An Indecent Invitation: Spies and Lovers, Book 1

by Laura Trentham

  Keeping her safe is difficult, keeping a proper distance from her is downright impossible.

  Lady Lily Drummond understands only too well the danger of spy work. Her father, a preeminent master spy, has been missing for months, and her brother barely survived his final mission for the Crown. Lily is still determined to help find her father, no matter how hard her brother and his best friend try to keep her in the dark.

  Busy trying to untangle the web of deceit surrounding the Earl of Windor’s disappearance, Crown spy Gray Masterson also has to ensure Lily Drummond, the gangly, awkward child who was his constant shadow growing up, doesn’t get herself ruined at her London debut. But the girl with scraped knees and elbows has evolved into a lush, sensual beauty surrounded by a bevy of suitors.

  Realizing Lily is going to investigate on her own if he doesn’t let her join the hunt for her missing father, Gray assumes he can give Lily a few minor tasks to pacify her, but he quickly learns she is a valuable asset. Moreover, she fairly crackles with life and warmth—things he craves after his dark years in service.

  Warning: This book contains spies, scandals, naughty liaisons in houses of ill repute, men who think they know everything and women who know they do not.

  An Indecent Invitation

  Laura Trentham

  Dedication

  For my Golden Heart sisters, The Dreamweavers. Your support and friendship is beyond anything I ever imagined. Don’t know what I’d do without you ladies.

  And, as always, for my husband who folds the laundry and keeps me sane.

  Chapter One

  Spring 1812

  Gray Masterson was late. Checking his pocket watch, he muttered a curse and increased his pace. The staccato click of his cane provided a rhythmic accompaniment to his clashing boot heels. Worry and exhaustion added an unusual agitation to his gait.

  Pulling a beaver hat low over his brow, he scratched his stubbly jaw. He’d barely had time to throw on appropriate evening clothes, and even then, his cravat needed a bit more starch.

  He’d passed two sleepless nights searching London’s back-alley taverns and bawdy houses to find and question the appropriate men about the disappearance of his old mentor. The information he’d obtained on Earl Windor’s whereabouts, or more specifically, the lack of information, put a new wrinkle in his path forward.

  Rafe Drummond, Gray’s oldest friend and the earl’s son, waited for his report. He needed to be pursuing leads, not headed to a blasted ton ball. Shouts from footmen snagged his attention, and he forced fears about the earl out of his mind.

  He and Rafe had made a wager. The loser of their saber duel would be forced to watch over Rafe’s sister, Lily, during her debut. Gray had planned to use the contest to nudge Rafe back into Society. Gray never lost.

  Apparently, there really was a first time for everything. While Rafe stayed safely hidden away at his country estate, Gray prepared to play the reluctant nursemaid. It was the least he could do for Lord Windor’s daughter. Gray owed the man more than he could repay in this lifetime. Still, he could have put the time to better use. Although he’d hit a wall with his recent enquiries, there were always other threads to follow.

  Gray allowed himself an hour at the ball. No more. He planned to fulfill his obligation with expediency and get back to his primary goal—locating the earl. His mind whirled around the problem of Lord Windor, the pit in his stomach growing.

  A deep breath quelled his impatience. He would verify Lily Drummond wasn’t humiliating herself and the family name, threaten to dangle her from an upstairs window if she so much as attempted to find her father and if he was feeling especially kind—which he wasn’t at the moment—he might provide a dance to keep her off the wall. That’s where his commitment would end.

  A line of carriages trundled in front of Eversham’s, waiting their turn to deposit the finely dressed ladies and gentleman at the steps leading up to the massive townhouse. Gray adjusted a pair of spectacles he didn’t actually require but that offered a shield for the unusual green of his eyes—his only truly memorable feature.

  He smoothed his dark green-striped waistcoat and buttoned his black frockcoat while taking the steps two at a time. Bypassing the receiving line, he nevertheless caught the duke’s eye and exchanged a male nod of acknowledgment.

