by Darcy Burke
What she needed was stability. Answers. Neither were things the Duke of Abermont could provide for her.
Something new flickered across his face as he registered her choice. Perhaps disappointment that she’d chosen a path less secluded; perhaps her eyes deceived her entirely. She could not be sure, and she did not want to examine it. She’d made her decision.
She walked with purpose, quickening her stride. He fell into step with her, never missing a beat, in tune to every change.
“Perhaps all we can hope is for a new normal,” he ventured. “It’s never going to be the same as it was. But I think, eventually, you’ll achieve peace of mind. You’ve much to accomplish still.”
She managed a small smile. How she wanted him to be right, but she doubted it. “Your optimism is reassuring.”
“It ought to be, as I am right about nearly everything,” he teased.
She grinned for real now. “Is that so?”
“I’m afraid it’s a family trait,” he pronounced, as they strolled down the rhododendron-lined path. “While I am right a solid eighty-five percent of the time, my sister is right an absolute ninety-five percent of the time. If you find me an officious bore, I challenge you to engage in conversation with Elinor for more than two hours and not wish to club her over the head with the nearest vase.”
She laughed. “‘Officious bore’ is the last phrase I’d use to describe you.”
He led her through a section filled with poppies, roses, and lupins, the juxtaposition of the colors reminding her of one of Thomas’s kaleidoscope toys. “Oh, really? I’ll admit, the scandal sheets have described me as ‘infuriatingly handsome’ and ‘deliberately standoffish.’ Which one is closest to your thoughts?”
She did not confess that the former was the most apt description she’d ever heard of him. Nor did she tell him how much walking with him made her forget the chasm between them. Her father had been the second son of a viscount—even before she’d accepted Sauveterre’s mission and became a governess, they wouldn’t have been on equal footing.
“Neither,” she replied, careful to keep her voice as light as his. Lying had apparently become second nature. “I would say that while the Duke of Abermont thinks a bit too highly of himself, he is startlingly easy to talk to, and he has excellent taste in brandy.”
He stopped in the middle of the path. “Ah, you reveal too much, miss. It’s my brandy you want, not my company.” His grin never faltered as he started walking again.
She swallowed the sigh of relief before it escaped her throat. Of course, the brandy. The drink that had seemed so scandalous last night had barely crossed her mind today.
“You’ve caught me, I fear.” She tilted her head toward his, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I might as well tell you now, but at night I sneak into your office and filch half a shot from that brandy decanter. Just a little nip, mind you, never enough that you’d notice it.”
He tipped his hat to her. “You clever little thief. ’Tis a brilliant plan, were it in any way factual.”
Her heart jumped into her throat. She spun around to face him. He couldn’t suspect her, could he? No, she’d been careful. She'd never mailed a report to Sauveterre from the house; she'd always gone down to the village. She kept his letters in the bottom tray of her jewelry box, which she wore the key to around her neck.
“That is the art of a good crime, is it not?” The merriment in her words did not reach her insides. She could not lie to herself, yet. She was a thief, not of physical objects but of information. She knew more about his family than any servant should. “It must be perpetuated in a way that no one ever suspects it’s occurred in the first place.”
“Why, little governess, I do think you are much more cunning than I’d originally suspected.” The amusement twinkling in his eyes, so different from the grief the night before, made her heart squeeze perilously.
She’d made him laugh.
And she’d be the one to rip that joy from him and stomp upon it because she needed whatever dirty secret he hid so that she could convince Sauveterre to give up the name of Evan’s killer. Faced with the choice between revenge for her brother and guarding Abermont’s feelings, she’d choose Evan. Every time.
But she could at least make it hurt less. No more pretending they could be friends, no matter how easily her past sorrows spilled out when she was around him.
She drew to a stop in front of a thriving patch of narcissi, removing her hand from his arm. “Would you excuse me, Your Grace? I’ve just remembered that I promised Lord Thomas I’d help him with his arithmetic before dinner. He wants to impress his tutor, you see. Mr. Martin wagered one night free of lesson work if he solved every problem right on his exam tomorrow.”
Abermont’s eyes widened. He was likely surprised by her abrupt exit. She dropped a quick curtsy before scurrying away from him.
She was an explosion waiting to happen, and she needn’t make him be the one to trigger the tripwire.
Chapter 3
The next day after dinner, James sat in the parlor with his best friend, Richard Denton, the Earl of Haley. The Haley estate bordered Abermont House, and the two boys had grown up together. James could not remember a single day of his childhood where Richard and their other neighbor, Deacon Drake, weren’t present.
Both Richard and Deacon now worked as agents for the Clocktower. In fact, Deacon was currently in London, overseeing operations while James was with his family.
“When you return to London this Season, your cover will need to be intact,” Richard declared between puffs on his cheroot, crossing one long leg over the other. “Sitting out one Season was acceptable when you were grieving your sister, but missing two is unconscionable. The ton is clamoring for the return of the new Duke of Abermont.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” James grumbled. “Elinor has already counted six mentions of our family in the scandal sheets.”
