A Lady's Secret Weapon

by Tracey Devlyn

  Sydney did not stop, glance back, nor reply. Her body quaked with desire, humiliation, vulnerability, and a repulsive weakness she had not had to face in many years. Not even during her courtship with Philip. She allowed Mick to guide her away, leaning on him the slightest bit for the first time in their short acquaintance.

  At the end of the corridor, Mick handed her over to Amelia and then fell in behind them. Once they were settled in the carriage, her assistant asked, “Did I do right by calling for Mac and Mick?”

  Sydney met the other woman’s worried gaze and nodded. Words were beyond her. Everything—breath, tears, bile, her voice—seemed to be lodged in a bitter knot in the center of her chest. The year her mother had spent in Ridgway’s employ was the darkest of Sydney’s life. In many ways, those weeks of living in dread and terror had molded her into the independent, careful, and strong-willed woman she was today. Those days also had laid the foundation for unexpected bouts of anxiety, hours of melancholy, and periods of intense self-hatred.

  She never, ever allowed her mind to return to those bleak days. How had her six-year-old thoughts slipped by her immovable shields? Today? Why with this man? Her mind remained too rattled to form an answer.

  But that did not stop her from trying to piece together her conversation with Ethan deBeau. He had recalled something from his recuperative stay in the dockside warehouse. She had taken special care with her maid’s disguise to prevent future discovery—worn, dirty clothing; ash smeared on her face and hands; hair in need of several more pins and covered by a threadbare cap; and a voice soft and submissive. What had she said or done to give herself away?

  Sydney clenched her hands together in her lap and squeezed. She would have to face him again in a few days, with the knowledge that he knew a dangerous part of her secret and that he had witnessed her crumble beneath the weight of her insidious past. The situation sickened her even more. Besides the O’Donnells, she allowed no man to observe her in such a weakened state. Men preyed on vulnerability. She would be no one’s prey again.

  Somehow she must rid herself of the viscount. She no longer wished to keep him close at hand. His reasons for seeking her out were no longer a mystery. Too much damage could be done by him poking around in her business for no other reason than to assuage his gentleman’s honor.

  Amelia brushed a lock of Sydney’s hair away from her downcast face. The gesture elicited an awful thought, followed rapidly by full realization. Every time Sydney had tucked the same troublesome lock of hair behind her ear, Lord Danforth’s features had slackened for a moment before his gaze sharpened. With each thoughtless action, she had sparked a memory of his recovery, until he finally patched it all together. Or, at least, a good portion of the mystery.

  She closed her eyes, cursing herself for a fool and vowing to cut her errant hair.

  Eight

  “Fine afternoon to you, Amelia. These are for you.”

  Mac O’Donnell swiveled his head toward his brother’s voice. As with many of the rooms at the Hunt Agency, the library had been converted into twin workspaces, separated by a seven-foot, double-sided bookshelf and private doors leading from the corridor to each area. One end of the bookshelf connected with the wall, leaving a three-foot gap on the other end for easy passage from one domain to the other.

  Currently, his brother was on one side with Mrs. Cartwright while Mac sat alone on the other, brooding.

  “And to you, Mick,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “The flowers are lovely. Thank you.”

  “They’re not much, but the old woman selling them assured me a bit of water would bring them back to life.”

  The assistant’s side of the library could use some cheering up. While the O’Donnell side housed a desk and two chairs, a map of London affixed to the wall containing numerous markings, a small table holding two half-full decanters, a chessboard on another table, and an empty gold-wire birdcage standing in the corner, the Cartwright side held a desk and chair, a cabinet with multiple drawers, and a small stepladder in front of the wall of books. That was it.

