An Indecent Invitation: Spies and Lovers, Book 1

by Laura Trentham

  Penny galvanized the team, and the carriage lurched forward. Lily grabbed onto the strap, but Aunt Edie, who had been dozing as usual, landed on the floor with a thud.

  “What the devil?” Her bonnet had fallen fully over her face and muffled her exclamation.

  Another shot rang out. Aunt Edie screamed and hunkered farther on the floor. Did the shot come from Penny or their attackers? It was broad daylight, and they travelled along a safe road.

  Her mind raced with possibilities. Fear churned her belly and tightened her limbs. She rubbed damp palms down her skirt. Doing nothing would get them all killed. Dropping to her knees, she straddled Aunt Edie’s prone body and flipped up the squab she’d been contentedly daydreaming on a moment ago.

  She hauled out a large wooden case with a grunt of effort and fumbled with the latches, finally snapping them open. Four loaded pistols were packed in straw. She gripped one and scrambled over Aunt Edie to the bench. The lurching and bumping of the carriage would make accuracy impossible.

  Rafe’s lessons flickered through her mind. Learning to fire a pistol had been fun, even deliciously scandalous, but her targets had been fence posts or the occasional quail, which she had invariably missed. Now she was defending her life, her coachman’s life, Aunt Edie’s life, and the gravity of the situation had her vision closing to tiny pinpoints.

  Dropping her head between her knees, she clutched the gun against her chest and took several deep breaths. Her vision expanded, but her hands still shook. She rested the barrel on the window ledge, held her breath and aimed at the closest man. She squeezed the trigger and the gun jumped in her hand. Aunt Edie’s screams and the report echoed in her ears.

  One of the men pulled up short but kept his mount. Even though his motivations were criminal, relief she hadn’t taken his life was acute. She grabbed another pistol and scooted to the opposite window. This time the bullet went wide, but her efforts drove the rest of the brigands back.

  A man yelled, “They’re traveling with guards. Fall back, boys.”

  Just in case, she aimed a third pistol at the retreating men until they were out of sight. Aunt Edie had managed to haul herself off the floor. Searching frantically through her travelling bag, she grumbled about rampant lawlessness and ruffians. She emerged with a small bottle and a heartfelt sigh. She popped the cork with practiced ease and tipped the bottle up. A shudder and smile followed the liquid’s wake.

  “What is that?” Lily’s voice sounded far away to her ears.

  “My tonic. You’re to take a tot as well. You’re shaking like a willow tree in a storm.”

  Her aunt pried the pistol from Lily’s fingers and replaced the cold metal with the bottle. Lily needed both hands to guide the rim to her lips, which felt eerily numb against the smooth glass. A large gulp sent fire through Lily’s body.

  “That isn’t tonic. It’s brandy.”

  With a small smile and a one-shouldered shrug, Aunt Edie replied, “What’s a cock to one man is a rooster to another.”

  Lily’s small, sputtery laugh dissipated a measure of tension, and although she was loath to admit it, the brandy did somehow restore order to her limbs and settle her stomach. Everything was stowed and put back to rights, but the carriage still hurtled along too fast for comfort.

  She stuck her head out the window. “Are you hurt, Penny?”

  “No, my lady. A bit of damage to the side of the carriage is all. Nice work.” There was a smile in his voice. “We’ll stop at the next inn.”

  As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop a half hour later, she hopped out to inspect her coachman. It would be just like the man to spare her the worry and then fall over later due to injuries. Once assured he was indeed perfectly healthy, she patted his arm.

  After a change of horses and a small meal at the inn, they were back on the road. Only when darkness fell and the carriage pulled off the coach road on its final approach to Wintermarsh did the knots of tension in her shoulders and neck unwind.

  Huge oak trees that had stood sentinel over their land for hundreds of years offered welcome. Newly sprouted leaves danced merrily in the moonlight. An inborn contentment oozed from the marrow of her bones.