The upcoming Season would be an unmitigated disaster, as every old dragon with a marriageable age chit would corner him at balls and routs, as intent on making her daughter a duchess as Bonaparte was on reshaping the world in his vision.
Devil take him, he didn’t have time for distraction, and he certainly didn’t want to take a wife. England’s national security depended on him—even when all he wanted to do was run in the opposite direction.
“At least Korianna has already left for London.” Smoke wafted from Richard’s cheroot as he nodded. “With her in Town, it’ll give you time to plan ahead. The gossipmongers will be so focused on what Korianna’s doing that they won’t have time to look closely at you.”
James stifled a groan. He dreaded what the papers would write about his middle sister’s latest exploits. Korianna was too brash, too reckless. So far, she’d never come up across a situation she couldn’t lie or fight her way through, but every time she was in the field he worried.
She refused to take his direction. Just like Louisa had.
James ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t blow something up again.”
“Again?” Richard stopped mid-puff, the cheroot dangling limply from his fingers.
He raised his eyes meaningfully at his friend. “Hanover Square.” He’d had a devil of a time explaining that one to Wickham. His heart constricted. Of course, Louisa had thought it hilarious. That had been the end of Korianna and Louisa partnering on missions. They were too similar, spontaneous and forceful. They needed a tempering influence on them, like Arden or Richard.
But even that had not been enough to save Louisa.
“You’re quizzing me,” Richard said. “She blew up Hanover Square?”
“Swear to the Virgin Mary.”
“Only in your family.” Richard threw his head back, his throaty laugh echoing through the parlor.
“I’m glad somebody is amused by that giant blaze,” James remarked dryly. “The three enemy agents who were injured weren’t particularly thrilled.”
Ric
hard sniggered. “The French are never happy when we’re winning.”
“Her orders were to cause a distraction so that Louisa could drug the agents,” James said. “Apparently the bomb was her first choice.”
That only made Richard laugh harder, for as a field agent, he certainly didn’t have to handle Korianna, or her aftermath. Her exploits were simply amusing. Richard did not feel the gut-twisting dread every time one of the agents was on a mission.
James rose from the settee, going to the liquor cabinet in the far corner of the room. Pouring the brandy into a crystal glass, he eyed the amber liquid for a moment, remembering how a captivating blonde had downed a quarter of the glass in one gulp. He’d never seen a woman shoot liquor like that before.
And he’d never known how damn arousing such a sight could be.
He shoved that inconvenient thought to the back of his mind, where all the memories of his jaunt with her around the garden yesterday currently resided. A spy needed to be focused and committed to the mission. In no way, shape, or form did that include “inappropriate thoughts about his brother’s governess.”
Richard slapped his thigh, ashes from the cheroot drifting onto the plush Oriental rug. “I always knew Korianna was fiery, but I never imagined such a pronouncement would be literal.”
“The carpet, Richard.” Narrowing his eyes, James pointed to the cheroot. “I know you take no care with your things, but could you please exercise some diligence in my house?”
The words felt false on his tongue, tasting of lead and grime. It wasn’t his house. Ninth Duke of Abermont or not, this countryseat didn’t belong to him, and it never would. On paper, of course, he owned the furniture, and the land was entailed to his title. But he could never live up to his father’s legacy. Known as the Lion to his associates, the old man had been one of England’s top spymasters, second only to the Under-Secretary himself.
James’s gaze skimmed from one end of the room to the next. Everywhere, he saw traces of the old duke. The heavy oak furniture of the study, chosen because the duke had believed it would hold up nicely to bullets if they were ever attacked at home. The crimson accents, for the duke’s favorite color was red. And the tapestry above the mantel, an African jungle scene with two zebras and a majestic lion to rule over them, in homage to the duke’s code-name.
Louisa had loved that damn tapestry. James thought it was hideous. But still he kept it, a tangible token of an intangible girl.
“I take every care,” Richard protested, as he moved his foot to cover up the ash. “Just because I like to carouse does not mean I don’t understand responsibility.”
“How many times have you made that speech to Elinor?” The smallest hint of a grin slid across James’s lips. “Careful, old boy, for you know she could tell me exactly how often she beseeches you to be serious.”
“Curse Ellie and her blasted brilliant memory,” Richard muttered. “Ever since we were tots.”
“How I know your pain.” James chuckled, allowing himself to feel the happiness of old memories, just for a moment.
When they were children, it had always been him, Richard, and Deacon—with Korianna running after them, constantly trying to prove that she was just as strong, as fast, as the boys. Louisa had followed in Korianna’s footsteps. And when his parents had taken in Arden as their ward, she’d toddled along too; content to play whatever game they liked as long as she could spend time with them.
But not Elinor. He remembered Elinor watching them from the library window, a book spread across her lap and a pensive expression on her angular face. Rarely had she felt well enough to join them.
As if summoned by their discussion, Elinor poked her head into the open doorway. “I thought I heard your voice, Richard.”
James hadn’t heard her approach. But then, he never did, for Elinor was as fleet of foot as she was of mind. In a household of spies, footsteps rarely sounded.
