An Indecent Invitation: Spies and Lovers, Book 1

by Laura Trentham

  “None of it was my fault?” Her hands unclenched, and her toes uncurled.

  “Not directly, however Penhaven wanted you badly. He came to see me on numerous occasions pleading his suit. I’ll admit I considered him. The man’s well situated. But I could never seem to disregard my personal antipathy, so ultimately, I refused him.”

  “I refused him as well. It was the first glimpse I had behind his mask.”

  “It’s time to see what’s going on out there. What do you think, daughter?” Affection rang in his voice for quite possibly the first time in her life.

  “I promised Gray…” Who was she fooling? She’d never managed to keep her promises to stay out of trouble. “Are you strong enough?”

  “I refuse to hide while that bastard has every intention of killing my son.” Uncompromising steel threaded his voice. He might look vastly different, but she remembered this tone well.

  Moving slowly from necessity, they crept down the stairs, her ears attuned to any noise. But the entire manor house seemed deserted. Her father’s breathing grew labored, and more and more of his weight rested across her shoulders with every step. She looked to the front door with longing but steered him into the nearest room and closed the door behind them.

  Darkness shrouded them. She blinked, frantic for her eyes to adjust to the meager light. The distinctive aroma of old parchment interwove with the earthiness of years of cheroot smoke. Penhaven’s study. She took small steps, her knees bumping wood. A chair. She maneuvered her father onto the cushioned seat.

  Holding hands in front of her, she shuffled toward the back of the room. A small slit beckoned like a lighthouse. Shapes formed around her. Her tight lungs couldn’t pull in enough air.

  Eyes. A set of gleaming, beady eyes stared her down. Another set came into focus behind the first. She whipped her head from side to side. More eyes stared, ready to attack. Heavy breathing. Was she surrounded?

  Desperate for light, she fell into the curtains, her hands fisting the heavy velvet. Her scrambling twisted light around the room, and as she regained her balance, she whipped the curtains fully open.

  Moonlight revealed the innocuous contents of a gentleman’s study. All those eyes belonged to Penhaven’s kills. A bird of prey in flight on the wall, the docile head of a buck, waterfowl, and even a poor red squirrel stood sentinel around the room.

  She gusted great breaths in and out, each one calming her a little bit more. The night seemed interminable. If only the sun would rise, its rays would send Penhaven’s evil scurrying back under a rock. Although completely illogical and untrue, she sent a little prayer for the coming dawn heavenward.

  Her father sprawled in the chair. His head lay back as if it was too heavy for his spindly neck. She searched through Penhaven’s desk in search for any sort of weapon but found nothing. A large, flat box on the bookcase held a pair of ancient, rusting dueling pistols. The wooden handle splintered when she picked one up, and she tossed it down.

  A commotion in the entry hall sent a charge through her body. The earl levered himself straighter in the chair and looked to her. She was his protector. It was sobering…and scary.

  She cracked the door and pressed her eye to a narrow slit for a second time that night. Penhaven held a gun on Rafe. Her brother looked like a rabid animal. His hair was wild and his face spoke of murder. He stomped into the drawing room and out of her sight. Penhaven followed, his steps short and agitated.

  Where was Gray? What should she do? She turned away and bumped into her father.

  “What did you see?” His calm voice was completely at odds with her inner turmoil.

  “Penhaven forced Rafe into the drawing room at gunpoint. I don’t know what to do. Where is Gray?” Worry for him warred with frustration he wasn’t there saving Rafe.

  The earl propped himself against the wall, the short walk from the chair adding to his exhaustion. “He’s around. Are there other men?”

  She checked again. “I see no one else.”

  “Good. Go observe the proceedings. If things come to a head, you’ll need to provide a distraction. Allow Rafe a chance to act.” He gave his instructions in a clipped, authoritative manner. Her frazzled nerves smoothed and calmed.

  “Yes. Yes, I can do that.”

  Gathering her skirts, she opened the door enough to slip through. He stopped her with a stronger grip than she thought him capable of. “Be careful, Lily.”

