A throat cleared, and in walked his friend.
“Bloody awful timing, Helsford.”
Then Somerton followed. His expression grim and pale.
Cold dread seeped into Ethan’s bones. Somerton’s interrogation of the matron had evidently produced fruit, but nobody was going to like the taste of it.
Thirty-one
Only minutes ago, Sydney could see not but the vague outlines of her bedchamber furniture. Now, the blue-gray predawn light misted into the room, giving every object a day side and a night side. Mornings had always been her favorite time. They held such promise, such immeasurable possibilities. She glanced down and smiled. Today more so than any other.
Especially after last night’s horrific revelations. Mrs. Kingston had produced a ledger used by LaRouche to log each transaction made on the gifted boys—procurement dates, names, extortion detail and resolution, and finally, the boy’s bill of sale. Viewing the stark rows and columns of men using and selling children had made her physically ill.
Somerton had also come away from the interrogation with a list of homes used in LaRouche’s courier system. When the spymaster had asked Mrs. Kingston what she had done with the Frenchman’s body, she led them to the cellar. To the darkest, coldest corner. There, they found LaRouche’s body balled into a burlap bag and shoved into a recessed area.
Today would no doubt bring more heartache as they tackled the difficult process of identifying each boy and determining who was a true orphan and who had a family to go home to. Today also signaled the beginning of so many happy endings, and that’s what Sydney would focus her mind on. But later.
Right now, all she wanted to do was to be near Ethan. With the greatest care, she brushed her fingertips over the curled ends of his sable locks. She did not want to wake him, but she could not seem to stop touching him. Or looking at him. While awake, he was more handsome than any gentleman she’d ever known. In slumber, when his features loosened their hold on worry, self-recrimination, guilt, shame, and all the other emotions that he tried to hide, his beauty could topple any mystical god’s.
He loved her, and she loved him. She was too frightened to think beyond those two glorious facts.
His eyes blinked open, and Sydney cursed her selfishness. He had endured so much pain last night before she finally talked him into taking some of the laudanum. Sleep was important during the healing process, and now she’d just deprived him of precious recovery time.
“My apologies,” she said. “I did not mean to disturb you. Here, I’ll leave you be.” She started to rise, but he grasped her hand and brought it to his lips.
“Did you get any rest?” he asked, his voice cracking with disuse. “Or did you play nursemaid all night?”
“Let me get you something to drink.”
“After you answer my question.”
“Lord Helsford was right. You are a stubborn man.”
He raised his eyebrow, waiting.
She sighed. “I wanted to be available, should you have had need of me.”
“In other words… no.” Using his left arm, he levered himself into an upright position. He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Thank you. Now, about that glass of water.”
Scrambling out of bed, she draped her rose-colored silk wrap around her shoulders and secured the sash at her waist. After pouring a glass of water, she turned to find him standing in the center of the room, in nothing but his smalls and bandages. Water splashed over the rim.
“What are you doing? I would have brought it to you.”
“I’m quite capable of fetching my own water. I merely wanted to see you walk across the chamber in your chemise.” He sighed, plucking at her wrap. “Alas, you thwarted my plan by donning this pretty pink confection.”
“Your water, my lord.”
He took the glass and carried it to his lips. The moment he tipped back his head, she shimmied out of her wrap and let it pool around her wrists. He half snorted, half choked on the water. She smiled and pulled her wrap back on.
“Vixen.”
“Reprobate.”
His eyes narrowed.
“How is your head?” she asked. “Any nausea? Dizziness?”
His lips twitched at her turn of topic. “It aches, but no other ill effects, at the moment.”
Striding to one of the two chairs, she patted the seat. “Come here. I want to hear about your conversation with Lord Somerton.”
He stiffened. “Why?”
“You’re not the only one who is curious about private tête-à-têtes.”
“Our discussion had nothing to do with you.”
“Did it not?” She held her breath, hoping he would confide in her.
“What do you know, Sydney?” His tone was menacing.
She had gambled and lost. After her conversation with Lord Helsford, she hadn’t been able to think of any other way to broach the subject of his conversation.
He tossed back the rest of his water and slammed the glass on the table. “Sydney?”
“Oh, all right. But you must sit. I won’t have you towering over me like one of those mythical, foul-smelling monsters.”
That caught him up short. He angled his head toward one shoulder, then the next, his nostrils flaring each time. When she realized what he was doing, she burst out laughing. He stomped over and plopped into the chair and winced. She bent down and kissed the top of his head.
Taking the other chair, she said, “Lord Helsford mentioned that Somerton was ready to appoint a new chief for the Nexus.” Her body hummed with nervous excitement. “Are you the one?”
“No and yes and no.”
Her jaw dropped. “Pardon?”
Tilting his head back, he rested it against the chair. “At the end of last week, Somerton gave me an opportunity to fight for the position. A position I’d been training for and working toward for over a decade.”
“Who was your competition?”