Richard sat up straighter as she entered the room, his posture no longer so relaxed. “Good day, Ellie.” He snuffled out his cheroot in the ashtray and stood, sketching a quick bow to her.
Elinor nodded in return. Sitting on the settee Richard had vacated, she smoothed out her skirts—he hadn’t seen her in anything other than lavender or gray for the past six months, for the family was still in half-mourning for Louisa. Elinor reached up, patting at her titian chignon.
She did not ask for permission to join their discussion; she simply assumed she was invited. James took another sip of brandy, swallowing down his irritation. Elinor always had a way of taking over a conversation; he ought to be used to it by now.
“We were discussing James’s cover,” Richard supplied, pouring out another cup of tea. It was his fourth in the last quarter of an hour—James swore that the tea merchants in England remained afloat mostly on Richard’s habits. “Would you like some tea, Elinor?”
Elinor nodded, clearly grateful not to have to move. Her pain must be bad today. How did Richard always pick up on those things? She accepted the cup of tea he offered her, delicately wrapping her hand around the china. Tall and slim, everything about Elinor appeared delicate, as though she might tumble to the ground at the next gust of wind.
Until she turned her eagle-eyed glance upon someone, and then immediately, one realized she was an unconquerable force. No matter how much pain she was in, her mind remained fierce.
“I think you should marry,” Elinor said to James, with the same flatness as though she’d just informed him he should take clotted cream with his scones from now on.
He’d been mid-gulp of brandy, which promptly went down the wrong way. He sputtered and coughed as his throat burned.
“You want me to what?” He finally managed to squeeze the question out, though it was a fruitless endeavor. From Elinor’s staid expression and Richard’s quirked brow and failed attempt not to laugh, he was certain he’d heard her right.
And then Richard and Elinor exchanged a conspiratorial look, and he knew he was outnumbered. This was no casual afternoon. This was a trap.
When the two of them planned something together, they were unstoppable.
“You two talked about this before dinner so could you ambush me, didn’t you?”
Richard grinned, while Elinor shrugged as if it was his fault for not seeing this coming.
“It is a perfectly logical step. We have to move on sometime, and Society will expect us to do so soon.” Elinor laid one hand on the arm of the couch, while her other hand balanced the teacup and saucer. “This Season, you are out of full mourning. You’ll be expected to settle down.”
He didn’t want to move on, and he didn’t want to settle down. He wanted to cling to his bleeding memories, every last one of them, and throw himself into the Clocktower. If he gave the organization his full attention, then the chance of someone else dying on his watch would be reduced. Sometimes that was the only thing that helped him through the day.
“If I’m the bloody duke, then the rest of the ton can simply wait another year,” he said.
Elinor’s eyes widened. “You are a duke, Jim, not the king. You cannot just wave your hand and say it will be so.”
“But it would be quite fantastic if he could,” Richard interjected.
Elinor scoffed, and Richard winked at her. She rolled her eyes, and he grinned more. They continued like this for a minute, giving James an opportunity to puzzle over the situation.
Customs had to be followed, if they were to blend seamlessly into London’s Upper Ten Thousand. The ton could think of them as eccentric, yes, but they did not have carte blanche to act with complete disregard for the rules. No one could know their true occupations.
The rules dictated that a single duke would be in want of a wife, whether or not James actually was. Swallowing, he tugged at the stiff points of his cravat.
Elinor’s cool gaze followed his movements. She leaned forward, reminding him of a tiger about to pounce on an unsuspecting antelope. “What if you could avoid the Marriage Mart e
ntirely?”
Richard watched them both silently, a smirk toying with his lips. Somehow, no matter how dark or treacherous their double lives became, Richard managed to find the humor.
“You mean marry before the Season starts?” James eyed his sister suspiciously. At Elinor’s nod, he frowned. “Impossible. We’re due to arrive in London in less than two months. How am I supposed to find a suitable bride in such short time? There’s courting rituals, banns to be announced, not to mention developing feelings for her...”
“I never knew you were such a sentimentalist,” Elinor said. “No one marries for love, Jim. Especially not people in our family’s line of work.”
Was it his imagination, or did Richard flinch at Elinor’s cold declaration? James turned his head to look at his friend directly, but Richard’s expression had smoothed.
“It would take at least three weeks to verify your possible duchess’s background,” Richard added, supporting his argument. “Wickham will want to check her personally.”
Elinor nodded. “The bride in question must not only be of a solidly English line of no reproach, but she must hold no unconventional political opinions.”
“Wollstonecraft devotees are out of the question,” Richard agreed. “Kori will be so disappointed.”
“One woman causing scandal for this family is more than enough.” Elinor set her teacup down on the table and reached into her reticule, drawing out a crisply folded square of foolscap. “I’ve made a list of six potential candidates. I’m sure you shall find one of them agreeable enough.”
He’d been raised to inherit the dukedom, yes, but he’d always hoped that when he finally married it would be to a woman who actually liked and wanted to be with him. But perhaps Elinor’s list wouldn’t be so bad.
