Then, turning the box sideways, she turned toward the alley. If she hurried, she should be able to stash the dress in the boot of the carriage and neither Charlie nor Mrs. Vale would be any the wiser. But she’d dallied long enough already.
A figure separated from the shadows of the doorway across from her as she started toward the alley, back the way she’d come. Lucy jumped, her heart speeding. She clutched the box in front of her like a shield as she turned to him.
Brackley. His auburn hair was dark with moisture, a bit flat as it curled across his forehead, as though he’d been standing out in the rain a while. The collar of his greatcoat was turned up to shield his neck, but he didn’t have a hood.
“Lady Lucy.” His tone was laced with amusement. “What do you have there?”
Reluctant to remain out in the rain, Lucy stepped into the doorway of the nearest house. The square beneath her shoes was slippery with grit-turned-mud over the cobblestones. The stoop was raised a bit, necessitating that she pay attention to where she rested her feet as she stepped onto the ledge, out of the falling drizzle.
Brackley stepped up after her, squeezing into the narrow doorway with her, under the eaves. His broad shoulder stuck out, catching the drips from the overhang. The constricted space meant that in order to fit, he was pressed nearly against her body. Only the wide, flat box served as any barrier between them. Since the doorway didn’t quite match his height, he was forced to stoop, bringing his head closer to hers.
Lucy swallowed. “You shouldn’t stand here.”
He arched an eyebrow. Had he leaned even closer? A shiver coursed through her, one she tried hard to suppress.
“I shouldn’t stand out of the rain?”
“You shouldn’t stand so close. It’s…”
His mouth curved, a clear sign of his amusement. He said nothing as she grasped for a word.
“Improper.”
“Ah, yes.” He nodded, solemn. “We should tell your chaperone at once.”
She gritted her teeth. “I am not a ninny. I don’t need someone standing over my shoulder at all hours of the day.”
“No?”
She glared up at him. “No.”
He wouldn’t dare harm her. Hers was a close-knit family, and everyone knew it. If he so much stepped a toe out of line, she would tell one of her brothers and that would be the end of Alexander Douglass. There were benefits to having overprotective brothers, after all. One of them was that every gentleman, whether he found himself alone with her or—far more likely—not, treated her with respect.
Brackley, on the other hand, didn’t seem at all concerned with his pending plight.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“It’s a dress,” she snapped.
“An odd location for you to choose a tailor.” He waved an ungloved hand at the doorway to the shop she’d come from, the gold signet ring on his finger winking in the light. His eyes danced, as if he suspected her of lying.
Perhaps she wasn’t telling the whole truth, but she certainly wasn’t lying. She did have a dress in the box. Only it had been gifted to her by a notorious traitor.
She kept that particular tidbit to herself. If she was to handle the slippery spymaster, she would have to prove herself by handling one far-too-curious marquess.
“Are you getting a dress as well?” she asked sweetly.
He laughed. “Hardly. I buy my cheroots from a man down this lane.”
“You could have them delivered.”
“You could have had the dress delivered, too.”
He had her there. Very well, they were at an impasse. She straightened her spine, intending to renew their battle of wits. Brackley’s breath teased a lock of her hair. Her lips parted. When had he moved so close? The eaves shadowed the look in his eye. His face was intent as he slanted his head, almost as if he meant to kiss her.
No. He wouldn’t…would he?
“Brackley.”
He paused, an inch away from her face. His body leaned into hers, the heat emanating from his form. “Yes, my lady?” His voice was as rough as gravel.
Kiss me.
No…don’t. Lucy couldn’t make up her mind. She’d been kissed before, of course, so she’d be able to accurately write it in one of her books, but she’d never craved the taste of someone’s lips the way she did now. Her head all but spun with the overwhelming desire.
