Dashing All the Way : A Christmas Anthology

by Eva Devon

Hell, he didn’t intimidate her at all. Not that he ever had, but damn it, his scowl could cow an entire regiment of men.

  She raised her eyebrows in sarcastic anticipation.

  He sighed. Apparently Claire was made of sterner stuff than even Britain’s finest.

  Irritated as he was, he did have to admire how deftly she’d turned his words back on him.

  “That’s not something you need to know,” he said. In truth, he wasn’t entirely certain himself. Having recently escaped captivity in Paris, he’d expected to rejoin Wellington, who last month had marched over the Pyrenean passes into southern France after his victories on the Peninsula. But Andrew’s years gathering intelligence had made a name for him in the War Department, it seemed. When Marston was killed, someone deemed that he was the right man, in the right place, at the right time, and he was sent to Abchurch instead.

  Claire, however, was not to be put off. “Lord Marston never once mentioned you in connection with his department,” she prodded, “much less as a possible replacement.”

  Andrew shifted in his seat. He wasn’t accustomed to playing from behind and the feeling didn’t suit him. He also didn’t care for the superior look on Claire’s face.

  “Privy to all of the thoughts of one of England’s great spymasters, were you?” he snapped.

  Claire’s eyes widened, then narrowed into a sly gaze. “More than you were, since you didn’t know Clarence was dead. Or that Uncle Jarvis had insinuated me into his place.”

  He winced inwardly. Her jab struck true.

  Wait. Uncle Jarvis? That’s right. Clarence had once mentioned that Lord Marston and his father were friends. That explained some of how Claire came to be here. Still, she knew more of what was truly going on here than he did, and perhaps more than his own superiors, who surely would have mentioned her presence had they known of it.

  Fighting with Claire would get him nowhere.

  Andrew tunneled his fingers through his hair, steepling them behind his neck as he took a deep breath. “Pax, Claire. Pax.”

  A dull throbbing beat a tattoo behind his eyes. This damned day had taken a beastly turn. First, he’d been conscripted to go undercover with very little to go on. That hadn’t bothered him. He’d been in such situations before, and he’d had little doubt he could make short work of it.

  But then he’d had a year of his life shocked out of him by finding Claire there. He’d experienced the exquisite joy of holding her in his arms once more, only to learn that his childhood friend was dead. And Claire, rather than feeling the same pleasure at their reunion as he, instead seemed to hate his guts…or at the very least, resent his presence.

  Oh, and his dead friend had apparently been murdered, which complicated things all the more.

  Not one of his best days, indeed.

  After another calming breath, Andrew removed his hands to his knees and his feet to the floor. Then he shifted on the bench so that he faced Claire, laying his right arm along the back of the squab. He tried to make his voice soothing, persuasive.

  “Let’s not fight. If I’m going to have any chance of discovering who murdered Marston and your brother, I need to know everything you do.”

  Claire’s tiny gasp echoed through the cramped carriage. Andrew frowned as her normally robust complexion went ashen in the candlelight, the color leaching from her face in slow degrees.

  “Uncle Jarvis was murdered?”

  Andrew felt the blood drain from his face, too. She hadn’t known. He nearly kicked himself. Of course not. How would she? The official story had been a heart ailment.

  “I wondered, of course, given our subterfuge, but…” Claire swallowed audibly, and her eyes turned glassy. She wasn’t looking at him, but off into the darkness over his shoulder. “But I went to Uncle’s house myself, and had it straight from his valet that his death had been natural. Not like Clarence.” Her eyes found his, and the sorrow he saw swimming in their cerulean depths stole his breath. She firmed her lips. “You’re certain?”

  Andrew nodded, once. “Poison.”

  Claire blew out a breath, then straightened her shoulders. She returned a clipped nod of her own. “Right, then. What are we going to do about it?”

  “We aren’t going to do anything,” Andrew said, his lips pulling down into the affronted-male frown Claire recognized all too well.

