The Spy Beneath the Mistletoe

by Shana Galen

  He realized he was gripping the blanket and loosed his grip. “I don’t know.”

  “Exactly.” She poked him again, and this time he caught her finger and held it.

  “Eliza—”

  “Miss Qwillen.”

  “I tried to explain. If you’d only listen.”

  “No, because no matter how often you explain, you will never understand what I am trying to explain.”

  He waved the blanket, a green flag of surrender. “You don’t want to give up your work. I don’t want you to. If that is all—”

  “No, that’s not all. That’s not even the beginning.”

  She yanked her hand, and he released it. The woman was a ridiculous amount of trouble and confusing as the devil. He really should put her out of his mind. He had a mission, and her presence here need not interfere. He’d find the highwaymen terrorizing this area of Nottinghamshire and return to London with the capture of the man or men who’d adopted the sobriquet of the New Sheriff of Nottingham to his credit. Then he would begin the Switzerland appointment with not only experience as a clerk but also agent credentials.

  “Very well then,” he said, stepping back into his cold, dark stall. “You go your way, and I’ll go mine.”

  “That suits me.” She stalked out of the box and then, perhaps thinking better of her behavior, stepped back into sight. “Good luck.”

  “Good luck to you,” he said.

  “Thank you for the room.”

  He was reminded of the sad state of his cot and made another futile attempt to right it. “It was nothing, seeing as I had no choice.”

  “Yes, well, thank you anyway.”

  Why was she postponing her leave-taking? Did she feel some sense of guilt for relegating him to sleeping in the stable? Why did she not go so he could pull out his files and decide where best to begin his search for the highwayman?

  She started away, and he kicked the cot in frustration. Now where was that file? He’d opened his satchel to search for the documents when hoofbeats thundered.

  “The coach! The coach!”

  Pierce ran, almost knocking Eliza over when he dashed from the stable. Cursing, he paused to steady her. She shrugged off his assistance, and without speaking, they walked quickly toward the rider. The innkeeper and several men had exited the inn.

  “What’s wrong?” called Mr. Wattles.

  “It’s the New Sheriff of Nottingham,” the rider said, his breath coming out in great puffs. “He just held up the mail coach!”

  Two

  Eliza’s pulse jumped. The highwayman was nearby and growing braver. He’d attacked the coach in daylight, fleeting as it was with the gray sky and the fat snowflakes falling from the heavy clouds. Still, this was her chance to intercept the man. If she’d had a horse, her task would have been made easier.

  She hadn’t thought she would need a horse here. From all accounts, the Sheriff was always on foot. The speculation was that he lived in or near Hopewell-on-Lyft and did not want to risk his mount being recognized. She could walk and investigate the site of the robbery. By the time she reached the scene of the crime, the thief would be well away. Nightfall approached, and any sort of investigation of the scene would have to wait until morning.

  That evening she’d gather a different sort of information.

  The inn’s patrons streamed out of the common to hear the news.

  “Was anyone hurt, Mr. Dowell?” Wattles called.

  “All are well, Mr. Wattles. A bit lighter in the purse.”

  Peg, the serving girl and Wattles’s daughter, whispered something to her father. Their whereabouts during the robbery were accounted for. Eliza could not vouch for Dowell. He might have acted the highwayman and then come to report the theft to deflect suspicion. Other men stood about in the yard. She did not yet know their names, but when she did, she could take them off the list of suspects.

  “I know that look,” Moneypence said. He watched her, his expression speculative.

  “I’m merely making note of those men. They have been here since I arrived, which means they cannot be the Sheriff. However—” She’d grown accustomed to confiding in him, to sharing her thoughts. That was necessarily at an end.

  “However?”

  She drew away from him and the feel of his warm breath on her ear. “However, you must make your own deductions. Good evening, Mr. Moneypence.”