  The O’Donnell side bespoke of comfort and home, while the Cartwright side denoted a rather discomfiting lack of commitment. Even after four years. Only in the last twelve months or so had Mac noticed the stark difference in their workspaces, about the same time Mick joined the agency. Before that, Mac had spent most of his time avoiding his area, thereby avoiding his employer’s assistant. When they did share the same breathing space, he tapped into every bitter memory he possessed, keeping his anger and disappointment alive. The tactic ensured they developed no greater bond than a thrice-removed acquaintance.

  “You’re a kind man, Mick O’Donnell,” she said. “I’m sure your patronage saved the woman from going hungry today.”

  Mac’s jaw set. His kind brother’s patronage was nothing more than a cover to retrieve information, though Mac suspected the scapegrace paid more than he should have.

  “How is it you never confuse me with my brother?”

  Mac had often wondered the same. He leaned closer.

  “Quite easily.”

  “It’s the scar, isn’t it?”

  “What scar?”

  A moment of silence. “You’re telling me that you haven’t noticed the scar on the blighter’s face and you can still tell us apart?”

  “Of course.”

  “How?”

  Silence again; longer this time. Then a sigh. “You wished me a good afternoon.”

  “I wished you a good afternoon,” his brother repeated, as if doing so would make more sense of her answer.

  Mac heard paper shuffling and then her chair made a high-pitched squeak, as it normally did, when she rose. On occasion, he had considered fixing the telltale sign of her departure but always decided against it. He liked being able to track her movements. He liked knowing when she was near.

  “I told you,” she said. “Quite easily.” More shuffling. “I’m ready to continue interviewing our clients when you are. Shall I meet you downstairs in ten minutes?”

  “Aye,” Mick said. “Remind me to share with you what I learned from Gabby-the-flower-girl.”

  Feminine heels pattered across the floor, and Mac tried to envision what Mrs. Cartwright might be wearing today. A soft green to match her eyes or a somber blue to reflect her mood?

  “Do you not even exchange pleasantries with the woman?” Mick asked, striding through the opening between the bookshelf and wall.

  A muscle jumped in Mac’s jaw. “We discuss what we need to, when we need to.”

  “So, no. What do you do when you pass her in the corridor or see her for the first time in the morning?”

  Mac said nothing, for no words could explain the complicated emotions he experienced every time he came into contact with Mrs. Cartwright.

  “Dammit, man. Have you forgotten all your manners?”

  “How I communicate with Mrs. Cartwright is none of your concern. Leave it be.”

  “Take your own advice.” His brother waved his hand toward Mrs. Cartwright’s side. “Whatever you found in the girl’s background is just that—in her past. She’s done nothing to hurt you or anyone at the agency.”

  “Nothing we know of.”

  Disappointment trod over his brother’s righteous anger. “In all our years, I have never seen you treat the fairer sex the way you do the assistant. Does this have something to do with our no-good mother?”

  A rapid arrangement of scenes flashed before Mac’s eyes. He tried to stop them, but somehow they always found a crack in his mental barriers. Raw fury burned through him like the glowing tip of a new sword. “Fine, she’s an angel.”

  “Yet you will still treat her like she’s the devil.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.” Mac shot up out of his chair and paced the small confines of their shared workspace. “I can respect her dedication to the agency without being her dam
ned friend.”

  Mick moved to the door. “What are you afraid of, brother? That you might come to care for her? A young, beautiful woman who made a horrible blunder and is now working diligently to correct the mistake?” Mick shook his head and turned the latch. “If I didn’t know you any better, I would think you had traipsed through the last twenty-six years on a golden cloud of fairy dust.”

  Mac slashed his hand through the air, ending the conversation. “Make sure Sydney knows about your conversation with Gabby-the-flower-girl.”

  Mick sent him a mocking salute. “At once, Admiral O’Donnell.” He stepped into the shadow-ridden corridor. “Know this, brother. If you won’t have her, I will.”

  Blood pounded behind Mac’s eyes. He pressed his thumb and forefinger into the burning sockets, rubbing. How had it come to this? He could think of a dozen more qualified individuals to deliver a lecture on manners than his guttersnipe brother. But the bastard had found a raw nerve and then proceeded to draw a knife over it, again and again.