  She’d seen it on the faces of men her entire life, right before she was told to stay out of male business. She’d seen it on Uncle Jarvis’s face, too, when she’d first presented her plan to assume Clarence’s identity.

  “You are going to tell me everything,” Andrew went on, “from the beginning, and then I am going to handle it from there.”

  And there it was.

  “So we’re back to that, are we?” Claire could give an affronted frown right along with the best of them. “Tell you everything, and then what? You’ll pat me on the head and send me on my merry way? I think not.”

  “Claire…” he warned, but she didn’t let him finish.

  “No. Uncle Jarvis tried to tell me he would take care of things, too, but he finally saw reason—”

  “Good God!” Andrew snapped ramrod straight in his seat and Claire thought he looked a bit green.

  “Are you all right?”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. “It has just dawned upon me that if Clarence has been dead since November, and no one has noticed, then you have been masquerading as him all that time.” His voice had gone from startled to deadly calm.

  “Well, yes—”

  “What the hell was Marston thinking?” Andrew nearly shouted. His body seemed to vibrate with leashed tension. Claire bet that if they weren’t cooped up in this hackney, he’d have exploded out of his seat.

  Not so calm after all.

  “Somewhere out there is a killer who thinks—” Andrew stopped abruptly, his expression sliding from outrage into one of puzzlement. “Who thinks what? That Clarence has come back from the dead?” He tilted his head slightly as he looked to her for an answer.

  Claire wilted a bit inside, the ever-present ache of losing her twin shriveling her heart another painful degree. “Not exactly. Clarence was knifed, you see. He…he was able to make it home alive. Barely.” She took a shuddering breath. “He died in my arms. But for all the killer knows, he could have pulled through.”

  Flashes of that night invaded her mind. All that blood. The ghostly pallor of Clarence’s skin. The horrid rattle of his breathing.

  The death grip he’d kept on her hand as she begged him not to die. Not to go where she couldn’t follow. Not to leave her alone when they had always been together—even in the very womb.

  But Clarence had been unable to keep his grasp on life, and she’d lost a part of herself irrevocably.

  “Don’t cry, dearling,” Andrew murmured, a scant moment before his arms closed around her and he pulled her to his chest.

  Was she crying? Blast it all.

  Hot tears spilled down her cheeks as his comforting presence enveloped her. The fresh warm citrus-y scent of him, the familiar strength in his embrace, the connection that came from knowing that once upon a time, she and her brother had both loved this man, albeit in different ways.

  So she let herself be consoled by him, just for a little while. She welcomed the pain, rather than shutting it out—let it flow through her into poignant relief as she sobbed, something she hadn’t allowed herself to do since that awful night.

  And all the while, Andrew held her close.

  After she’d cried herself out, Claire found herself loath to leave the protective warmth of Andrew’s arms. How easy it would be to stay here. To forgive past betrayals. To forget her fears for the future. To not have to go back to that lifeless townhouse alone.

  Wait a minute…

  She lifted her head from Andrew’s chest, looking up at the underside of his strong jaw, now lightly dusted with evening stubble.

  “We’ve been in this hackney quite some time,” she murmured. “We should h
ave reached my residence long ago.”

  Andrew’s head bobbed and his chest rumbled beneath hers as he answered. “Actually, I instructed the jarvey to drive us around the park until I gave him leave to continue on to your destination.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I had no intention of letting you escape this carriage until we’d hashed things out.”

  Claire huffed and pulled away from him. He tightened his grip for a fraction of a moment, but released her. Part of her regretted the loss.

  As she scooted away from him, she used the backs of her hands to dash away the remnants of her tears, and sniffed. “There’s nothing to hash out, Andrew. Uncle Jarvis and Clarence have both been killed, and it has to be because of something they were involved with for the War Department. They were the only people I had in this world, and they were taken from me. I will do anything and everything within my power to find justice for them, with or without you.”