  She squeezed his hand in acknowledgment. With a deep breath, she entered the vast entry hall, her bare feet silent on the cold marble. She crouched around the doorjamb, able to keep both men in sight. Her mind circled the problem of a distraction.

  Penhaven and Rafe faced off across a settee. Penhaven showed wear. He plunged fingers through his hair as he paced, disheveling the usually precise curls and waves. Streaks of dirt marred his clothes and mud caked one boot halfway up the calf. The hand holding the pistol waved wildly through the air.

  Rafe, on the other hand, appeared poised to pounce and devour Penhaven. He didn’t pace or shift on his feet. The only sign of movement was the slow undulation of his fingers, as if he wished they were around Penhaven’s throat.

  “What’s your plan now you have me, Penhaven? Do you plan to bring Father and my sister in here as well?” Rafe’s tone was mocking.

  “You bastard. You already know they’ve escaped.” Spittle sprayed, and Penhaven jabbed the pistol toward him.

  “That’s right,” Rafe drawled. “I believe your men might have mentioned their daring.”

  “Masterson didn’t make it far. Shot through while trying to escape to the gardens.”

  His self-satisfied words battered her head and cut at her knees. Her vision closed in on itself. She must have made a noise, although she was unaware, because Penhaven stalked in her direction. She scrambled backward, but her shaking limbs moved awkwardly. Before she made it half a dozen feet, he grabbed her by her hair, hauled her up, and shoved her toward Rafe.

  Her brother’s hands were warm on her forearms, steadying her in more ways than one. “For the love of—couldn’t you stay safely away?” His exasperated words barely made a dent.

  Her body felt numb and tingly, her lips rubbery. “Gray?”

  “Don’t panic. Stay behind me.” He moved her like a toy soldier to stand behind him. His broad back filled her narrowed vision.

  “This has worked out better than I expected,” Penhaven said gleefully. “I’ve killed Masterson. I have both of the earl’s children. While he may have escaped, his spawn will die. There will be no heir to his title. Yes, this night has worked out satisfactorily, indeed.”

  “What are your plans after you’re finished destroying my family?” Rafe asked.

  She peered around her brother.

  “I’ve booked passage to the island of Barbados. From there, I might venture into the Americas. A new life free of old pain.” Penhaven’s agitation lessened. His wild pacing ceased, and the pistol aimed at Rafe no longer shook.

  Thick ropes of tension ratcheted ever tighter, ready to break. A shadowy figure stood in the doorway. The rusty barrel of a pistol slid into view. Their father. She clutched at the back of Rafe’s jacket. Had he noticed? But Rafe looked in the other direction, toward the windows.

  No one moved. The air stilled. The hands of the clock remained static. Then the seconds accelerated to catch up, everything happening simultaneously and in a rush of movement.

  A whizzing bullet thudded into Penhaven, and the report of a gun rang her ears a second time that day. A knife protruded from his chest. His face was downcast. The pistol dropped to the rug. He stroked a familiar, wooden hilt with a finger. Her knife. His other hand covered a rapidly growing stain where his heart should be. Then, as if a puppeteer had cut his strings, he crumpled in a jumble of limbs.

  Every bit of her body seemed to tremble. Her head swiveled back and forth, f
rom window to door. Her father stumbled into the room, and Rafe’s protective back moved from in front of her to offer him a supportive arm. Through an open window, Gray heaved himself inside the room, picking leaves and twigs from his hair and jacket.

  Lily did something she had never done, had sworn she would never do. Something she had scoffed at and made fun of when she’d seen other women do it, deeming them weak and pathetic.

  She swooned.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Muddled, swirling voices brought her back to consciousness. She opened her eyes to Gray’s face, a faint smile on his lips but worried furrows bracketing his mouth. Cradled on his lap, she realized they were on the settee in Penhaven’s drawing room. The man’s bleeding body probably still graced the floor, but she kept her gaze locked on Gray.

  “You might have waited until I was close enough to gallantly catch you, sweetheart. You banged your head. Does it hurt?”