  Mac wasn’t discourteous to Mrs. Cartwright. Amelia. He simply avoided her until he could not. His need to evade her company had increased in the last few months, as had his awareness of her every move.

  He let his hand fall to his side and strode to the opening. He studied Amelia’s workspace for several minutes. Such a dismal space—stark, cold, utilitarian. By no means was this an appropriate environment for a young woman to spend hours at a time, alone and without companionship. No wonder she never smiled. His mood darkened just standing here.

  The only spot of color in the whole room was the sad arrangement of yellow flowers Mick had given her. His brother knew her well, for he even brought her a small vase of water to stow them in.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he located the empty birdcage. The large wire-framed cage once held an armada of warbling canaries of various colors. He had toted the birds from one apartment to the next, where they provided him with hours of company and beautiful music. His neighbors had rarely appreciated their symphony, but Mac had. So much of his early life had been scarred by the sights and sounds of greed and poverty that he never knew such beauty existed.

  And then his avian friends began dying, one after the other, until there were none left. For two years, the cage had sat empty. Mac simply didn’t have the heart to replace his birds, nor could he discard their cage.

  He swiveled his gaze back to Amelia’s workspace. His was not the only life lacking beauty.

  Nine

  Dear Ethan,

  Teddy said I could ride with you in Hyde Park. Bastian brought Guinevere to London. Mama said to ask when you are available. Guinevere and I thought this morning at ten would be a brilliant time.

  Your forever friend,

  Sophie Ashcroft

  PS—Bastian thought you might still be sleeping at ten. If so, I’m available at ten thirty.

  Ethan stared at the missive, knowing instinctively that Somerton, also known as Bastian, was behind this miracle turnaround of Teddy’s response. He dropped the small square of paper on his desk and glanced up at the clock. Nine thirty. Contrary to what Somerton supposed, Ethan had been up since seven contemplating his next reconnaissance of Abbingale.

  Now that he had a feel for Abbingale’s daytime activities, it was time to see what they were about at night. He mentally catalogued his repertoire of disguises and decided on black. Simple, uncomplicated black attire.

  By being himself, he could move about more freely—something he was quite keen on given his faux pas yesterday. He could not recall the last time he had made such a telling mistake. Mistakes like that got people killed. But the haunted expression Miss Hunt wore when she’d exited the boys’ home made him forget all of his training and experience. He had reacted with a swiftness that hadn’t stopped to consider logic or reasoning. His only thought—to protect. A laughable notion, considering Miss Hunt traveled nowhere without her two strapping footmen in tow.

  Then he recalled the odd episode in his study yesterday. Not the shock and dismay she had displayed when he’d thanked her for caring for him. Though her dismay seemed a little out of proportion for such a revelation. No, the moment that returned to his mind again and again was the way she’d recoiled from him. Her face, white and frozen with trepidation. It was not his size she had feared, but his taking control, his caging her within his embrace. His stomach roiled with thoughts of what her reaction might mean.

  He could not even allow himself to enjoy the euphoria of discovery. He’d found her. His mousy little nursemaid, who wasn’t so little after all. When the time was right, he would thank her more properly for taking care of him and then set about annoying her every minute of the day until she revealed her cloaked companion’s identity. Although she would like to think so, she was not completely immune to his charm. He had only to relive their kiss to know the truth of it.

  Dear God, she had the sweetest mouth. He could have kissed her for hours and have not tired of her response. And her body. Never had a woman fit so perfectly against his large frame. Most times, he worried he would crush his lover, which forced him to hold back his passions—if there had been any to begin with. In the last couple years, there had been none. With Sydney, he sensed that she would be as demanding as he in bed. And she would have been, he was sure of it, if not for the fear. A breath shuddered from between his lips.