  The large ballroom was crowded, the dancers squeezed onto the floor in the middle of a quadrille. He moved to the edge of the room, scanning and noting the exits, tucking the information away, just in case. Instinct kept his back against the wall while establishing an escape route.

  An exclusive ball like Eversham’s could be considered one of the most dangerous places in the world for a young, single man, even a lowly mister like himself. The war had reduced the number of eligible bachelors and had mamas and their female offspring trolling further afield for marriageable young men.

  Ridiculously large plumes adorned some of the ladies’ coiffures and bounced above the sea of heads like spry little birds. White muslin frocks crested like whitecaps on the richer hued, daring gowns of older, more sophisticated ladies. All of fashionable London appeared to be crushed into the ballroom.

  His skimming gaze didn’t immediately pinpoint Lily in the milling crowd. He’d half-expected to find her holding one of the more effeminate fops in a headlock. His lips twitched in spite of his dour mood. No doubt, she’d changed in eight years, but a lifetime wouldn’t be long enough to teach her to be a true lady.

  Eight years. It seemed a blink of time. First, the years at Eton, where he’d felt a pressing need to prove the son of an estate steward and a housekeeper belonged with all the lords-in-waiting. Then, war drums had called, and the earl had swept Gray under his wing.

  If he didn’t want to spend all evening searching, he could wait until Lily drew attention to herself through her own actions or he could ask someone. Lord Abbott had sashayed by not long ago. He and his wife were deeply involved in London’s political and social worlds and surely would have come across Lily since her presentation at court.

  While he looked for Abbott, the same woman snagged his attention half a dozen times. Her vibrancy magnetized his gaze until it finally caught and held on her. Surrounded by a bevy of fashionable dandies and debutantes, the lady held court. Her hands moved in graceful arcs while she delivered a discourse, culminating in raucous laughter from her companions. She responded with a wide smile and placed a glove-encased fist on her jutting hip. Shaking her fan at the gentleman by her side, she incited yet another round of laughter.

  Her movements drew Gray’s attention to a truly spectacular bosom. Unfortunately, her dress was modestly cut and white, a deep blue sash providing the only color—a virginal debutante, carnally unavailable. More convenient if she’d been a widow he could at least attempt to charm into bed. Certainly, she was lovely, but so were many of the other young ladies milling about. Something…intangible attracted him. The air around her snapped with vitality.

  Lily Drummond was forgotten. If there was a ruckus in some corner, he would investigate. Otherwise, the little hellion would have to take care of herself a little while longer. He moved farther into the room and exchanged distracted greetings with a few acquaintances. The closer he drew, the more powerful her pull, as if she was a celestial body and the rest of them were dutiful moons, orbiting in her glow.

  Several honey-colored tendrils had escaped her loose chignon to bounce happily against her cheeks and down her neck. She had the look of a just-tumbled milkmaid, completely earthy and unwittingly sensuous. Flushed cheeks and a pert nose highl
ighted wide-set eyes, the color a mystery for the moment. But not for long.

  Curled up in a near constant smile, her full lips incited depraved imaginings in the recesses of his addled brain. A twinge of arousal tightened his groin. He switched his focus to the crystal chandelier and counted candles to bring the pounding of his heart and the flow of his blood under control. Trapped on the Continent for the past many months, he’d lived like a monk, but he was in the middle of a crowded ballroom, for Christ’s sake.

  A vague sense of familiarity intertwined his attraction. Although he hadn’t attended any social functions since returning to England, he’d ridden every day in Hyde Park. Perhaps he’d seen her walking or riding. He riffled through his memories, until a jostling at his elbow interrupted his concentration.

  Lord Abbott offered a flute of champagne with an uncomplicated, genuine smile. “Hello there, Masterson. Haven’t seen you since last Season. Where have you been hiding yourself?”

  Abbott had attended Eton with Gray and Rafe. They had felt sorry for the shy, awkward boy, protecting him from the worst of the bullies. Even then, no one had wanted to cross big, burly Rafe Drummond. While their lives had taken different paths, the unbreakable bond of youthful fortitude remained. Eton could be hell.

