An Indecent Invitation: Spies and Lovers, Book 1

by Laura Trentham

Bertie tossed the entire contents of the glass back and a shudder rippled through his body.

  Lionel waited at the door to give both of them a clap on the shoulder, murmuring good wishes and entreaties to stay safe. Gray met his father’s gaze. No other words were necessary. He and Penny mounted and left at a gallop, crossing through the woods towards the inexorable culmination of the drama.

  Jostled awake from a fitful doze, Lily raised her arms to stretch. Rough fibers of rope abraded her skin. She thudded back to reality, her stomach lurching. Avoiding looking at Albert’s lifeless body altogether, she peeled back the curtain.

  The rising moon illuminated the carriage trail leading to Penhaven’s country estate. It was a fine manor home, even larger than Wintermarsh, with Grecian lines and stately columns. She had attended several functions at Penhaven’s manor over the past three years since her introduction into Lipton society.

  The carriage bypassed the sweeping front drive and continued to a side entrance. At least five men cut from similar cloth as Albert patrolled the grounds.

  The last act was ready to unfold.

  “Are you going to untie me so I can walk into your fine home?” She masked her nervousness with sarcasm.

  Penhaven had relaxed and no longer pointed the pistol at her heart. “No, I don’t believe I will. I don’t trust you. Best to leave you immobilized until all of our players have arrived.” Penhaven smiled with childlike anticipation. “I have you and your father in place. Now we wait for your dear brother, and Masterson will make an unexpected but amusing addition to our fun.”

  “Have you hurt Father?”

  “No more than he hurt Victoria.” After checking out the window, he flicked the curtains closed. “Not a sound until we get you settled. Don’t make me knock you unconscious.” If Penhaven’s servants hadn’t helped her father all these months, she wasn’t likely to benefit from their benevolence.

  Penhaven climbed out of the carriage and slammed the door behind him. Lily scooted as close to the door as possible. Although Penhaven would likely lock her in a different box, it wouldn’t contain a dead body—at least she hoped it wouldn’t. Her gaze darted to Albert Worth. Did anyone love him? Would anyone miss him? Would anyone come looking when he never came home?

  The door swung open. A large rough-looking fellow grabbed the rope around her hands and hauled her roughly out of the carriage. Her feet only grazed the ground before she was tossed over a brawny shoulder. Breath whooshed out of her body, and she bucked until her lungs began working, gulping air. The brute laid a stinging slap on her bottom.

  She twisted her head right and left. The massive back of her transportation and her tangled hair blocked her view. They passed through a wooden doorway. The pungent yeastiness of rising bread had her mouth watering.

  The kitchens. Kitchens had knives and skewers and pots. All makeshift weapons.

  Essentially blind, she ran hands along the closest counter to her right. The handle of a pot knocked her wrist. Her fingertips brushed a wooden handle, but she bobbled it. Cool metal slid across her palm. She clutched the precious gift of steel.

  The sharp blade scored the skin of her palm. The burning pain cleared her mind of every thought except one—hide the knife. She pulled it under the cover of her hair while she edged up the blade until the wooden handle lay in her palm. Blood seeped and slicked her fingers. The man’s first jolting step down a flight of stairs had her fumbling the blade. A panicked sob escaped.

  With the handle once again secure, she fed the knife inch by inch into her already bloodied sleeve. Albert’s bad luck was her good fortune. Hopefully, her captors wouldn’t notice the fresh blood from her cut or the bulge in her sleeve. With the knife secure, she focused once again on her surroundings. Cool, musty air stirred around her, and a small portion of rough planked flooring was visible through her hair. The cellars were to be her prison.

  Craggy walls of stone loomed on either side of the narrow corridor. They stopped. The turning of a lock echoed, and the squeak of rusty hinges released a puff of stagnant air smelling of rotten vegetables and damp earth.

  Her beefy conveyance dumped her on a pallet. Her bottom stung. She pressed her cut hand into the folds of her dress and shook her hair forward to disguise the bulk of the knife pressing along her forearm.

  Her guard waited in the doorway while Penhaven made a show of grandly gesturing about the room. “I’m sure you’ll be quite comfortable here, my lady.”