  Wintermarsh was a lovely country estate. The house had been built in a simple Baroque style early in the last century. Not as old as some of the houses in the area, the original had been destroyed by fire, supposedly when the current Earl of Windor’s great-grandfather knocked over a candle while visiting his children’s governess in the middle of the night. Of course, Rafe and Gray used to joke about what the fifth Earl of Windor had been studying. They had debated between astronomy and phrenology, finally settling on physical anatomy. It had taken a frank, rather embarrassing talk with her nanny to understand their boyish snickers.

  The house had the look of an old castle with two turrets on each end and columns flanking an impressive front entry door. The Earl Windor who had commissioned the build had installed modern conveniences, and the house seemed cozier than the neighboring old, drafty manors she’d had occasion to visit.

  Rafe met them at the door, and she threw herself in her brother’s arms. Her brother’s hug squeezed the air out of her, and she playfully hit his shoulder, begging for release.

  “What the devil, Lily? Were we expecting you? Has something happened?” Worry lent agitation to his words.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I missed you and Wintermarsh and everyone, I suppose.” Hot tears pricked her eyes, and she ducked her head before Rafe could see them.

  She examined her brother in the waning light. He looked well. His eyes weren’t bloodshot, and he had a healthy glow about him. The abyss hadn’t managed to drag him over without her here to berate and coddle him.

  No one would assume them siblings based on their looks. Lily had inherited their father’s blond hair, bright blue eyes and fair complexion, while Rafe had gained their mother’s black hair, blue-gray eyes and olive skin.

  Built like one of the ancient oaks lining their drive, Rafe was tall and broad. Between the scar that marred his face, his full beard and his short temper, he was intimidating at the very least, bordering on downright frightening. Maids avoided him and grown men rarely held his stare.

  He didn’t scare her in the least. His gruff, daunting shell protected a surprisingly sensitive soul. In fact, she could usually get what she wanted from him with a little bit of persuasion. Manipulation made it sound so distasteful—even if it were closer to the truth.

  He offered polite greetings to Aunt Edie before returning his focus to her. “Did you have a pleasant trip? Tell me all about London.” Rafe offered an arm and guided her into the marbled entry.

  Aunt Edie yawned widely. “I believe I’ll take a tray to my room and retire, Lily. You’ll inform Lord Drummond of our excitement?”

  Rafe led her to his study where a fire burned to ward off the spring chill. Lily stood directly in front of the grate, warming and rubbing her numbed backside. The study was her favorite room in the house. It was filled to bursting with books, soft rugs covered the floor and two huge, cozy chairs flanked the hearth. Ledgers and papers were strewn over a large mahogany desk.

  “What excitement is this?” Rafe asked.

  “We were waylaid in the early afternoon. Four men on horseback with pistols tried to take the carriage.”

  His deep voice rose in shock. “Obviously, they didn’t succeed.”

  “Thankfully, I had the pistols you packed under the seats. Clipped one man and the others retreated.”

  Her brother dropped into the chair behind his desk. Tilting it back on two legs, he propped his boots up and trailed a finger down his scar, as he was wont to do when deep in thought.

  “This is troublesome, indeed. The London road is well travelled and generally safe, especially during the day. What were they after, I wonder?”

  “Could be they were after jewels or money.
” She paused. “Do you think it might have something to do with Father?”

  She had gone twenty-one years without a threat, and now a mysterious note and an attack in less than a week? Adding in what they suspected about their father, the connection was impossible to deny. Such coincidences didn’t exist.

  His eyes blinked with the innocence of a newborn lamb. “Father? Whatever do you mean?”

  She tutted and shook her head. “Don’t bother trying to deflect my questions. Gray is worried, he admitted as much to me. The men on the docks haven’t taken Father to France in over a year. Where does that leave us? Is he being held somewhere in England? Is he dead?”

  “You’d think of all people, Gray could keep his mouth shut.” Rafe crossed his arms and rocked back and forth on the two legs of his chair. The false innocence in his eyes had been replaced by steel. “I don’t want you involved.”

