“Oh? Do you normally smash your face against your hostess’s terrace door?”
A light flush colored his cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
She raised one brow. “What is it you want, then?” She hoped he never discovered her true reason for attending tonight’s affair. Why hadn’t Somerton mentioned Guy’s return?
The curiosity in his eyes gave way to something darker, more dangerous. Something normally not shared among friends.
Liquid heat spiraled into the area between her legs, reigniting the slow burn of awareness her earlier activities had aroused. Following Somerton’s instructions, Mrs. Lancaster had planned this exclusive masked ball, with all its excesses, for Cora’s introduction to the art of seduction. Although Somerton had been initially reluctant to consider her proposal, he had finally conceded the fact that she could not infiltrate France’s elite as a missish debutante. With that in mind, Somerton’s mistress had made certain Cora knew what it was like to touch a man’s warm, naked flesh and be touched in return.
The woman had done her job well, for now Cora’s mind sifted through the courtesan’s secrets as she met Guy’s gaze.
He moved closer. So close that his unique musky scent wrapped around her, melting her defenses. His finger slid beneath her chin, and lifted.
Time slowed. The room disappeared.
She could hear her own pulse, feel the warmth of his breath against her lips.
“What I want,” he said in a husky undertone, “is to know why my best friend’s little sister is masquerading as a Cyprian? Not that I don’t like the view.”
Cora blinked away the memory, one that seemed a lifetime ago. Her mortifying introduction to the male form was rather tame compared to all that she had seen and survived while in France. But the courtesan’s shrewd instruction on that momentous night had helped Cora navigate the luscious intrigues of Parisian society.
“Besides,” her brother said, drawing her attention back, “we all work for the Nexus.”
She released a slow, unsteady breath, still feeling the effects of Guy’s touch more than three years later. His continued involvement with Somerton’s elaborate system of spies surprised her. When they were younger, the thrill of adventure had guided his actions. However, when his father fell ill, she sensed a shift in his focus, one more committed to the welfare of his family and estates than secrets and deceptions.
She remembered sitting through many lively conversations at the dinner table, where Guy had pelted her guardian with questions about crop rotations, investments, and politics. Conversations that had sent her scurrying back to the training room, for her focus had remained ever constant, ever unswerving.
Ever on revenge.
“Cora?” Somerton asked.
She nodded, knowing she could delay no longer, so she transported herself back to the recent past, to a different kind of living hell. She rubbed her chest, choosing her words carefully.
“The evening of the Bellecôte ball began like any other. Valère escorted me there, giving no hint that he had become suspicious of my activities. It was not until after I delivered my message to our agent that I noticed a reversal in his attitude toward me.” Her voice held little emotion, no suggestion of the fear and loathing she still felt toward Valère—and herself.
Cora stared off in the distance. “Normally, he danced with fluid passion, full of touches and innuendo, but after my return from the balcony, his movements became stiff and crushing.”
The same sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach she felt then revisited her now. The same paralyzing thought echoed through her reeling mind—he knows, he knows. Oh, dear God, he knows.
“Why were you keeping the Frenchman’s company?” her brother asked.
“For the same reason you make yourself available to wives of powerful politicians, Brother.”
A mixture of anger and chagrin passed over Ethan’s face. “What was your mission, Sister?”
Somerton interjected, “To help our office confirm or deny whether Valère was responsible for the disappearance of six British ships.”
Cora caught the sharp look Guy sent Somerton over his shoulder.
“Sounds like something the bastard would enjoy,” her brother said.
“Language, Danforth,” Somerton scolded.
Undeterred, her brother asked, “How did Valère confirm his suspicion that you were a spy?”
Cora loathed that term. The vulgar label reduced their lifesaving work down to something dishonorable and underhanded. As secret service agents, they strove to protect England and all her many interests. They had formed alliances that would hopefully one day destroy France’s greatest military leader and would then work to rebuild all the nations Napoleon had desecrated by his arrogant ambitions.
Not until her assignment to Valère had she ever been ashamed of her role in their clandestine war against the new emperor. She wasn’t regretful of the intelligence she had gathered and passed on. No, it was the manner in which she had collected the information that left her feeling as if she had wallowed in the dregs of Valère’s dungeon for centuries.
Perhaps spy was an apt name after all.
“The duc de Bellecôte dabbles in a bit of intelligence gathering,” she continued. “The columns along the balcony are hollowed out, large enough for a man to fit inside. Tiny peepholes make it possible for the inhabitant to identify those outside.” She turned her lips up into a rueful smile. “Evidently, Valère has made use of these clever contraptions before, and it was my poor luck to have scheduled an exchange that night with my Swiss contact.”
Somerton shifted. “You sound as if you admire him.”
“Why would I not? Valère’s clever, resourceful, and handsome. A perfect agent.”
“Not perfect,” Guy said, still peering out the window. “He lost you.”
Cora stared at Guy’s back. Had she detected a note of pride in his quietly uttered words? An unpleasant stinging sensation bit into the backs of her eyes.
“Why would Valère share such a valuable secret with you?” her brother asked.
Guy threw her brother a savage look over his shoulder.
