by Darcy Burke
Should she put the book back? It seemed so personal. But in a few days, she’d be a Spencer too. Shouldn’t she learn as much as she could about her new family? “Better to have all the facts before you form an opinion,” she’d told Thomas a fortnight ago when he’d asked her why he must learn ancient history. “The past influences the present. Without it, we are lost.”
Turning the page again, Vivian decided that since the book was out in the open, it was fit for public consumption. She skipped to the next page. The portraits appeared to be from the reign of Charles, before that unseemly affair with Cromwell. Each stately ancestor of the Spencers was more impressive than the next. “Lady Henrietta Williams, second cousin to Elizabeth Stuart.” Sweet Mary, James was related to the blooming Queen of Bohemia.
She bit her lip, proceeding to the next page. It became worse from there. Page after page, decades of influential people. She should have used this blasted album to teach Thomas history, since almost every name in it had left their mark on Britain’s past.
Her fingers curled around the locket charm she wore around her neck.
She was a Loren. Her name meant nothing to the ton. Evan, her dear, sweet, wonderful brother, had been deemed so unimportant by the Runners that they’d left his murder unsolved.
Vivian shoved the book off her lap. It landed upside down on the floor with a plop, somehow fitting when her stomach felt like it was sinking to the floor too.
“Abysmal ending?”
She hadn’t noticed James hovering in the doorway. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She bent down to pick up the book as he ambled into the room.
Dash it all.
She couldn’t hide the album from his sight, not when he sauntered over to her, leaning over her shoulder.
“I haven’t seen that book in years,” he said. “It was Elinor’s project with Thomas’s mother, Juliana. The new duchess wanted to know all about the ‘illustrious Spencer clan,’ as she called us.”
“It slipped from my hands,” Vivian lied, hoping she wouldn’t have to explain further.
His brow arched as if he didn’t believe her, but he let her untruth slide without comment. Sinking down on the cushion next to her, he pried the book from her hands, glancing at the page where she’d left off.
“Ah, Great-Uncle Herman.” He held the book out to her, pointing at the stoic man with far more facial hair than could ever have been fashionable. “No one liked him—or so my grandmother claimed when I was growing up.”
Vivian scooted back on the settee, turning her body so that she could see both him and the book. “What did Uncle Herman do to that made him so unlikable?”
“If I remember correctly, he liked pickled fish too much. Thankfully, Great-Aunt Matilda had no sense of smell. So she thought he was delightful.” James smiled, and she was struck by how handsome he looked when he smiled.
In a few days, he would be her James—in name, at least.
Someday, she’d learn how to make him smile often. Someday, when the past did not have such a hold on them, and they could breathe without the ache of loss.
Someday, if Sauveterre did not kill her first.
She shoved that thought from her mind, forcing herself to focus on the story of his relatives. “It sounds as though Herman and Matilda were a match made in heaven.”
“Or hell, because apparently Matilda was an appalling jaw-me-dead. Between the two of them, they could clear a room in record time.” Passing the book to her, he pointed at Great-Aunt Matilda, a severe woman with a feathered headdress that could have poked out an eyeball if she came too close.
“Well, at least they had each other.” She took his story as a sign that the universe promised happy endings for some people—if not all. That gave her hope.
“’Til death did they part,” James said with a chuckle. “I personally think they should have buried Uncle Herman with a jar of pickled fish. My grandmother, however, caned me for suggesting so.”
She winced. “I suddenly see where your sisters get their fire from.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” He spun the book around again, indicating a small oil painting of a woman with long chocolate locks and dazzling green eyes.
“She’s beautiful.” Vivian glanced from the picture to his face. There was a definite familial resemblance in James’s strong chin, his wavy dark hair and wide forehead.
“My mother,” he explained. “Korianna is the spitting image of her. Has her temper too. Why, once in a disagreement with my father, Mama even flung a vase against the wall.”
Vivian’s brows arched. “It could have been worse.”
James paused in turning to the next page. He gave a short nod, this time a prompt for her to continue.
She shrugged. “Your mother could have thrown it at the duke’s head instead.”
He let out a bark of laughter at that, and she relished the sound. Loved this side of him, so loose and casual. She saw herself spending the rest of her life with this man.
She saw herself in love with him.
And in that moment, tucked away in the drawing room with him with all his family history surrounding them, she wanted so badly for that dream to come true. A marriage built on genuine affection. A marriage where he’d chosen her because out of all of the women in England, he adored her the most.
He stood up, going to the drink sideboard in the corner of the room. Soon, he came back with two drinks. He passed the first glass to her, and set the second on the low table whilst he sat down.
Picking the glass back up, he eyed it with disdain. “I hate sherry, really.”
“I will confess it is not my favorite either.” She took a sip, then placed her glass back down on the low table. “Why drink it, then?”
“Because Elinor insists it is not acceptable to stock the parlor with brandy. Ah well, down the hatch it goes.” James drained half his glass in one gulp, making such a disgusted face that Vivian couldn’t help but laugh.
She gestured toward the door. “It is a big house. Surely there are other rooms besides your office where you’ve secreted brandy, away from Lady Elinor’s control.”