  Gray took the glass absently, redirecting his attention to the glorious creature across the ballroom. “Good to see you, Abbott. The Continent for the past eight months.”

  “How exciting. Did you see much action? Was it glorious?”

  The question whipped Gray’s head around. The man looked so eager and energetic, his thin face lit with naiveté. A cowlick, defying the heavy pomade he’d used, stood straight up and made him look younger than his seven and twenty years.

  Gray’s stomach twisted with…regret? Envy? Had he ever looked so young and untested? He was tired of the constant struggle of war, tired of the lies and half-truths, and most of all, tired of facing death. If he hadn’t managed to save Rafe…the mere thought was unbearable.

  “Glorious?” Gray said loudly, garnering several sidelong glances. He lowered his voice, but couldn’t seem to soften his tone. “Be grateful you’re safe in England.”

  “I’m—I didn’t—” Abbott’s gaze drifted away, and he gulped from his glass, his Adam’s apple bobbling.

  It wasn’t Abbott’s fault. No one wanted to hear about the realities of war, especially the kind of work Gray undertook—neither right nor wrong, black nor white, only every shade in between. He often had a good laugh over how appropriate his name was to his profession of Crown spy.

  “Certainly nothing on the Continent prepared me for the shark-infested waters of a ton ballroom.” Gray’s forced lightness relaxed Abbott’s clenching hand.

  Once again secure in his innocence, Abbott emitted a high-pitched twitter and resumed an affected slouch. “Isn’t that the truth? Lady Abbott dragged me here. Although not to be seen would be social suicide, wouldn’t you say? Eversham at least serves good swill. I’m glad to be out of the mart myself. Are you on the hunt?”

  “On the hunt. I’d say that’s remarkably astute, Abbott,” Gray responded with a sly, smiling nod, his goal clear. He would find Lily Drummond…eventually. His steely focus had shifted on attaining a dance, preferably a waltz, with his mystery woman.

  Although Gray took pains to project an easygoing, almost bland façade, Wellington, the charismatic English general, had commented more than once on Gray’s unwavering, unrelenting determination to complete his missions successfully. Since he was unlikely to procure a proper introduction with the popular debutante, he would utilize a more underhanded technique to obtain his goal, which didn’t bother him in the least.

  “I say, Masterson, I was going to come by next week, but since you’re here…” Abbott dropped his voice to a whisper, “I believe there’s a plot afoot down in the cliffs. I’ve seen lights, you know, bobbing late at night.”

  A waltz was next, and there was maneuvering afoot next to his prey. Gray took two steps forward, Abbott at his heels like a dog. “Bobbing lights.”

  Abbott pressed on, “What if there are smugglers about, Masterson? What should I do? I mean, it could be brandy, but what if it’s something more dangerous?”

  “Yes, yes…I enjoy a good brandy myself.” Gray took a sip of his champagne.

  Lord Montbatton managed to ease next to Gray’s blue-sashed debutante. He stood indecently close, and Gray suspected Montbatton was trying to peek down her bodice. Although Gray could hardly fault the man there, as he would have likely done the same—and perhaps still might. Men were men, after all.

  The lady sidled away until an impediment in the form of a robust matron’s hips halted her escape. She rubbed her temple and stretched her neck as if either Montbatton or the crush made her head ache. Her pique was lost on Montbatton, who prattled on about his horses, no doubt, and swallowed any space she’d managed to put between them. She studied the dance floor with an intensity that matched his own. He mimicked her questing gaze. Who could she be looking for?

  Perhaps she was already betrothed. Perhaps she searched for her lover. He hadn’t exchanged a single word with the lady, so why did the thought carve a hollow ache in his chest?

  “I say, what’s got you so intent, Masterson? You’re not paying the slightest bit of attention to our conversation.” Abbott spoke sotto voce, “Are you here for work?”

  “It’s not a what, but a who. Come by the office tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll discuss your ominous lights.” Gray pushed his flute into Lord Abbott’s hands and tracked closer. He wouldn’t allow Montbatton to steal his quarry.