  The furnishings consisted of a chamber pot, a rickety chair and the pallet. The room probably crawled with vermin. A grimy lantern with a flickering, weak flame cast shadows.

  “It’s quite lovely, on par with Carlton House, I’m sure. Thank you for being such a gracious host.” Again, sarcasm was her friend. If Penhaven recognized her fear of being locked away, he would find a way to exploit it.

  Penhaven gave her a tight-lipped smile and favored her with a courtly bow worthy of the Regent himself.

  “Are you planning on starving me?” she called out before he could close her in.

  With his hand on the doorjamb, Penhaven cut a glance over his shoulder, his smile still in place. “I’ll have food sent to you shortly, Lady Lily. A veritable feast.”

  The snick of the lock lingered in the empty chamber. Her mind spiraled with despair and hopelessness. Would she see the sun again? Would she see Gray again?

  Another more practical thought inserted itself. Unless Penhaven had lied, which was a very real possibility, someone would be back with food. Could she take a man with surprise on her side? Could she escape?

  She had a knife and her wits. She could surely try. The long, shallow gash across her palm throbbed with every heartbeat and seeped blood, but until she was free, there was no way to staunch the flow.

  Pulling at her sleeve with her teeth, she ripped the cloth wide and the knife slid to the pallet. A typical kitchen knife, the blade was around four inches long with a nicked, wooden handle—the most beautifully made thing she’d ever seen.

  She maneuvered to a kneeling position and clamped the knife handle between her knees, the blade up. The hold was awkward, and her legs shook from the effort. The knife fell every few passes, and she wasted precious seconds repositioning the blade.

  The rope seemed impenetrable. Despite the chilly air, beads of sweat rolled down her face as she sawed. Her gaze strayed to the door too often. Panic settled into the pit of her stomach like a viper ready to strike with its poison. It was taking too long. Too long.

  Finally, the rope surrendered, slowly beginning to fray. The small victory fueled a burst of energy, and she sawed faster and harder, until the cord loosened enough to pull one hand out and then the other.

  Rubbing at her wrists and stretching her sore shoulders and arms, she allowed herself a moment to savor the freedom. She kicked her legs out in front of her and applied the knife to the rope at her ankles. The work was easier, and in a few short minutes, she was free. Her joints creaked and popped like an old woman’s, and she staggered to the wall on unsteady legs. She rested against the jagged stone until her swimming head settled. The throb in her hand gained her attention once again.

  She cut a long strip off her petticoat and wrapped the cloth around her hand. The compression lent immediate relief. She inventoried the room again—a chamber pot, a chair and a lantern. The light was necessary for sanity’s sake. After kicking aside the spindly, rotten chair, she hefted the chamber pot.

  Not too heavy but sturdy enough to do serious damage. A brief, satisfying image of bashing Penhaven over the head flashed. She tucked the knife into a garter and settled behind the door to await the arrival of her dinner and hopefully, her escape.

  Gray and Penny crouched in a copse of trees and bushes. Lights blazed from several windows of Penhaven’s manor house, and a carriage had pulled around the side towards the kitchens. Penhaven had beaten them here, which meant Lily was a
lready inside. At the very least, Penhaven wanted her alive. That’s as far down the path of possibilities Gray allowed himself to travel.

  Five men patrolled the grounds, and no doubt, more were inside. With the end near, Penhaven had not taken chances.

  “All the doors are covered, and those men look used to brawling. We’ll need Lord Drummond and his reinforcements.” Penny settled against a tree and chewed a long blade of grass.

  “What if I slip to the gardens and scale to the second floor and enter that way?”

  Penny tipped his hat back and pondered him a moment. “Are you asking or telling? You had no intention of waiting to begin with, did you?”

  “Not now that I know Lily is in there. How can I sit here and twiddle my thumbs when only the devil knows what’s happening?” He kept his voice at a whisper when he wanted to scream his frustration.

  Penny shook his head and scratched the back of his neck. “You’re a lovesick fool, Mr. Masterson. He’ll keep her alive…but if you’re determined, the back will be shadowed and less likely to be watched. Try not to get yourself killed. My lady wouldn’t like that.”