He nodded again, so swiftly she did not doubt he had seventeen bottles of brandy stashed in different rooms. She was about to ask him why he did not drink them instead, when he stopped with the sherry glass halfway to his mouth and he looked straight at her.
“If I was to go get one of those bottles, I’d have to leave you.”
Her heart fluttered rapidly. Oh, his grave voice did naughty things to her insides. When his gaze met hers, the sheer emotion behind those stormy grey eyes lit the most private parts of her anatomy on fire in the most delicious way.
All she could think of was how his gaze had fastened on her that night in his library, and how rich his voice had been when he’d told her to never doubt that she was the one he wanted.
She matched his honesty with her own. “I don’t want you to go.”
He reached for her, covering her smaller palm with his massive, tanned hand. Her gloves were thinner today, cloth instead of kid leather. His fingers felt calloused and rough, which made no sense for an aristocratic man. But he was a Corinthian, his athletic body muscled and hard, so she dismissed the irregularity.
“I’m not going anywhere.” The softness of his voice caressed her like his hand. “You’ll have me by your side for a long time, my dear. Once we say our vows, you’ll wish you could get rid of me.”
Was it her imagination, or was there a hint of self-loathing in his voice? Releasing her hand, he shifted on the settee. He picked the album back up and returned to his perusal.
“I doubt very much that will be true.” She chose her words carefully, lest she admit what was on the tip of her tongue: the idea of a lifetime with him was becoming more appealing the more she knew him. Since that night in the office when she’d bandaged his hand, he’d treated her with kindness at every turn.
At every turn, he’d proved he was worthy of her trust.
; She peeked over his shoulder. A sketch of his mother riding a gorgeous stallion, captured in the moment right before the horse took off over a jump.
“She was certainly fearless,” Vivian remarked.
“Yes,” James agreed. “I don’t have many memories of her, as she died when I was still a child, but I do remember some things. Her favorite color was yellow, so she always insisted we have yellow flowers around the house. She liked carrots, but hated turnips. Specific moments are harder to recall.”
She knew all too well what he meant. “When the carriage accident killed my parents, I was seven. For a few years, I could remember everything about them. The sound of my father’s voice. The twinkle in my mother’s eye when she was proud of us.”
He ran his thumb over the sketch of his mother, tracing the shape of her face. “Over time the memories fade, don’t they? Until all that’s left is a wisp of time. You’ll hear a certain melody, or feel a tinge when you eat a meal you know she would have enjoyed.”
“Every time I smell gardenias, I think of my mother’s perfume. But were it not for sketches of her, I don’t think I’d remember what she looked like.” Vivian swiped the glass of sherry off the table, taking a long sip. It did nothing to quiet her mind. “It’s going to be like this for Evan, isn’t it? Already, I can feel the recollections slipping away.”
For a moment, there was no sound in the room but their breathing. They were two hearts beating in tandem, but each lost to their own memories.
“You can’t bring him back,” James said finally. “But together we’ll make sure Sauveterre never hurts anyone again.”
“It’ll have to be enough.” She closed her eyes, trying to recall her last night with Evan. Though she could still clearly picture him, the details were hazy, as if she viewed a portrait where the paint smudged.
Sighing, she took the book from his hands, flipping toward the back. Perhaps there was a sketch of him as a child; something that would make him laugh again. She located a few pictures of Korianna and Elinor, but none of him. Moving to the next page, she read the caption underneath a sketch of a young child she did not recognize with ribbon-tied braids.
Louisa Spencer, age 4.
She tried to turn the page before he noticed. As if by not seeing the picture, she could erase the past—but she of all people knew that was impossible.
“Don’t.” James placed his thumb on the book, preventing her from turning the page. “I’d like to remember her this way, for once.”
Vivian released her hold on the book, letting it rest in his lap. “She looks happy here.”
“She was always happy.” His voice took on a faraway quality, lost to memories. “Maybe that’s what I remember most. Her cheerfulness—the way the atmosphere changed when she entered a room. She was so vibrant. Everyone around her became a bit more animated.”
“I’m sorry you lost her.” She wanted to reach for him. Wanted so badly to ease his pain. But how could she soothe his hurt when she couldn’t stop her own? When everything she did was motivated by the need for revenge?
His sister had been ripped from him, and she couldn’t change that. But she could listen, and she could try to understand.
Her hand edged forward, toward his, her pinkie finger grazing the corner of the page. “I would have liked to meet Lady Louisa.”
He moved his hand over, so that his thumb stroked her pinkie. “I think she would have liked you.”
Warmth emanated from that tiny touch of their fingers. “You think so?”
He shifted on the settee, bringing his thigh in contact with hers. Again, heat filled her—flooding her body as he smiled at her, a bittersweet, genuine smile. She could not take away his pain, but she’d help him to remember the better times in addition to the sorrow.
“If you can fence half as good as you claim, you would have been her favorite sister.” He looped his thumb around her pinkie, his larger hand around her smaller one. “Do you have a portrait of Evan? I should like to know the brother who was so important to you.”