  “I’m already involved.” She mimicked his crossed arms. “I received a suspicious note as well.”

  His brows shot toward each other, and his chair landed with a thud. “What did it say?”

  She’d taken a misstep. Should she admit that she had been planning to meet an unknown contact in the gardens? “It requested a meeting to pass information. About what it didn’t say, but I assumed about Father. It was unsigned.”

  “Tell me you sent it off to Gray to handle.”

  Lying to her brother didn’t settle well. Not after what they’d faced together. “Actually, I assumed Gray sent the note, so I went to the meeting place to wait.”

  Rafe scrubbed a hand through his hair, disrupting his unstylish queue. He popped out of his chair and pointed at her. The menace in his stance had her sidling back a step instinctively.

  “Are you telling me you went—alone—to meet a man you weren’t even sure was Gray? At least tell me it was daylight and somewhere public?” The air crackled.

  “It was at night. In Lord Napier’s garden.”

  “The devil take it. I know you’re not a total dunderhead, so why did you act like one? It’s possible that note was from one of your suitors trying to lure you into a tryst. A man in need of money will stoop to almost anything to get it. What happened in the garden? Did your mystery man show?”

  “In a way. Gray made an appearance after all, and we chased after someone who may have been coming to meet me, but he ran off before we could identify him.”

  Rafe pulled at his bottom lip. The lengthening silence almost made her begin nattering out of guilt, but he finally said, “Unfortunately, I agree with your conclusion. The events can hardly be unconnected. Penny still escorts you in the city?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re not to go about unescorted. Here or in London. That means no walks off the grounds by yourself.” Rafe raised an eyebrow as if daring her to protest, which she did—heartily.

  “You cannot be serious. I understand the need in London, but here at Wintermarsh? In Lipton too?”

  He nodded.

  “But I know everyone hereabouts, surely—”

  “Lily, if someone purposefully accosted you on the road, they knew you were leaving London today. I didn’t even know. Who did you tell?”

  “I sent notes to Gray and Minerva. And obviously the staff knew.”

  “You’re referring to Lady Minerva Bellingham?”

  “The same. Why?” She tilted her head, put on the defensive by his frosty tone.

  “I received the bill from her dressmaker. Your new frocks cost a bloody fortune.”

  After examining the wardrobe Lily brought from Wintermarsh in horror, Minerva had dragged Lily straight to a modiste. Countrified was the whispered epitaph Minerva had used, as if discussing something truly distasteful and not a few drab muslin dresses that seemed perfectly adequate to Lily’s eyes. With questionable manners but impeccable taste, the rude French-born modiste had poked and prodded Lily, but in the end had provided her with a cadre of lovely, fashionable frocks.

  Lily was fire to her brother’s ice. “You can go rot, you dirty blighter. You weren’t willing to come to London to see to my debut, so by Jove, you can allow me some decent gowns that won’t get me laughed out of the ballrooms. Minerva chose a beautiful and appropriate collection for me. She has been a true friend to me throughout, and I’ll not have you accusing her of anything unseemly.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re perfectly correct, of course.” His gaze was on her feet and he sounded like a chastised schoolboy.

  “Yes. I am.”

  Rafe cleared his throat. “Did Gray impart any other information?”

  “No. He’s trying to keep me as uninvolved as you are. He has information but won’t share it with me. You should invite him to Wintermarsh.” The last shot out of her mouth before she could stop it. Would Rafe think anything untoward of her request?

  Apparently not, because he smoothed a hand down his beard and nodded. “I’ll send him a missive tomorrow.”

  Lily restrained herself from hopping up and down and clapping her hands. Barely. “I’m off to bed. Will you go riding with me after breakfast? I’ve missed the countryside.”

  “I would love it. I’ll be up at dawn. Come find me, and we’ll take a tour of my new irrigation project.”

  She climbed the stairs, running a hand up the smooth wooden banister. Had she only been gone two months? Everything seemed different, but she was surrounded by the same servants, the same décor and the same routine. Was it her?

