging by the mutinous look on Claire’s face, he shouldn’t have been surprised when she yet again answered him with a question of her own.

  “Oh, let’s do,” she said. “Tell me…just how did you end up in charge of England’s crack group of code breakers?” Syrup practically dripped from her voice.