“What?” Danforth asked. No sooner than he uttered the question, deep chagrin replaced her brother’s look of confusion.
“Worked it out, did you?” Cora’s voice held a trace of amused sympathy. “Obviously, there’s no harm in revealing one’s secrets to a dead person. As you surmised, Valère did not intend for me to live and, I believe, he relished the opportunity to boast about how he outwitted me.”
A deep ache of exhaustion pulled at her body. Time to end their interrogation. “As for my captivity, let me just say your arrival was timely.” For the first time since she had entered the library, Guy faced her, his stance wide, his jaw set.
She glanced at Somerton and then her brother. The same uncompromising lines hardened their features; the same questioning look sat in their eyes.
Did she betray her country?
Her disquiet turned to icy rage, even as a heated flush suffused her face. During the night of her rescue, she remembered her desperate need to save Guy, remembered the never-ending pain.
And she remembered whispering names—Aphra Behn, James Bruce, Robert Burton, Mary Wollstonecraft, William Painter, Frances Sheridan, and so on—names of deceased writers whose works she had spent hours reading in this very room. Names that would cause no harm but would distract Boucher long enough for Guy to enter her cell unnoticed.
But Guy knew none of this. He knew only that she had shared information with Boucher. But Boucher was dead. Why would they care about her supposed revelations? Anything she might have revealed lay trapped in the Frenchman’s cold corpse. Lost to Valère. So why bother informing Somerton at all?
Maybe it wasn’t what they believed she had told a dead man but what they feared she had revealed during the previous ten days. Given her condition, she shouldn’t blame them for their caution. But she did.
Their lack of faith
—Guy’s lack of faith—tore at her insides like a rabid dog. He knew her. Knew what she was capable of—and incapable of. Never had she betrayed his confidence. Not once in all the years of their friendship. They should have trusted her just as she had trusted them to come for her.
Of the three men, Guy was the last one she would have expected this from. The pain of this discovery was worse than any wound Boucher had inflicted.
She turned away from Guy. To Somerton, she said, “Ask your question.”
“Cora, you know we must—”
“Silence, Ethan.” Her gaze never left Somerton’s face. Cora couldn’t fathom how it had come to this after all she had done, after all she had sacrificed and endured for her country—and for her family.
“Did Valère gain any intelligence from you?” Somerton asked.
Being right about their questioning looks didn’t stop the hurt and humiliation from churning like acid in her stomach. “Have I ever let you down, sir?” When Somerton remained silent, she asked again in a voice strangled with emotion. “Have I?”
“No.”
“Then why doubt me now?”
Her brother said, “Had we been in your place, we would likely have faltered.”
She released a short, bittersweet laugh. “Have I finally bested you in a test of strength, then?” Tossing off the blanket, she struggled to gain the edge of the sofa. Each man made to help, but she blasted them with a stay-where-you-are glare, stopping them in their tracks. With agonizing care, she stood on shaking legs. “Other than my innocence, Valère gained nothing from me.”
Ethan cursed. Somerton stared, and Guy closed his eyes. The perverse pleasure she took in each of their varied reactions didn’t last long. Soon, shame blanketed her features and clogged her throat. She lowered her gaze and took her first painful step toward escape.
Guy moved to stand beside her. “Chin up,” he murmured, staying apace with her.
She unconsciously did as he instructed, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. This was the Guy she remembered. Always there. Always believing in her.
She limped toward the door. The raw burns on her feet made it feel as though she were walking on a mass of angry bees. The combination of pain and pent-up emotions caused her body to quiver uncontrollably. The library door became a burning candle at the end of a tunnel, a small glimpse of hope that the torment would soon end.
She had to get out of here.
Somerton crossed the room and opened the door, motioning to someone in the corridor. Dinks and Jack appeared in the doorway. When she drew alongside Somerton, he said. “I’m sorry.”
Her throat closed. The last time she had received an apology from him was when he had found her shivering in an attic storage cupboard after the first governess he had employed had locked her in hours earlier.
Her brother chimed in. “You did well, runt.”
Fire licked through her veins. “I did a lot better than a mere ‘well,’ Ethan.”
Never one to misinterpret Cora’s moods, Dinks grasped Cora’s elbow, squeezing it in warning, or support; Cora couldn’t be sure which.
She patted her maid’s hand and then turned to face the men. “You can take your tepid praise and go to hell.” She ignored the feminine groan at her side and leveled her gaze on Guy. “All of you.”
Five
Guy watched Cora’s less-than-graceful exit, longing to lift her into his arms and save her from such foolhardy behavior rather than trail along by her side.
When the footman moved to assist her, Guy experienced an immediate sense of relief, followed swiftly by a dark desire to throw him against the nearest wall. He swiveled around and made his way back to the window until the library door clicked shut.
Her final words and accusing stare had cut through the room like a butcher’s cleaver chopping through muscle and bone. He felt her disappointment as keenly as if it were his own. How would they ever earn her forgiveness for that bit of ruthlessness?