  Now that he mentioned it, her head pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer, but his tender voice and the gentle hand stroking her face helped distract from the rhythmic throbbing. “Penhaven said you were…” The words sounded garbled, but he must have understood her.

  “One of his men barely winged me.” He ran a hand over a wrap around his upper arm. “The air got knocked out of me, and some bushes nearly poked me to death. I crawled into the gardens. They didn’t even confirm I was dead, just congratulated the sot on his excellent shot. Amateurs,” he added with derision.

  “The rest of his men. Won’t they—”

  “Penny and the magistrate are cleaning up. Once word spreads Penhaven is dead, they’ll either be running away or ready to tell a sad tale.” He brushed hair from her face and her lips with his. “I thought you never swooned. Was it the flooding relief of seeing me alive?”

  “I was weak from a lack of food. I’ve haven’t had a bite to eat since yesterday. I’m sure that’s all it was.” The braggadocios tease of his voice had her attempting a lighthearted answer, but her voice broke at the end.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” he whispered, both of them recognizing her lie.

  She buried her face in his neck, breathing his scent and pressing her lips against his pulse. Tears trailed from her closed eyes. He wrapped his arms around her so tight her lungs hurt, but she didn’t complain.

  “Can we go home?” She snuffled into the corner of his neckerchief.

  “Soon. Can I leave you here with Rafe and your father for a bit? I need to talk to the magistrate.”

  She switched her focus from Gray to her father and Rafe. Her brother knelt in front of the grizzled, hunched form of their father, who sat in armchair. Her father’s lips moved, and based on Rafe’s sober expression, he was learning the truth about their mother. The earl’s thin hand incongruously patted her brother’s brawny shoulder in solace.

  Gray helped Lily to her feet, lending a steadying arm around her waist until she regained her balance. He pressed a kiss against her temple and left, closing the door on the steadily increasing ruckus in the entry hall. She gave Penhaven’s body a wide berth and joined her father and Rafe.

  “I wasn’t the best father to either of you,” the earl said. “And I want to thank you for finding me in this hellish pit in spite of my shortcomings. Your mother would have been disappointed in me. I’ve not been a good man in the ways that count, but I’m going to do better, I promise you that.”

  She took her father’s hand, tapping into a surprising wellspring of forgiveness. Rafe walked to the window, a pensive expression on his face. Unlike Lily, he remembered their mother’s touch and smile, and she realized he had missed her in different ways than she had. Her father would need to earn his clemency.

  “Penny has readied a carriage. The magistrate has given us permission to go home,” Gray said from inside the doorway.

  “Home,” the earl said through a tight throat. “I’d given up hope of ever coming home again.”

  They arrived at Wintermarsh in the wee hours of the morning. Mrs. Devlin, the housekeeper, and Cuthbertson, the butler, greeted them at the door. Both were still dressed and harried looking. After whispering instructions to Mrs. Devlin, Gray whisked Lily upstairs.

  Rafe carried his father into the study and placed him in an armchair that seemed to swallow him. A small fire lent a sense of comfort if not actual warmth. Rafe ordered broth, bread and tea.

  “I would rather have a little bit of your brandy over there.” The earl smiled and gazed at the nearly full decanter sitting temptingly on the sideboard. Rafe wouldn’t have minded a glass himself.

  “Not tonight, sir. Your stomach is bound to be weak, and I would hate to see my good brandy come right back up. Let’s try some broth, a bath and then bed. You have a long road back to good health.” Rafe tucked a blanket around his father’s legs.

  Mrs. Devlin arrived with the broth, and she gingerly placed the tray on the earl’s legs as if afraid she might hurt him. Her gaze seemed stuck on the nearly unrecognizable man huddled in the chair. Rafe had felt the same bewilderment when his father had stumbled into the drawing room.

  In a tone never before used by the earl, one that bordered on humble, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Devlin, for seeing to my needs for all of these years. Tonight especially.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She cleared her throat several times before finding her voice. “You’re quite welcome, my lord.” She bobbed a curtsy and left.