  Circling behind his debutante, he wove among the crush of ladies and gentlemen with ease. Within arm’s reach, he took a deep breath. A mixture of rosewater and something earthier…womanly…assailed him. The delicacy of her nape and the white slope of her shoulders cried for his fingertips, but he restrained himself. At the very least, he needed to introduce himself.

  Montbatton gathered his courage. The man stood a bit straighter, smoothed his hair back and ran a finger between his collar and neck. The opening strains of the waltz hung in the air, and as Montbatton’s mouth parted, Gray smoothly moved in to steal the lady’s hand mere inches from the other man’s grasp. Gray tossed a half-hearted apology off to Montbatton, who they left on the bank like a foundering fish.

  Blanking his face of emotion, Gray smiled, but it was a cautionary smile, not sure what her reaction might be. Certainly she was surprised. Her gasp gave that away. But there was more. Happiness? Satisfaction? She didn’t look away coyly or protest his ungentlemanly, disgraceful behavior. In fact, her welcoming eyes and knowing smile ripped past his nonchalant mask, making him feel like he’d been ambushed by a legion of French soldiers.

  At last, he knew—her eyes were a vibrant, warm blue.

  Chapter Two

  Gray had come. How had he managed to approach her without notice? Lily Drummond had been scanning the steadily increasing crowd for him since she’d arrived over two hours ago. He rarely attended ton functions, but she’d hoped.

  The tersely worded message she’d received from Rafe had wished her good luck, warned her to behave herself and informed her, “Gray might come by.” She had worried over those four words for the last three days. Come by the townhouse? Come riding? Come to Eversham’s? Now that she was in his arms, her stomach, which had been simmering all day, turned into a maelstrom, mimicking the whirl of the dance.

  As a child, she had done everything in her power to make Gray Masterson notice her. Really to get anyone to notice her, but it was the focus of his green eyes she craved. His anger and annoyance had been better than nothing.

  She studied his face, dearly familiar yet slightly foreign. Spectacles perched on a nose that appeared to have been broken more than once, and his wide, expressive mouth had acquired a cynical twist in his years away. Black shadows under his eyes made her wonder
when he’d last slept.

  Her gaze lingered on his strong jaw, covered with a hint of stubble as if he hadn’t the time or the inclination for an evening shave. His short black hair looked rumpled, untamed by pomade. His clothes were well cut and of good quality, but starkly plain compared to some of the more fashionable gentlemen. It suited him though.

  “I’m s-so glad you came.” Unexpectedly, her tongue tangled.

  This man had wrestled with her, seen her in nappies, and even spanked her a time or two, for goodness sake. But eight years was a long time, and he seemed different—dangerous and unpredictable, exuding a palpable masculine energy.

  “I’m glad I came too.” He drew his words out as if she spoke an unfamiliar language. “I hope you’ll forgive my boldness. It must be your first Season, or you’d know to avoid Montbatton like the plague.” An echo of the boy he’d been colored the deep timbre of his voice. Tension flowed out of her body, and she relaxed into the dance.

  “I know Montbatton rather too well. He’s sent flowers almost every day. I’m not sure he wouldn’t prefer I have four hooves though. He’s rather horse mad, isn’t he? I’ll consider you a knight errant for coming to my rescue,” she said with a soft laugh.

  When had he learned to waltz so divinely? She didn’t even need to count her steps. Lud, had he always been so broad? She explored his shoulder, trying not to be too obvious in her attention, but only solid muscle, no extra padding, met her hand.

  “I would sacrifice anything to save a beautiful woman from hearing about Montbatton’s stables.” Although his voice was light, his brow was furrowed.

  She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and dropped her gaze to his neck where a thin white scar traced a jagged line above his cravat. Beautiful? He thought her beautiful?

  She waited a few heartbeats for teasing laughter that never materialized and then covered her discomfiture by employing the superficial, flirty tone she’d perfected over the past few weeks. “I suppose I’m not the first young maiden he’s wooed by discussing his breeding plans. My feelings are quite shattered.”