  His lips pressed together hard and he shook his head. “It’s too dangerous for you, Claire.” Andrew’s voice was raw, gravelly, as if he were holding back a torrent of words that burned to get out. “If the killer thinks Clarence survived, he’ll want to finish the job. Only he won’t get Clarence this time. He’ll murder you.”

  “I’ve been counting on it,” she said, turning her lips up in a grim smile at the look of appalled horror that crossed his face. “How else did you think we were going to catch the man? I’m the perfect bait.”

  Chapter 4

  Bait.

  Bloody bait?

  He must have said that last aloud, because Claire clucked her tongue.

  “There’s no call for swearing,” she chided.

  Andrew clenched his jaw, clenched his fists—hell, even clenched his toes. Anything he could do to get control of his…

  Christ, what was he feeling? An awful muddle of lust, sorrow, anger, regret, and a bone-deep fear for Claire’s safety, that’s what.

  Control. That’s what he needed. Of this situation. Of Claire. There was no way her charade could continue.

  When he trusted his voice not to betray him, he said, “That was Marston’s plan? To use you as bait?”

  “Of course not,” she said.

  He started to exhale in relief.

  “It was mine.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “And Marston went along with this?” If the man weren’t already dead…

  Claire, for once, didn’t answer his question with a question. In fact she didn’t answer him at all. Her eyes shifted to the side and her lips pressed together. The relief he’d almost felt a moment ago finally came. Marston hadn’t dangled her in front of the killer after all, apparently much to Claire’s frustration.

  She took a breath and then her eyes met his again. “I sent for Uncle Jarvis immediately after Clarence died. He was one of Uncle Jarvis’s operatives, you see. Not secreted away at Abchurch, but in plain sight in the ballrooms and clubs.” A ghost of a smile haunted her lips. “His code name was The Prancer. No one suspected him of being more than a dandified prattler, but they didn’t know the real Clarence.”

  Andrew nodded. He’d known Clarence since they were boys and knew very well he was far from a thoughtless dandy. But he never would have taken the man for a spy. Much must have changed in the past six years.

  How strange that their paths would diverge as they had, and yet lead them to the same place. Andrew, too, had been an operative in plain sight, though he’d considered himself more of a reconnaissance officer. Much of his intelligence was gathered while in full military uniform as he carried out his regular duties, even when behind enemy lines. People often believed you were just what you portrayed yourself to be.

  Which made Claire, in her disguise, the perfect operative in plain sight, too. Hell.

  “When the shock wore off, it occurred to me that whoever killed my brother couldn’t know for certain he’d succeeded,” she went on. “The more days that passed without an announcement of Clarence’s passing, the killer would have to wonder how he’d survived—and what he knew about who’d stabbed him. It only made sense for me to pretend to be my brother because—”

  “Because if Clarence was alive, it might force the killer’s hand. Push him into making a mistake,” he finished, though it cost him to admit that her logic had merit.

  “Precisely.” Claire’s lips spread into a smile of satisfaction. “If it makes you feel better, it took me some time to convince Uncle Jarvis, too.”

  Andrew nearly growled at her assumption that she’d convinced him. No, he was so far from convinced he may as well be across the ocean, fighting the damned Americans instead of the French.

  “Eventually we decided to slip Clarence’s body into an old family crypt and put out that he was ill. After a few days, I emerged as my brother, and Uncle Jarvis installed me at Abchurch so that I could be useful while I ‘recovered.’”

  Andrew shook his head reflexively, even as he asked, “Useful, how?”

  Claire’s eyes flashed, in anticipation of victory he was certain, and she edged closer. “Apart from discomfiting the killer, I am fluent in several languages—much better than Clarence ever was.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that.” He should know. He’d been the one to teach her Latin, Greek, and Italian, after all. The only foreign language that was part of a typical English lady’s education was French, but Claire had a keen mind and she’d been desperate to learn anything anyone would teach her.