  “Where’s Lily?” the earl asked.

  “Gray is taking good care of Lily, or perhaps she’s the one taking care of him.”

  “I realize they’re betrothed, but this sort of behavior is beyond the pale. Is it all right?” The uncertainty in his father’s voice surprised Rafe. The earl’s confidence had been shaken.

  “She’s already well and truly ruined and enjoying every minute of it, I imagine.” Rafe chuffed a laugh. “Gray has a special license tucked away somewhere, but things have been rather hectic for a wedding. Despite the death and suffering, this debacle put into motion their pairing, which has been a very good thing. I believe their love was inevitable, written by the Fates.”

  “You’ve been reading too much drivel,” the earl said with a hint of the old derision for Rafe’s odd habits. Instead of familiar, boyish shame, Rafe felt pity—and not for himself.

  “Indeed,” he replied lightly. “Now eat, sir.”

  The earl applied himself to the broth but abandoned his spoon after finishing only half, shaking his head and pushing the bowl away. Rafe set the tray aside.

  “I’m bequeathing Gray and Lily land to build a house close to Wintermarsh,” Rafe said. He was not asking for permission.

  The earl stared at his hands. “You’ve been running Wintermarsh, have you?”

  “I have, and our other properties and investments as well. I find improvement and innovation invigorating—and a bit less harrowing than Crown service. I expanded into shipping and manufacturing as well and am making a tidy profit.”

  “What about Lionel?”

  “Gray’s father has expressed a desire to leave the day-to-day business to me. He has a mind to visit his brother in Wales and travel to Scotland. He’ll always have a home here, and I would suspect Lily will provide both of you with grandchildren in short order.”

  “Grandchildren.” He held up his weakened, withered hand. “When did I become an old man?”

  Rafe decided it best not to answer.

  “I never cared for country life. The piddling details of running estates bore me. You’re welcome to it, son. My title you’ll have to wait for,” the earl said, amusement lightening the words.

  “I’m a patient man,” Rafe quipped in return.

  “May I have a bath now?” The earl looked to him for approval.

  “Of course,” Rafe said in a rough voice and swallowed hard. “I’ve already called for hot water.”

  The
earl heaved himself to standing. His shaking, spindly legs would never bear him out the room, much less up the stairs. Pulling a lip between his teeth, Rafe avoided his father’s eyes and swept him up like a child.

  In his chambers, Rafe slipped off his father’s clothes and bathed him. Hollowness settled in Rafe’s chest at the sight of his father’s protruding ribs. Penhaven had received a merciful death when he should have suffered. Anger poured into the hollowness.

  His father nodded off in the warm water. A shave and haircut would have to wait. After Rafe tucked his father between the sheets, his gnarled hand clutched Rafe’s wrist with surprising strength.

  “Son, I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you came home wounded.” Rafe had to lean down to catch the whispered words. He patted his father’s hand. The simple gesture seemed to satisfy him, and his hand loosened and fell to the sheets.

  Rafe monitored the rise and fall of his father’s chest for a few moments. Surely, after such a night, no one would blame Rafe for getting lost in a brandy bottle. He meandered back to his study, his mind full of memories of the past and thoughts of the future.

  After finishing every crumb of food on the tray, Lily tossed back a small tot of shudder-inducing liquor. Rising tendrils of steam from the bath beckoned. She hadn’t been so grimy since she was a child. Gray’s mother used to throw her in the pond before she was allowed back inside after her messier adventures. A hot bath was distinctly more appealing.

  “I need to see to your hand.” Gray pointed to the side of the bed. “Sit.”

  Without a word of argument, she sat and held her hand out. After cleaning the cut meticulously with a small bowl of water from the bath, he examined it closely in the candle light.

  “I’ll check it again tomorrow, but I don’t believe you’ll need it stitched together.” He wrapped it tightly with a strip of linen and went to work on her gown.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” She held up her bodice.

  “Undressing you. You need help washing with your hand wrapped.” He tugged her bodice free.