He was a scoundrel, a rake of the worst caliber. She’d encountered him only yesterday on his way to meet with a mistress. He might be sneaking around this little-known street with the same intent in mind! Two women in two days…
And yet, the lure was undeniable. She’d revisited their encounter over and over again in her mind. Writing it down hadn’t purged the thrill, nor the shiver she’d gotten when he’d winked at her. Now, to know what it would be like to be kissed by someone so masterful…
He stepped out from under the doorway. “You should hurry back to your chaperone, Lady Lucy. It wouldn’t do for you to be caught unawares by the wrong sort of person.”
As his boots clicked on the cobblestones while he strode down the lane, Lucy turned to stare after him. What had that been about?
She pressed her lips together and tried not to be disappointed that he hadn’t kissed her. After all, she didn’t know where his mouth had been recently. And she didn’t want to know, either.
Alex’s shoulders burned from Lucy’s gaze as he strode away. Don’t look back, whatever you do. His shoulders weren’t the only part of his anatomy that burned, either. His mouth felt as though he’d set it aflame.
He danced a dangerous line. Lucy was beautiful, young and guileless, headstrong and passionate. Kissing her would be a death sentence. Even if Morgan didn’t exact revenge personally, he had in his power to assign Alex to the most dangerous assignments in the most violent neighborhoods. Never mind that Alex was a titled peer; he was under no illusion that if he laid a hand on Lucy that he would walk away unscathed.
She tempted him all the same. If he hadn’t needed to get so close to learn her secrets, he would have taken himself far away. But, where the matter concerned Monsieur V, Alex couldn’t simply walk away. Not even if it would mean trouble for him later.
As he ducked into a shop down the line, he shut the door and pulled out the folded note and card he’d filched from Lucy’s reticule while they stood so close. The invitation, blank as to the recipient, seemed innocuous enough. A house party.
At first glance, the letter seemed just as innocent. However, Lucy had helpfully used her pencil to underline the misspelled words in the rambling note. It was a simple code, cycled out of use months ago by the French once the Crown had deciphered it. Alex decoded the message in his head.
As he finished, he smirked. This was it, the moment he’d been waiting for. He knew precisely where Monsieur V would be, and he would be there first to intercept him.
Then he would finally get his revenge.
4
That devious, black-hearted scoundrel! Lucy upended her reticule on the settee at the end of her bed, next to where a servant had delivered the box containing her dress. A few shillings clinked together as they fell next to her notebook, pencil, handkerchief, and a few other scattered items.
No note. No invitation.
She clenched her fists. “I’ll show you what happens when you cross a Graylocke.”
If she’d been in any doubt that Brackley was a spy, it had been erased. The only question was: for which side? Had her brother tasked him with following her and removing her from the investigation, or was he acting on his own? For a moment, with him all but pressed up against her, so close that she could feel the touch of his breath, she’d thought for certain that he would kiss her. A thrill had coursed through her and she’d thought, from his expression, that he’d been just as desirous to succumb to temptation.
But no, it had all been a ruse so he might steal from her! That blighted man! How could she hope to follow the clues and catch Monsieur
V if she was denied entrance to the location where he would be?
Perhaps that had been Brackley’s design. Perhaps Monsieur V had only been toying with her, holding his location just out of her reach and then taking it away again. That did seem to be the more likely recourse. After all, why would such a wily spymaster submit to meeting with her in person?
But, if Brackley had removed the note to stymie her efforts on Monsieur V’s behalf, then that meant that a British peer was a French spy. Why would someone with such a noble lineage turn their back on their family and country? She couldn’t fathom it.
Simply because she could never imagine anyone of her acquaintance committing such an atrocious act of treason didn’t mean that it wasn’t true. Did she have two spies now to apprehend, not just one? Perhaps she should take her chances that Monsieur V might be telling the truth about having eyes on Morgan’s correspondence and attempt to contact her brother anyway.