  The last thing he wanted to do was take Sydney Hunt to his bed to coax information from her. No, when they met skin to skin, he would not have espionage on his mind. The only thing on his mind would be Sydney. Only Sydney, and how he could make her forget the fear.

  He checked the clock again and gritted his teeth. Nine forty. Enough time to collect his horse and make it to Somerton House at the appointed hour. Why Sophie Ashcroft had taken a liking to him, he didn’t know. But he had already disappointed her once this week. He couldn’t bear doing so again.

  As for Miss Hunt’s past, he stored away that particular mystery for later. Now, he must entertain a miniature banshee who was determined to treat him like an uncle, of sorts. He rotated his head to the left, enjoying the satisfying crackle of vertebrae. Then did the same to the right before rising.

  Horses. In the next twenty minutes, he had to come up with enough questions about horses to fill an hour’s worth of time. If he were conversing with an adult, the task would not be too onerous. But a seven-year-old girl? He groaned. No doubt they would spend the entire time chatting about pretty colors and perfect names.

  Somehow he would make Somerton pay for his interference. Well, he would once he started speaking to the man again. His mentor’s lack of faith in his abilities still boiled in his gut like sour stew.

  When he entered the entry hall, he found Tanner hovering in his usual spot. “I’m off to Somerton House now.”

  “Of course, my lord. Your mount’s out front.”

  “How did you know I’d need my horse?”

  Tanner smiled. “We’re paid to anticipate your needs.”

  “Or Rucker enclosed a note along with Sophie’s.”

  “That too, my lord.”

  As his butler strode away, Ethan experienced a pang of guilt. Why had it taken a ruse for him to realize Tanner needed help? The old retainer had served the deBeaus well over the years, and how had Ethan repaid his faithful service? He had reduced his staff to the point where Tanner acted the butler, footman, valet, and who knew what else. With Miss Hunt’s help, he’d be able to rectify his mistake, and soon.

  The moment he closed the door, a familiar voice said, “Going somewhere, Danforth?”

  Ethan glanced around to find the Marquess of Shevington alighting from his carriage. Seeing his friend during the day—again—shocked him so badly that all he could manage was a disbelieving stare.

  “Your mouth is agape, Danforth. It’s not complimentary.”

  “What induced you to venture out mid-morn
ing? Must be something dire for you to brave running into nannies and babies.”

  “You should never try to be humorous before the midday meal,” Shev said. “It doesn’t take hold.” He paused while a stable lad delivered Ethan’s mount. “Do you have a social engagement?”

  “Yes. I am to meet a young lady for a ride in the park.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Doubtful. She’s seven.”

  A look of horror crossed Shev’s face. “My condolences, old man.”

  “You would like her,” Ethan said, feeling protective. “As a matter of fact, she reminds me a lot of you. Care to walk with me to Somerton House?”

  “Walk?” Shev asked as if the act were a foreign notion. “Why don’t you tie your mount to the back of my carriage and then we can avoid such exertions.”

  “Come. The exercise will do you good, and you can astonish me with the reason for your visit as we stroll.”

  The marquess released a groan of resignation. “Taylor,” he said to his coachman. “Drive on to Somerton House. I’ll trudge along behind.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A snap of the reins sent the marquess’s carriage lurching forward. Ethan motioned to the stable lad holding his horse to follow. In order to make his appointment with Sophie Ashcroft, he would have to set a brisk pace. Knowing Sophie, she’d probably had her pixie face plastered against the front window since dispatching her invitation. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that patience was not one of the girl’s virtues. A characteristic they both shared.

  “What can I do for you, Shev?”

  “Perhaps I am here to help you.”

  “Are you?”

  The marquess smiled. “Yes and no. I have both a favor to ask of you and an invitation. Which would you like to hear first?”

  “I have a feeling neither is going to be enjoyable. Let us start with the worst of it.”

  “Your dear sister Cora is in France, is she not?”

  Ethan’s humor drained away. “Not any longer. She returned to England not long ago.”