  Gray kept to the trees as long as possible. Penhaven had employed a veritable army of men, but if Gray could pull him down from the inside, the entire plan would crumble. He found refuge in a blooming arbor at the edge of the gardens and surveyed the back of the house. No room was lit, and nothing stirred the closed draperies.

  The light, sweet smell of jasmine wove through the heavy blanket of tension enveloping the night. What ifs scrolled through his mind. Each one more horrific and devastating than the last. The thought of Lily in pain and scared weighed his feet. This newfound fear of his was unsettling and bloody inconvenient. It would get him killed.

  He tamped the hated fear down and his limbs regained their nimbleness. He cut straight to the wall and climbed. His hands and feet instinctively found holds, his eyes fixed on his target—a window they thought led to an upstairs little-used receiving room.

  He steadied himself on the ledge, heaved the sash window up and slipped inside. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Lantern light flooded the room, and he blinked, only able to see outlines. At least four men surrounded him, but more could be hiding in the shadows.

  The smallest of them stepped forward, illuminated from behind. While his face stayed indistinguishable, his voice was eerily familiar but absent was the usual fey affectations. Penhaven.

  “Masterson, welcome. Although I’m rather disappointed. So predictable. I mean, really, you’ve been scaling walls all Season long.”

  Unfortunately, it was true. If he’d had more time or been more patient, he would have devised a better plan. Too late now.

  He’d faced death too many times to fear its coming, but for the first time, regret at a lost future with Lily hollowed an ache in his chest. No more nights in her bed, no more laughter, no more adventures together, no chance to beg her forgiveness.

  Not betraying a hint of his seething emotions, Gray said, “What’s the plan then? Kill me now or later?”

  “So brave, so stoic. I admire your nerve. Death will come later, so your lover can witness your screams and begging pleas. And you will beg, make no mistake. For now…” He turned in profile and snapped his fingers, gesturing toward Gray. “Don’t break anything. House him with our other guest.”

  Relief flooded every vein. She lived. Somewhere in the house, she lived.

  Penhaven quit the room flanked by two men. Four brawny henchmen faced Gray in a semi-circle, holding a variety of weapons. Unless he tossed himself out the window, there would be no retreat. His choices were limited and really only included different degrees of pain.

  The men moved closer. Any counterattack Gray launched might appease his pride but would only prolong the beating. He absorbed the first punch, collapsed to the ground and curled up, protecting his ribs and belly. Feet kicked at his back and shoulders, but the blows were half-hearted. The men emptied his boots of the hidden blades and pulled the pistol from under his coat.

  Joking and laughter rained down. Two men hauled him up by the arms. Their fingers bit into his biceps. He relaxed every muscle, lolling his head forward and hanging in the men’s arms like a side of beef. He opened his eyes a crack, counting doors and noting the exits along their route.

  “Thought he was supposed to fight hard for a toff,” said an exceptionally hairy man on his right. “My sis could ’ave beat him up.” More laughter ensued.

  They dragged him through the kitchen and down a set of stairs to the cellar. About halfway down the narrow corridor, they stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. One of the men unlocked it, and he was tossed inside. He forced his body to stay lax. His shoulder bumped hard on the floor. Clomps vibrated wood planks against his cheek. A kick landed on his side, wringing a grunt from his chest. Laughter faded.

  After the lock clicked in place, he rolled to his back and assessed the damage. He’d had worse—much worse. Besides radiating pain along his side, only his shoulder throbbed from the hard landing.

  Flickering light filled the room. A lantern sat on a small wooden table in the corner next to a pallet. No sign of Lily, but on the pallet sat an old man with lank, greying hair that hung past his shoulders and a straggly beard that reached well past his neck. The man hunched over his bent knees, studying him with watery blue eyes. Gray pushed himself up, his gaze never wavering from the decrepit old man.

  Logical deduction told him who his fellow prisoner must be, but his eyes could not marry the two. The last time Gray had seen David Drummond, Earl Windor, he had been robust, thick across the chest and shoulders, thick blond hair only slightly greyed at the temples. This man looked two decades older, a shell of the formerly vigorous earl.