It would be admitting defeat. Morgan would shut her away as far from the investigation as he could manage and her brothers would see that she remained there. Hell and damnation, she wasn’t a child! She could do more than twiddle her thumbs. No, she didn’t even know for certain that Brackley was involved in this at all. Perhaps he was only curious and had filched the letter only to find that it contained indecipherable nonsense.
Lucy stuffed her belongings back into her reticule and turned her attention to the box. A quick peek inside proved that her lady’s maid hadn’t yet found the time to put away the dress. Lucy decided to do that herself, taking the opportunity to examine the garment in more detail, just in case Monsieur V had left her a clue on the dress itself. Perhaps Brackley didn’t have the entire story, after all.
If the spymaster had ordered some kind of code or clue be affixed to or embroidered into the dress, Lucy couldn’t find it. Just as she admitted defeat and crossed to her wardrobe to put away the dress, Charlie stuck her head into the room.
“There you are.” The blonde frowned. She tugged on one of her ringlets as she stepped into the room proper. “What do you have there?”
“A dress for Lady Leighton’s house party.”
The corners of Charlie’s pink mouth turned down even farther. “Lady Leighton? When did we receive that invitation?”
Lucy stuffed the dress into her wardrobe and turned, a smile curving her lips. “We haven’t yet, but we will.”
After all, she was the sister of a duke. She could gain entry anywhere in England, if she chose.
Gaining entry to Lady Leighton’s London townhouse posed no problem. The moment she passed the butler her card, he whisked her and the Vales into a parlor near the front of the house. It was a bit frilly for her tastes, overdone in frothing white doilies and pale pink furnishings, but she took a seat and waited nonetheless. The tea service arrived before the hostess, and a maid poured the tea.
Charlie jiggled her leg as she waited, impatient. She nearly sloshed her tea over the rim of her white cup. Mrs. Vale, seated on the settee next to her, laid a restraining hand on Charlie’s knee. She said nothing, but the young woman pressed her lips together and tried harder to hide her impatience.
Lucy fought to retain a calm exterior as she waited. She finished her tea cup before Lady Leighton presented herself. Didn’t she know she entertained a member of the ducal family? Since Lady Leighton wasn’t one of the many who hoped to marry one of her relatives into the Graylocke family, apparently Lucy’s presence carried little weight. At least, less weight than Lucy had hoped.
Eventually, Lady Leighton sailed into the parlor. The slender woman, in her early forties, wore a prim expression. Not a hair on her head was out of place. Each golden-brown lock was pinned neatly into place. Not a thread on her blue dress dared to fray. Next to her, Lucy felt a mess, ink stains on her fingers and more than one stray strand tucked behind her ear. She folded her hands on her lap and tried not to show her feelings of inadequacies.
A viper like Lady Leighton would undoubtedly capitalize on it. Although she was unfailingly polite, it was common knowledge in the gossip mill that the lady only kept her friends according to the fashions. If someone fell out of favor with the ton at large, so too would they find themselves barred from Lady Leighton’s presence. She had no notion of family; in fact, many whispered that the reason she had never provided her husband with children was on purpose, so she might keep her figure.
Although, after witnessing the pain through which Phil had suffered in order to give birth, Lucy wasn’t entirely certain that she could blame Lady Leighton for choosing not to bear a child. Children were cute…but although Phil had seemed content, even radiant after the delivery as she held her son in her arms, Lucy had to wonder if it all was worth it.
Fortunately, she didn’t plan on marrying any time soon, not to a man who saw her as little better than a brood mare or who sought to curry favor with her family. Lucy had her book to write, and now she had a nephew upon which to dote as well. Perhaps, with luck, Tristan or Giddy’s wives would grant another such little miracle in the family.
With a little simper, Lady Leighton claimed the chair across from Lucy. “So sorry for the wait, Lady Lucy, Mrs. Vale, Miss Vale. I had some business that simply couldn’t wait.”
Liar. The woman had only wanted to feel superior by making them wait. Lucy gritted her teeth and tried to appear unaffected.