The few times he had seen her since their escape to London grew no less shocking than when he found her stretched across Valère’s bloodstained table five days ago. The Frenchman had tried to remove every piece of beauty she possessed. Once lustrous brown hair streaked with gold had hung in beautiful straight bands to the middle of her back. Now her shorn locks barely fell below the edges of her headpiece.
Her rose-colored, high-necked gown made an admirable attempt at concealing the manacle of bruises around her throat, but Guy could still detect the outlines of individual fingers. Images of the horrors she must have suffered through began to take root, materializing in a macabre stream of endless flashes. He closed his eyes and forced his mind to focus on her captor.
“Other than my innocence, Valère gained nothing from me.”
Cora’s revelation, so matter-of-factly uttered, destroyed any hope he had carried that Valère hadn’t assaulted her, as well. Her strength humbled him, and he better understood how deeply their questions had hurt her. In his heart, he knew the question had to be asked, but Inquisition-style was not the right way. She deserved better from them. Better from him. He had much to make up for.
And he would start by gelding the bastard Valère with the dullest, filthiest blade he could find. He grabbed the windowsill, longing to lay his forehead against the cool pane to ease the building pressure.
Guy glanced over his shoulder and found the other two men looking equally shaken. “Her lack of detail is telling.” The knowledge that she protected them from the grisly aspects of her captivity knotted his stomach.
Danforth held his head in his hands. “Yes.”
Guy eyed Somerton. “She would never willingly betray her country.”
“Seasoned agents have broken under less intense circumstances than what Cora suffered,” Somerton said. “If she had revealed confidential information, I wouldn’t have blamed her. I needed to understand what we were up against. What may be coming.” He stared into the distance. “Many would like to see us fail in our fight against Napoleon. It’s my job to ensure we do not. For the past several months, I’ve been conducting an investigation within the Foreign Office to uncover an intelligence leak. Someone within our ranks is supplying Valère with sensitive information.”
Danforth said, “Any suspects yet?”
Somerton shook his head, his lips thinned. “Only that it’s likely someone higher up in the Office. No field agent has access to the information being conveyed to Valère.”
“Is that the real reason you assigned Cora to observe Valère?” Guy asked, keeping his tone even.
“Yes.”
Danforth’s head snapped around to stare at Somerton. “What of the ships?”
“That needed investigating, too,” Somerton said.
Danforth shot out of his seat. “I always knew you were a ruthless bastard, Somerton. But I never thought you’d turn that keen mind against those you’ve sworn to protect.” His fingers curled into a tight fist. “Just when did my sister’s role turn from observation to whoring?”
Guy stepped forward and clasped his friend’s shoulder in a show of comfort and to prevent him from doing anything stupid. No matter the provocation.
Somerton’s voice lowered to a lethally low level. “When I received word of our enemy placing Carib women and children in holds of ships and gassing them with sulfur for no other reason than the color of their skin.” Somerton’s normally cold gray eyes now burned with a volatile intensity, revealing more emotion than Guy could ever recall observing in their leader.
“Good God,” Danforth said.
“Napoleon, I presume,” Guy said.
Somerton gave him one sharp nod without taking his gaze off Cora’s brother.
“Where?” Guy asked in an attempt to remove Somerton’s focus from Danforth.
The older man’s eyes glazed with a sadness so profound that Guy felt the effect slam into his chest. “Guadeloupe.” Somerton turned away, silent as he stared into the fireplace.
The tension in Danfo
rth’s shoulder eased, and Guy released his restraining grip.
“Like Napoleon,” Somerton said, “I will pay for my sins in the afterlife.” When he faced them again, the ice had returned to his gaze. “But I’ll be damned if I let that French upstart do to more innocents what he did to the people in the West Indies.”
For several seconds, Guy’s heart beat in time with the gilt bronze mantel clock. “Did Cora fully understand the complexities of her mission? The dangers involved?”
Somerton aimed his reproachful gaze at Guy. “Of course.”
Guy released a slow breath. Although he would have preferred a different agent on the case, he had to admit that Cora had the greatest chance of success of any female agent in the Nexus.
The situation surrounding the agent Raven had plagued him for days. With this new information about Cora, more pieces about their recent attempt to rescue the female agent fell into place.
Somerton’s insistence that he and Danforth take the mission, the limited details on the subject’s appearance, and the chief’s inability to mask the underlying urgency in his every word. One detail had been clear. Rescue the female agent who had appeared on the Continent several months ago, saving hundreds of British lives by gathering crucial information for the Nexus.
For Somerton, to be exact.
“You don’t seem concerned that we failed our original assignment, sir,” Guy tested.
Somerton’s crystalline gaze met Guy’s. “You saved Cora. I can hardly call it a botched mission.”
Danforth said, “Any word where Valère stashed the elusive Raven?”
Without breaking eye contact with Guy, Somerton answered, “I’ve heard nothing new.”
Guy pressed, “Raven’s a rather valuable agent for us to have left behind. I take it a reprimand will be forthcoming?”
Something in Guy’s tone must have alerted Danforth to the growing tension. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, Danforth,” Somerton said. “Your friend concerns himself with a trivial matter.”
“Trivial?” Guy said.
“Yes,” Somerton agreed. “It’s best to think no more on it.”
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