  She started for the inn, making her way to her small but clean room, and freshening herself before dinner. Under normal circumstances she would have dined alone in her room, having no coin for the private rooms below. Tonight she would linger in the common to learn the names and faces of the regular patrons. If she’d been able to gather that information earlier, she might have been able to note who had been at The Duke’s Arms when the coach had arrived and who had been suspiciously absent during the time of the robbery. The quicker she learned the names of the locals, the quicker she could make such observations.

  Eliza entered the dining room and took the seat Peg offered her, close to the warmth of the hearth. She turned so she might face the room and found herself staring at Moneypence, seated across the room and facing her. He inclined his head, but she ignored him. Eliza busied her restless hands, plucking at the wrinkles in her skirt. The only other woman in the room was an elderly lady who appeared to be in frail health. She was seated close to the hearth as well, and Eliza nodded at her and the two exchanged pleasantries.

  The vaunted agents of the Barbican group had to blend in everywhere, from London’s underworld to Paris high society. How did they manage it? She was so much more at home in her little laboratory, designing new weapons. If she was frustrated, a large explosion always made her feel better. She couldn’t very well explode anything here.

  Her one consolation was that Moneypence looked as out of place as she. He probably wished he were back at his desk in the offices on Piccadilly. Neither of them was going home until the Sheriff was caught, so she might as well make a start. When Peg returned, Eliza ordered the roasted mutton, and then conversed with the lady near her.

  Mrs. Penter was accompanied by her nephew Mr. Wilson. Mr. Wilson lived in the little village nearby, and his aunt had come from London to visit him a few months ago after the death of Mr. Penter. She was staying at the inn and near her dear nephew until a suitable ladies’ companion might be engaged to live with her in her flat in Cheapside.

  “Cheapside?” A tingle of pleasure raced through Eliza. “My sister and I also live in Cheapside. On what street do you reside? Perhaps we are neighbors.”

  Mrs. Penter was overcome by a coughing fit that rendered her unable to speak for the next few minutes. In the meantime, Eliza’s dinner arrived. She had cut into her mutton when the gentleman on her left leaned closer.

  “I overheard you say you’re from London, Miss Qwillen.”

  Eliza paused in her carving. “Why, yes.”

  “I’m George Langrick.” He nodded to his companion. “This is Henry Barber.”

  She inclined her head. “Mr. Langrick. Mr. Barber.” The two men were both stout and low-browed with dark hair and eyes. She would have put them at the top of her list as the highwayman, but they’d been loitering in the yard when Dowell had given the report. She could not, however, recall Mr. Wilson having been in the yard.

  “I know it’s not my business, but I wanted to make sure you knew that the village and the inn are safe, Miss Qwillen,” Langrick said. “With all the talk of highwaymen, poor Wattles is afraid the mail coach will no longer stop at The Duke’s Arms.”

  “I am sure that would be a hardship for him.”

  “It would indeed,” Barber said, his voice low and rough. “For all of us. Wattles serves the best mutton pies in these parts. You’ll see.” He nodded to her dinner, which she had quite forgotten.

  “I hope I’m not presuming,” Langrick added, “but has word of our troubles reached London?”

  Eliza could hardly say what the ordinary Londoner was or was not discussi
ng from day to day, but she had not taken note of the highwayman until Baron had brought him to her attention. “No, Mr. Langrick. The crime in London is such that one highwayman in Nottinghamshire is not of paramount concern. Indeed, there was only a little talk of your Sheriff on the coach I occupied here.”

  “Thank you, miss. That is good to know,” Langrick said, returning his attention to his mutton.

  Eliza cut another slice of meat then risked a peek at Moneypence. Their gazes met, and he quickly resumed a conversation he had been engaged in with a fellow seated beside him. That man was not one she recognized from the yard earlier.

  Moneypence had been watching her. Why? Jealousy? Because of the mission? Because he still cared for her? No, she could not harbor those sorts of thoughts. He had made himself clear that night in his bedroom. Her face heated when she remembered how they’d spent that night and how he’d made his offer of marriage while they were both in a state of dishabille. He hadn’t asked her to be his wife because he loved her. He’d asked her out of obligation. He felt it was his duty to marry her after he had ruined her.