“Helsford, or so I believed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw Helsford later and congratulated him.” His mouth twisted. “All right, I didn’t exactly congratulate him, but I told him I thought he’d make a good chief. That’s when Helsford told me he’d already informed Somerton that he wanted nothing to do with the position.”
The short distance separating them seemed a great cavern. She rose and snuggled against his leg, resting her head on his lap. A second later, his fingers tunneled through her hair. Sydney removed her hair tie and unwound her braid.
“I cannot wait to feel your silky hair draped over my chest.”
She smiled and kissed his knee. “Why Somerton’s deception?”
“To be chief, you have to be willing to do anything in service of England,” he said softly. “Because I wasn’t willing to pit myself against Helsford, I revealed my weakness. My inability to put my country first.”
She lifted her head. “No, Ethan. You showed him your humanity.”
He bussed her forehead. “That, too, hedgehog.”
“And tonight?”
“Tonight, he admitted two difficult truths. One was that he’d always hoped I would take over the chief’s position.”
“How wonderful.”
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I admit, hearing his revelation repaired some of my damaged pride.”
“The second truth?”
“That he was glad I chose loved ones over my country.”
“As am I.” She studied his features for any sign of regret and found none.
He brushed her cheek, and she felt cool air slide over her damp skin.
“Are you very disappointed?”
Smiling, he said, “Not in the least.”
“You wanted the position so badly, though.”
He nodded. “I thought being the c
hief would validate my work with the Nexus, make my contribution more meaningful. It wasn’t until my conversation last night with Somerton that I realized a title does not imbue one’s work with value. A title is nothing but letters on a sheet of paper. Compassion, integrity, principles, diligence—those are the qualities that bring honor and significance to one’s work. And those qualities are controlled by me, and me alone.”
Sydney rose up on her knees and nudged his legs open so she could burrow closer. “Does this mean you’re no longer interested in being chief?”
Reaching out, he cupped the side of her throat, his thumb resting on her pulse point. “Not chief, not boudoir spy, and not rescuer of imprisoned damsels. Though I might still have to keep company with a few ants, on occasion.”
She ignored his strange reference to ants. “What will you do instead?”
“A few things come to mind. First, I would like to offer my services to the Hunt Agency. I rather like the thought of helping those who cannot help themselves.”
“What type of assistance?”
He nudged the side of his nose with hers. “Have I mentioned I’m a very good spy and can ferret out the most troublesome details?”
“Ahh,” she smoothed her hands up his broad chest, “I do recall something to that effect. What else comes to mind?”
“I mean to take you to bed and allow you to ravish my poor broken body.”
She swooped in to pull his plump bottom lip between her teeth; her tongue teased the soft underside. Then she let go. “Will you be breaking one of your Instinct Rules?”
Curling his lower lip inward, he ran his tongue over where hers had trailed. “As a matter of fact, I will.”
“Number five?” she challenged.
“Do not take your lover to bed more than twice.”
Sydney’s eyes rolled to her bed, where she’d spent several peaceful hours watching over him. “Too late. I slept with you last night.”
The fingers at the back of her neck were tightening, preparing. “Since the sequence has been broken, I’m saved from sharing my final, most important rule.” A familiar rogue’s grin played along his lips.
She tried to hold out, she really did. But her curiosity had always been one of her greatest weaknesses. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Number six?”
The gentle pressure on her neck grew until they were nose to nose. When he spoke next, his lips caressed hers. “Ignore all the rules when you find the lover of your heart.”
In case you missed it, here’s an
excerpt from Tracey Devlyn’s debut
A Lady’s Revenge
Available now from Sourcebooks Casablanca
1804
Near Honfleur, France
Guy Trevelyan, Earl of Helsford, stopped short at the sharp smell of burning flesh. The caustic odor melded with the dungeon’s thick, moldy air, stinging his eyes and seizing his lungs. His watery gaze slashed to the cell’s open door, and he cocked his head, listening.
There.
A sudden scrape of metal against metal. A faint sizzling sound followed by a muffled scream.
He stepped forward to put an end to the prisoner’s obvious suffering but was yanked back and forced up against the dungeon’s cold stone wall, a solid forearm pressed against the base of his throat.
Danforth.
Guy thrust his knee into the bastard’s stomach, enjoying the sound of air hissing between his assailant’s lips, but the man didn’t release his hold. Nearly the same size as Guy, the Viscount Danforth wasn’t an easy man to dislodge. Guy knew that fact well. For many years they had tested each other’s strength.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” the viscount whispered near his ear. “We’re here for the Raven. No one else.”
Guy stared into Danforth’s shadowed face, surprised and thankful for his friend’s quick reflexes. What would have happened had he stormed into the cell to save a prisoner he knew nothing about, against odds he hadn’t taken time to calculate? Something in the prisoner’s cry of pain struck deep into his gut. His reaction had been swift and instinctual, more in line with Danforth’s reckless tendencies than his own carefully considered decisions.
“Leave off,” Guy hissed, furious with himself. He pushed against Danforth’s hold, and the other man’s arm dropped away.