  “Lord Windor?” Disbelief sailed Gray’s voice high.

  “Goodness, Masterson, I must look worse than I thought if you can’t recognize me.” The earl held out hands to examine thin, talon-like fingers. Shrugging, he tucked them back on his knees. “I wasn’t expecting company tonight. How did you get drawn into Penhaven’s drama? I would have thought you were too wily to get caught.”

  Like disappointing a favorite teacher, the earl’s admonishing tone pooled embarrassment in Gray’s stomach and heated his face. “I’ll be the first to admit, my head has been out of the game this spring.” Gray heaved himself to his feet, stretched sore muscles, and methodically inventoried the room for possible weapons.

  “Don’t bother. He’s removed anything that could be useful—except the lantern, but I’ve found light a precious commodity.” A thready note of distress in the earl’s voice surprised Gray.

  “We’ve been looking for you all spring. Honestly, Penhaven’s estate wasn’t high on our list. He kidnapped Lily this morning. She’s being held here as well.”

  The earl let out a string of oaths. “Penhaven means to finish it off then. Probably tonight. Do you have any other help coming? Not that I’m not grateful, mind you, but Penhaven has brought in extra hands the past few weeks.” The earl stretched his legs out, and Gray’s gaze snapped to the floor before the earl could take note of his dismay. The man resembled a brittle twig.

  “Are you able to walk?” Gray asked.

  “For short distances. Penhaven has kept me weak.”

  A key scraped in the lock, and Gray sprawled back onto the floor. Penhaven strode in, crackling with manic energy. He paced and rubbed his hands together.

  “I see someone has been remiss.” Penhaven gestured a man in the doorway forward. “Bind him.” The man went to work, yanking Gray’s arms behind his back and winding coarse rope around his wrists and ankles. “It wouldn’t be wise to underestimate you, would it, Masterson?”

  “I’m perfectly harmless, my lord,” Gray replied, his voice full of malicious intent.

  “I can’t quite decide what
I should do. Debase your woman and then torture you in front of her, or wait until Rafe Drummond arrives. Your distress would upset him as well, but I’m having a hard time denying myself the pleasure of watching Lily Drummond break. Such a fiery, passionate creature, is she not, Masterson? As you have bedded her, you should know.” The salacious words and accompanying leer were directed at the earl.

  Not exactly how Gray had planned to ask the earl for his daughter’s hand.

  “Dear David, so much has happened since you accepted my kind hospitality,” Penhaven said in an overly solicitous tone. “Your daughter has turned whore with your protégée. He seduced Lily much as you seduced Victoria.”

  The earl saved his venom for Penhaven. “You’re not fit to say Victoria’s name, you bastard.”

  Penhaven’s smile reflected the excitement quivering his body. The man still paced, and his shadow made him seem large and devilish. “Let’s have a little fun while we wait on Rafe Drummond, shall we? Taylor, bring sweet Lady Lily here.”

  Gray’s heart thumped like a racehorse. Once she stepped into the room, he would launch an attack. Certainly, she could handle at least one man. He perched on his knees, his body tensed.

  Taylor galloped noisily down the corridor, his words coming fast and high. “She’s gone, and Grant’s been bashed on the head with a chamber pot!”

  The news erased the smile from Penhaven’s face at the same time Gray’s lips drew up. “Sweet Lady Lily, my arse. She’s out of your reach now, Penhaven, you filthy son of a whore.”

  Penhaven took two steps and backhanded Gray. The stinging pain rocked him back on his heels but fed a simmering anger. Lily was free. Now he could concentrate of getting the earl out and killing Penhaven.

  Penhaven shoved by the men who milled about at the door confused as sheep and needing instruction. “Get out on the grounds and search, you idiots. She can’t have gotten far. Christ, she’s only a woman.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lily hid in a cellar room where cured meat hung from the ceiling and bags of potatoes and other staples were heaped on the floor. Extra kitchen implements were scattered on a large wooden table. Two knives were better than one, but getting herself cut again by blindly running her hands around was distinctly unappealing.