  Eliza had not wasted time telling him that one could not ruin something no one wanted. She was thirty-five and past the debutante years when men cared about chastity and such. She’d thought she might go to the grave never knowing the touch of a man. When the opportunity to share a night with Moneypence—Pierce—had arisen, she had known what she was doing.

  She did not regret it, except perhaps that it had ended so badly with that ridiculous proposal. But even without the proposal, Eliza had been disappointed. Her experience with Moneypence had been awkward, uncomfortable, and the pleasure short and one-sided.

  Eliza had checked that item off her list and was ready to move on to other, more edifying, experiences. Why then, did she still think about kissing Moneypence? About touching him? Why did she still feel warm when his gaze rested on her?

  She placed a forkful of mutton in her mouth. Perhaps she had been wrong to insist they not work together. That suggestion had been due to her need to stay away from him, to avoid those still-simmering feelings. But by working together they could discover more information and generate suspects more quickly. She would have to arrange to speak to him in private.

  She wasn’t going to go back out into the cold. It was dark now and snowing harder. She felt a twinge of guilt for making Moneypence sleep in those conditions but quickly put it aside. He would have to come to her room.

  The Barbican group had developed several universal symbols. They were secret, known only to those employed by the elite spy group. Moneypence and Eliza knew them as well as all of the field agents. She hadn’t ever used one, but that was beside the point.

  What was the symbol for meet me? She thought for a moment then rose, turned around, and sat back down.

  The numbskull wasn’t even looking at her. Annoying man! Eliza waited until he had ceased speaking to the man near him, rose, turned in a circle, and sat.

  Thank heavens! He’d seen her this time, but he was looking at her as though he thought her daft. She probably was daft to be considering working with him. He nodded to the serving girl, who served him a pear tart, and cut into it.

  One last time, and if he didn’t understand this time then he was beyond hope. Eliza rose and turned, but as she was sitting, Mr. Langrick said, “Are you well, Miss Qwillen?”

  Truth be told, she was a bit dizzy. “Yes, perfectly. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Moneypence was finally paying attention. He raised his brows, and she looked at the ceiling. My room. He looked at the ceiling, and then his eyebrows came down in a look that said he was confused. She looked again—more pointedly—at the ceiling.

  “Is something in your eye, missus?” Peg asked, stopping at her table.

  Eliza almost jumped. “No. No, I was admiring your ceiling. The beam work is splendid. Tudor?”

  Peg looked up and then down again. “I couldn’t say, missus.”

  She could feel the tingle of Moneypence’s gaze on her. It started at the nape of her neck and slid languidly down her spine, heating her flesh as it spread. She risked a glance at him. Moneypence gave a short nod and looked back at his tart.

  Two hours later, the inn was silent as the winter night, and Eliza was warm by the fire in her small room. She hadn’t undressed, but she’d rung for the maid to bring the water for washing so the servants would not be waiting on her. She’d have to find a way to undress herself or sleep in her stays.

  She had been sitting and waiting for him too long, that was all. He was on her mind. It wasn’t as though she desired him. Very much.

  In truth, she missed him. She missed their discussions of everything from flowers to politics. She missed hearing about all of the clerical sorts of things he’d done each day and telling him about her latest success with a new pistol that looked like a lady’s fan. She missed having him in her life.

  And, oh very well, she missed having a man hold her, having him kiss her, feeling the weight of his body beside hers. On top of hers.

  Of course, Moneypence chose that moment to tap softly on her door. Pulling it open, she yanked him inside and shut it again.

  “Did anyone see you?” she asked.

  “No. I was discreet. Are you well? Your face is flushed.”

  She touched her cheeks. They were indeed warm, probably because of the direction of her thoughts just a few moments ago. “I’ve been sitting too close to the fire.”