He had to concentrate on their assignment, or none of them would leave this French nightmare alive. The mission: retrieve the Raven, a female spy credited with saving hundreds of British lives by infiltrating the newly appointed emperor’s intimate circle and relaying information back to the Alien Office.
Guy shook his head, unable to fathom the courage needed to pull off such an ill-fated assignment. The ever-changing landscape of the French government ensured no one was safe—not the former king, the Ancien Régime, the bourgeoisie, or the commoner. And, most especially, not an English secret service agent.
Although Napoleon’s manipulation of the weak and floundering Consulate stabilized a country on the brink of civil destruction, the revered general-turned-dictator wasn’t content to reign over just one country. He wanted to rule all of Europe, possibly the entire world. And, if his enemies didn’t unite under one solid coalition soon, he might achieve his goal.
Another muffled, gut-twisting cry from the cell drew his attention. He clenched his teeth, staring at the faint light spilling out of the room, alert for movement or any signs of what he might find within.
Sweet Jesus, he hoped the individual being tortured by one of Valère’s henchmen wasn’t the Raven. In his years with the Alien Office, he had witnessed a lot of disturbing scenes, some of his creation. But to witness the mangled countenance of a woman… The notion struck too close to the fear that had boiled in his chest for months—years—giving him no respite.
On second thought, he hoped the prisoner was the Raven. Then he wouldn’t have to make the decision to leave the poor, unfortunate soul behind, and they could get the hell out of this underground crypt posthaste.
“Are you well?” Danforth asked, eyeing him as if he didn’t recognize his oldest friend.
Guy shoved away from the stone wall, shrugging off the chill that had settled like ice in his bones. Devil take it, what did the chief of the Alien Office expect him to do? Walk up to the prisoner and say, “Hello, are you the Raven? No? What a shame. Well, have a nice evening.” Only one person knew what the agent looked like, and Somerton did not offer up those details before ushering them off to France. Why? he wondered for the thousandth time. It was an answer he intended to find as soon as they got back to London, assuming they survived this mission.
“I’m fine.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Now cease with the mothering and get behind me.”
He barely noticed the fist connecting with his arm, having already braced himself for Danforth’s retaliation. Some things never change. Inching toward the cell door, he tilted his head and concentrated on the low rumble of voices until he was close enough to make out individual words.
“Why do you force me to be so cruel?” a plaintive voice from inside the chamber asked. The Frenchman spoke slowly, as if talking to a child, which allowed Guy to quickly translate the man’s unctuous words. The gaoler continued, “All you have to do is provide my master with the information he seeks.”
A chain rattled. “Go to the devil, Boucher,” a guttural voice whispered.
Guy’s jaw hardened. The prisoner’s words were so low and distorted that it was impossible to distinguish the speaker’s gender. Every second they spent trying to solve the prisoner’s identity was a second closer to discovery.
The interrogator let out a deep, exaggerated sigh. “The branding iron seems to have lost its effect on you. Let me see if I have something more persuasive.”
An animallike growl preceded the prisoner’s broken whisper. “Your black soul will burn for this.”
Boucher chuckled low, controlled. “But not tonight, little spy. As you have come to discover, I do not have the same aversion to seeing you suffer as my master does.”
Something eerily familiar about the prisoner’s voice caught Guy’s attention. His gaze sliced back to Danforth to find puzzlement etched deeply between his friend’s brows.
Guy turned back, the ferocity of his heartbeat pumping in his ears. His stomach churned with the certain knowledge that what he found in this room of despair would change his life forever. He steadied his hand against the rough surface of the dungeon wall, leaned forward to peer into the cell, and was struck by a sudden wave of fetid air. The smell was so foul that it sucked the breath from his lungs, and he nearly coughed to expel the sickening taste from his mouth and throat.
The cell was twice the size of the others they had searched. Heaps of filthy straw littered the floor caked with human waste and God knew what else. Several strategically placed candles illuminated a small, circular area, leaving the room’s corners steeped in darkness. In the center stood a long wooden table with a young man strapped to its surface by thick iron manacles.
A young man. Disappointment spiraled through him. He glanced at Danforth and shook his head, and then evaluated their situation. The corridor beyond the candlelit chamber loomed like a great, impenetrable abyss.
The intelligence Danforth had seduced from Valère’s maid suggested the chateau’s dungeon held twelve cells. If the maid’s information was correct, that left four more chambers to search. Would they, like all the others, be strangely empty?
Guy narrowed his gaze, fighting to see something—anything—down the darkened passage. It yawned eerily silent. Too damned silent. The lack of movement, guards, and other prisoners scraped his nerves raw. That and the realization they would not be able to slide past the nearby cell without drawing attention from its occupants.
Dammit.
He ignored Danforth’s warning tap on his shoulder and peered into the young man’s cell again. The prisoner’s filthy legs and arms splayed in a perfect X across the table’s bloodstained surface. A few feet away, with his back to the prisoner, stood a slender man dressed in the clothes of a gentleman, his unusual white-capped head bent in concentration over an assortment of spine-chilling instruments. Boucher.
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