  What was Gray doing? Investigating leads? Dancing with some other debutante? Visiting his mistress? She dug her nails into the wood. What he did was none of her business. Given two opportunities, he hadn’t kissed her. So why did the thought of him kissing someone else hurt so much?

  Chapter Seven

  Dear Mr. Masterson,

  Although London has been an exciting whirl, I find myself missing my brother and the country very much. I plan to depart the city forthwith and retire for an indeterminate amount of time. I hope to renew our acquaintance upon my return.

  Yours respectfully,

  Lady Lily Drummond

  Their acquaintance? He crumpled the note and tossed it in the nearest bin. Fine then. Hawkins wanted him to make contact with one of their men in Orleans. He would undertake that little mission and stop off in Rouen to see one of Lord Windor’s closest confidants. At least with Lily out of London, he didn’t have to worry about the perplexing note, or Lord Montbatton worming his way further into her affections. She’d be safe with Rafe from suitors and danger…and him.

  Three days later with his boots on English soil less than an hour, Gray found himself on the road to Wintermarsh. He pushed his brown gelding hard on the ride. Anxiety and anticipation churned his stomach. He had left the well-traveled road some ten miles back and cut across the fields and hills, bypassing the neighboring village of Lipton entirely. His mount flew over the familiar terrain.

  Exhaustion had his mind wandering. The three days he’d spent in France had yielded no information on the earl. Whispers of suspicion faded into nothing before he could grab hold. Even the earl’s most trusted contact had had nothing to give him but a shrug and worried shake of his head.

  He should have rested a few days in London and met with Sir Hawkins instead of sending an update through a courier. Yet he couldn’t. Lily taunted him in his dreams, and he needed to see her, make sure she was safe.

  With the house in sight, he slowed, memories battling to be remembered. He passed by the pond in which he and Rafe had learned to swim, raced boats and spent countless afternoons pretending to be pirates on the high seas. He rode on past the grove of apple trees that they had climbed until Rafe had grown so large the limbs had started breaking under him. He cantered past the formal gardens and headed straight to the stables to see to his exhausted, lathered horse.

  No one answered his hard knock at the main house. The door
swung open on well-oiled hinges. No hum of activity greeted him, but the faint tinkling of a pianoforte drifted from the music room. He crept toward the sound. A lovely alto voice became clearer with every step.

  Somehow, even Lily’s voice had turned sensuous. The husky, full tone resonated in his chest, and he tapped his fingers to the beat of a fast-paced, lively tune. He rounded the corner and nearly plowed down a maid gathered with at least eight other servants outside the music room door.

  They treated him like a cat ready to pounce and scurried away in opposite directions. Two men were left. Cuthbertson, the butler, sat primly on the settee, but his feet shuffled in time with the music, a smile lighting his wrinkled face.

  The other man was considerably younger and more disreputable than the dignified, white-haired butler, but the smile on his pock-marked face was a mirror of Cuthbertson’s. A handful of years past forty, the man’s long, lank hair hung to his shoulders and an earring twinkled in his right lobe. It was her coachman. His hulking frame had been a familiar sight in London.

  Gray propped a shoulder on the doorjamb, crossed one foot over the other and hooked thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. Her song was an ancient one about a lusty smith attempting to lure a virgin to his bed. Before he realized it, he wore a matching idiotic grin.

  A myriad of feelings beset him every time he was in her company. Annoyance was understandable. Even the strong thread of protectiveness he could accept. It was the amusement, the jealousy, and most disturbingly of all, the lust that kept her forefront in his thoughts.

  She had tied her hair back with a pretty blue ribbon, but disobedient pieces had escaped and curled around her face. The wild disarray suited her. Her demure blue muslin day gown did nothing to hide the alluring curves of her breasts and hips.

  Her cheeks had flushed, and she smiled as the saucy, irreverent song ended with a flourish. As she tossed a wink over her shoulder, their gazes clashed.