“In my locket.” She pulled her finger from his grasp to reach behind and undo the knot in the ribbon around her neck. The brass locket dropped into her hands, and she opened up the clasp to reveal the portrait of Evan. “This is him.”
James took the locket from her, holding the portrait up to examine it. “Ah, I see the family resemblance. Good cheekbones on you both.”
“I look like my mother, I’m told,” she said. “Evan took after my father.”
“It is good to know the man I’m fighting for.” He motioned for her to turn around. Then he leaned forward, the family album still spread across his lap, his breath hot against her bare skin. And his nimble fingers tied the ribbon swiftly around her neck, too swiftly, for then he was gone again, back to his side of the settee. “I like that locket.”
“Lady Elinor would prefer I replace it.” She spoke without thought, regretting it afterward. She should not cause strife between him and his sisters—not when she hoped to become a part of their family.
He shook his head. “Perish the thought. I believe you should hold onto the parts of your past that bring you comfort.”
She reached out again, this time brave enough to take his hand in hers.
The night before he became a married man, James paced through the conservatory, shrouded in darkness. Perhaps a man such as him did not deserve the light. For no matter how Vivian made him feel in those moments when they were alone, he could not forget the man he’d been before. He was a spy, damn it, and he was good at it: examining a man’s weak spots and gaging where an attack would do the most damage; identifying an enemy’s fear and using it against them; finding that one key detail in a series of seemingly unimportant facts.
Soon, that knowledge would be Vivian’s too. Imprinted upon her mind, shaping her conduct for years to come. Making her something new, but not necessarily something better. It was unavoidable. Her life was at risk. She’d become a target, and without the Clocktower’s help, she would die. He knew that deep in his gut, in the same way he knew that Louisa’s death had been his fault.
A few more strides brought him to the bench they’d sat on when she’d confessed to spying upon him. His little ingénue, trying so hard to be covert and failing miserably. After two weeks under his tutelage, she’d know the basics of spycraft. And she’d be safe enough. Safer than she’d be without him.
But after this? After Sauveterre was captured, and Vivian had her justice? Not her revenge, because he’d be damned if he turned her into a killer like him. What would become of them? Would she still want him after she knew every side of him? He was not the dandy duke the ton wanted him to be. He’d seen too much, done too much, to be anything but jaded.
He dropped down onto the bench, stretching out his long legs in front of him. When he was with Vivian, for a few seconds—a few minutes, sometimes—he forgot who he was. The broken man beneath his polished exterior didn’t feel so broken. But months from now, once the immediate threat dissipated, Vivian would realize that she hadn’t contributed to her brother’s death, after all. She would come to terms with her grief, while James would remain mired in his guilt.
“I suspected you’d be here.” Arden’s voice drifted to him from several paces away.
He turned in his seat, draping his arm over the back of the bench. He’d been so lost in his thoughts he hadn’t heard her approach. But that was no surprise. Sometimes he barely recognized the little girl his father had found wandering in the Whitechapel rookery, lost and alone. She was as much a spy as any born Spencer.
Arden stopped behind the bench, resting her hand on his shoulder. He leaned into the weight, grateful for her reassurance. Whenever he’d had a problem in the last fifteen years—sometimes before he knew it himself—Arden had been there. Always.
“Oh, Jim.” Her soft voice filled with pity as she caught sight of his expression.
From anyone else, pity made him defensive. He’d learned quickly to project a veneer of
confidence, so that people wouldn’t think him weak—or worse, ask too many questions. With Arden, he couldn’t hide.
“I’d hoped you were finally experiencing some peace.” She came to his side of the bench, slowly sitting down beside him.
“As the Lion always said, ‘there’ll be peace when our work is done, and our work is never done.’”
“You always do that,” Arden chided him. “In fact, I can’t remember the last time I heard you refer to him as ‘Father.’ It’s always ‘the Lion.’ Why is that?”
He blinked. “No reason.”
Arden gave him one of her characteristic “you’re not going to get rid of me that easily” arch looks.
James ran a hand across his chin. “I don’t know. He might have been our father, but he was a legend. Isn’t that more important than whatever he was to us?”
Arden shook her head. “We were taught to think that way. You especially, since you’re the heir. You don’t get a chance to see the smaller picture—to see each life individually. The stakes are so much higher for you, our leader.”
“‘Lose one life to save a hundred,’” James quoted, recalling the Lion’s words when a favorite agent had died foiling an assassination plot against the Prime Minister.
“Yet you punish yourself every day over Louisa’s death.” Arden laid her hand on top of his.
He thought of the portrait in the family album. Louisa’s wide smile, her front tooth missing. The ribbons in her hair he knew were pink, though the sketch was charcoal. He remembered the dirt always streaking her hands, even as she aged—she’d been so daring, never daunted by anything.
But he couldn’t recall the sound of her laugh.
“Every day, I remember a little less about Louisa.” He did not know if he spoke to himself or Arden. With one foot in the past and the other in his new future with Vivian, he lacked a hold on the present. “I was with Vivian today, going over Elinor’s family album. For an hour with her, I made jokes and I laughed.”
Arden smiled. “If the memories are becoming cloudy, then that’s a sign. Your mind’s trying to tell you that it’s time for you to be happy.”