  At first, it had amused him to indulge his friend’s sister when he’d accompanied Clarence home from Harrow during school holidays, but Claire had taken to it with an ease that left him both amazed and envious. Soon, she’d quite outstripped him in those languages and had moved on to teaching herself others.

  “I’d translated things for Abchurch before,” Claire said. “Things Clarence uncovered or that Uncle Jarvis asked me to look at when their language experts came up empty. Turns out I have a gift for noticing odd nuances of phrasing, and plucking code from it.”

  Her chin lifted when she said that. Just slightly. He didn’t think she was even aware of the gesture, but Claire was proud of her ability. And perhaps daring him to doubt or disparage her for it.

  He never would. He may not believe women should be involved in such matters, but not because he didn’t think them capable. Claire was bloody brilliant, he well knew. But war was the business of men.

  He reminded himself of his resolve not to argue with her—not, at least, until he knew everything she did. “That is a useful skill.”

  She quirked a brow at his diplomacy, but let it pass. “Yes, but precious time was lost by the time they realized they needed my help, and then more in having to smuggle things out of Abchurch and across town to me in Bloomsbury and back.

  “More than once, Uncle Jarvis’s operatives were unable to act on information I discovered because when they finally got it, they’d missed their opportunity. Now, with me at Abchurch, I am able to get to things and get them out again much more quickly.”

  “Wait,” he said, remembering something his new aide-de-camp had said when he’d introduced Andrew to “Sir Clarence” earlier. “Greeves mentioned that we wouldn’t have won at Vitoria without Clarence’s help. But that battle was in June. You’ve only been at Abchurch since early November?”

  Claire nodded. “Yes. But early this summer, Abchurch received several interceptions from the battlefields, missives between France and Madrid that the code breakers struggled with.”

  The hairs on Andrew’s arms tingled. He knew precisely which missives she meant, as he’d been the one to intercept them.

  “So Uncle Jarvis brought them to me. It took some doing, but I was able to pull out planned troop movements and tactics, which were then relayed back to Wellington.” Her voice rang with quiet pride.

  It should. Hell, he was proud of her. He knew exactly how much that intel had meant.

  “I was with Wellington when that information reached u
s,” he said. Vitoria had been the decisive battle in the Peninsular War, where the allies finally broke the French army under Bonaparte’s brother and which eventually led to France’s retreat from Spain.

  But it had been a very close thing. And without the advanced knowledge they’d received from Abchurch…?

  “Greeves was right,” Andrew said solemnly, seeing Claire as he’d never seen her before. “We couldn’t have won the battle without you.”

  Claire’s eyes darted away, even as the tops of her cheeks pinked at his praise. Then she cleared her throat and looked back at him. “Well, as far as anyone was concerned, it was Clarence’s work that saved the day. Uncle Jarvis couldn’t very well tell people a woman was his secret weapon, could he?”

  Hell.

  Hell, hell, and hell again.

  He was going to have to let Claire continue on as Clarence.

  She was a secret weapon, not just in his current responsibility of discovering who killed Marston—and Clarence—but in the whole of the war effort.

  He might not even be alive if it weren’t for her.

  And what’s more, Claire was the only person at Abchurch he knew for certain didn’t kill Marston and her brother. Everyone else was suspect. He could use someone there he could trust.

  But not as bait. Never as bait.

  Andrew let out a gruff sigh and banged on the roof of the hackney, signaling the jarvey to take them on to Claire’s home.

  “All right, Claire. We’ll continue your ruse. For now.”

  A relieved smile broke across her face and her shoulders dropped as she seemed to relax. “Thank you, Andrew. You won’t regret this.”

  He snorted. “I doubt that.”

  They rode in silence the few minutes to Bloomsbury, both lost in their own thoughts. When the hackney rolled to a stop, Andrew let himself out, then turned to hold a hand out to Claire.

  She glanced pointedly at it and pursed her lips.

  “Oh, right!” He snatched his hand back and cleared his throat. “Sorry. I’ll have to get used to treating you as I would another man in public.” He stepped back and Claire hopped down.