“It’s quite all right,” she lied. “We were just admiring the furnishings.” She kept her smile sweet, matching the edge to the hostess’s voice.
No matter what machinations Lady Leighton attempted, couched in a demure demeanor, Lucy refused to let her get the upper hand. Compared to the complexity of puzzling out Monsieur V’s next move, this subtle, edged dance between peers was laughable. She played it for as long as necessary, leading the conversation on the weather and delivering the news of Morgan’s son.
Finally, after nearly an hour of brainless chatter, Lucy was able to circle the conversation back to her reason for calling. “I hear you’re planning a house party.”
Lady Leighton fanned her fingers over her chest. “How remiss of me! I assumed that you and the rest of your family would remove to the country for the rest of the Season.”
That might even be true. Truthfully, Lucy wouldn’t care to receive the invitation if Monsieur V wasn’t to be in attendance. She fixed her smile in place as she met the viper’s eyes. Was she in league with the French? Lucy wouldn’t know without further investigation. But in order to do that, she needed to secure an invitation.
“I’m afraid we’d only be in the way, there. My sister-in-law has more than enough help, what with my brothers’ wives and my mother. I have returned to Town for the foreseeable future.”
Although Lady Leighton matched Lucy’s smile, her eyes were cold. It was an empty expression. “Then you must come to my house party.” She veered her attention briefly to the other two women in the room. “All three of you. I’m certain you’ll find it quite diverting.”
“Thank you. We would be happy to accept.”
Lucy masked the surge of satisfaction that rose within her upon uttering those words. Brackley, you are going to regret stealing from me…
5
Never before had a week crawled by with such insufferable slowness. Although Lucy had at one time considered spying to be a thrilling enterprise, she was forced to amend that opinion. Spying was not thrilling or entertaining or at all worthy of being added into a book. It comprised of more waiting than investigating, for until she met with Monsieur V, she had no clues to follow.
She spent that time agonizing over what her brother would want her to do in regards to this mission—other than remain safely at home, that was. Would he want to kill the spymaster to prevent him from causing further harm to England? Lucy didn’t know if she had the mettle, let alone the means to do such a thing.
No, a spymaster must be more valuable to Morgan alive than dead. He knew information about the enemy, didn’t he? Her brothers could be very persuasive,
when the mood overtook them. Therefore, when she met with Monsieur V in a few moments, Lucy had determined to capture him. She’d stuffed silk ties into her reticule for just that purpose.
Lady Leighton’s manor was the height of sophistication. Her ballroom was dressed in the neoclassical style, with pillars reminiscent of ancient Greece framing the perimeter of a marble dance floor. Potted plants in Oriental vases dotted between the pillars. In separate rooms that adjoined the ballroom, card tables had been set up, as well as a buffet table. A crystal chandelier shimmered two stories overhead, where a fresco had been painted on the ceiling.
For all the manor’s splendor, the number of guests was limited. Only the elite were invited to Lady Leighton’s house party, and even then, only so many as she could fit in her guest rooms. Although she’d granted Lucy her own room, she’d put Charlie and her mother in a neighboring chamber together. If she’d done so with guests with connection to a duke, Lucy could only imagine that she’d resorted to the same thing with other debutantes and their chaperones. Lady Leighton’s country estate, for all its fashionable architecture and furnishings, was less than half the size of Tenwick Abbey.
Much of that size seemed to be eaten up by a ballroom that could have comfortably fitted another fifty people, especially considering the number of men and women who had shut themselves away in the card rooms. Less than twenty people mingled and danced. The small number made it exceedingly hard for Lucy to lose herself in the crowd.
But she had to try. At any minute, the grandfather clock would chime the hour and she would be due to meet a notorious spy out in a corner of the terrace. Even though she knew Charlie loved an adventure, she couldn’t very well drag her best friend or her mother into the danger. She had to do this alone.
Pursuing The Traitor (Scandals and Spies Book 5) Page 4