  “Am I correct in assuming you wished to speak to me?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes were dark and his light brown hair flecked with snow. She’d forgotten what it was like to be this close to him. His scent, bergamot mingled with the clean fragrances of hay and fresh snow, made her heart beat a little faster. Her gaze dipped to his lips. Would his mouth be warm or deliciously cool against her hot skin?

  “About?”

  He sounded impatient for her to continue and brushed snow off his sleeve to punctuate his annoyance. “About this mission. I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You’re going home?” he said with a hopeful tone.

  “No.” She flicked a piece of straw from his hair. “We should work together.”

  But he didn’t speak.

  “I was making a list of our suspects,” she said, “and between the two of us, we would generate such a list more quickly. You spoke to people I did not at dinner.”

  “I see. And what if I don’t want your help?”

  “You wanted it earlier.”

  Slowly, he unwound his scarf from his neck. “You can’t keep changing your mind.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind. I have only reconsidered this one point.”

  “How do I know you won’t change it again?”

  Frustrating man. Why did she feel as though he was speaking about more than this mission? “I won’t, but if you don’t want to work with me—”

  She’d waved her arm at him, and he caught her hand in his. His skin was cool, giving her a little shock. “I didn’t say that. I merely wanted to make certain I understood where we stand.”

  “We’re colleagues working together on a mission for the Barbican group,” she said. “Nothing more.”

  He looked down at her hand.

  Heaven help her. She was making little circles with her thumb on his palm.

  “I beg your pardon.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he didn’t release her. She didn’t try very hard to free herself either.

  “There’s nothing to apologize for. I’ve missed your touch.”

  “I’ve missed yours.” She regretted the words as soon as she’d spoken them. Why hadn’t she simply suggested they work together and ordered him out? She would never rid herself of him now, and the worst of it was that she didn’t want to.

  “Have you?” He moved closer, and his scent washed over her. She almost closed her eyes to bask in it. “What else have you missed?”

  Nothing. That was what she should say. That wa
s the answer that would make him go.

  “Your kisses.” She was very bad, indeed. He would kiss her now, and that had been what she’d wanted all along.

  But he didn’t take her mouth with his. He squeezed her hand lightly. “Shall I kiss you now?”

  No. But she didn’t say it. To her credit, she didn’t say yes, either. She did tilt her head back, giving him clear access to her lips. Oh, but she was wanton! He put an arm about her waist and pulled her close. Her eyelids closed, and she waited for the feel of his strong mouth on hers.

  “Did you know,” he said, “the Dungeon has volumes on topics other than intelligence matters?”

  Her eyes snapped open. “What?”

  “The Dungeon,” he repeated.

  “I know what it is.” Every agent for the Barbican group knew the Records Room, where all of the research and confidential files were kept. The place was a veritable maze where, it was rumored, an agent could become lost. “What does the Dungeon have to do with anything?”

  Now his finger traced a light path up her back, tickled the bare skin at the nape of her neck. “There are books there, Eliza.”

  Of course there were books there. It was a library of sorts. “What books?” Had he heard the catch in her throat?

  His wicked smiled grew even more wicked, if that was possible, so she knew he had. “Books about kissing.”

  Her pulse raced, and the blood thrummed in her ears. “Kissing?”

  He held her close, their bodies pressed together intimately, his touch on her skin light but possessive. “Among other...activities.”

  “I see.” She could barely draw a breath.

  “I read the books, Eliza.”

  She was dizzy from the warmth in the room, from his scent, from the feel of his body against hers. “Books? More than one?”

  “Most definitely. Wicked, wicked books about wicked, wicked acts. Nothing you would want to know about.”

  “No. I’m not wicked.”

  “If you change your mind,” he said, releasing her, “you will tell me, won’t you?”

  She nodded, words escaping her as she focused on not grabbing him back and pushing her aching breasts against him. The need for him to touch her, kiss her, do all manner of wicked things to her was overpowering.