The Viscount's Seduction: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 2)

by Alina K. Field

  Father had dropped him, wondering aloud why Bakeley wasn’t returning directly to Shaldon House and his new wife, but promising to check on her.

  “Bakeley.” Charley raised a hand in greeting. The other two men welcomed him and hastily took their leave.

  “Fine fellows,” Charley said.

  “Your school friends, are they not? I don’t remember their names.”

  “They won’t notice. Foxed already, they are.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And you’ll be anxious to get back to your lady, eh? Too anxious to remember the names of a couple of nonpareils. From the grave scowl, I’ve hit it, haven’t I, Bakeley?”

  He had the waiter bring him a brandy and settled into his chair. A robust card game was taking place at the nearest table. Otherwise they could talk in reasonable privacy.

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “Hah. I knew it. What part of her business did you want to discuss with me? You don’t need money, I know. Is it a government matter? I’m rather powerless but I do have a few friends in the foreign office and the treasury.”

  “It’s a soldier I’m inquiring about, or rather a former soldier. Sterling Hollister.”

  Charley sipped his drink. “A relation of hers?”

  “Her cousin, the new Earl of Glenmorrow.”

  “Have you spoken with Bink or Hackwell?”

  “Not yet. But I don’t want too many snooping.”

  “I have friends in Horse Guards who might know. Yet the name is familiar.” He tapped his chin. “I’ve heard it recently. British is he?”

  “Or Anglo Irish. Sirena says he’s wanting to enter Parliament.”

  “He will wait a good long time for an Irish opening in Lords.” He sat up. “Hold there. Is he the fellow entering the Commons? I’d heard there was a new Irish Earl wishing to lower himself for a foot in the door, as it were.” He rubbed his hands together. “You’re in luck. With Bink and I taking seats, we can snoop around without suspicion.”

  “He’s in town then?”

  “I don’t know.” Charley looked around the room. “If I ask one of these fools about him, the word will get out.” His eyes lit and he waved at a man who’d just entered. “Penderbrook will know. He knows everything.”

  “Can he be discreet?”

  “Trust me, Bakeley.”

  “With your reputation?”

  Charley laughed. “One that is carefully honed.”

  Penderbrook joined them, his open face beaming. “Everly, did I not tell you your money was on the wrong horse?”

  “Very well, yes. I must accede to your superior knowledge of horseflesh. Never mind that my family raised the horses the Conqueror rode when he crossed the Channel. Do you know my brother, Bakeley?”

  Penderbrook bowed. “We met at a boxing match some time ago.”

  “Did my man win?” Bakeley asked.

  Penderbrook flushed. “I believe not, my lord.”

  “Penderbrook thinks that he never errs, Bakeley, but don’t believe it. I can go through the betting book and show you all the wagers he’s lost.” He waved a waiter over and had him pour a third drink. “You must lift a glass with us. Bakeley has got himself leg shackled only yesterday to the very fetching Lady Sirena Hollister.”

  A spark lit in Penderbrook’s eyes, guileless and eager. He was younger than Charley, one of his brother’s many friends making his way in society, wanting to be the man in the know with the first juicy piece of gossip. Bakeley dutifully lifted the glass and drank, swallowing a groan along with the liquor.

  “The announcement will go out tomorrow,” Charley said, “so we’re counting on you, Penderbrook, to wait until then to spread the news far and wide. I know I can count on you.”

  “Of course. I’m the soul of discretion.” The younger man’s eyes twinkled. “At least I can be.”

  “Bakeley doesn’t wish to be entertaining curious callers for at least a few days, do you, brother? He’s fortunate the marriage was carried out with very little trouble, especially from the bride’s family. She’s an orphan, and Glenmorrow went to some distant Hollister cousin.”

  Penderbrook frowned and gazed off for a moment. “Sterling Hollister? The new Earl of Glenmorrow? You have married his cousin, sir? But he’s also a member of White’s. He’s in town now. He’ll be disappointed to hear his cousin married without his presence, since he’s now head of the family.”

  “Good heavens.” Charley looked around. “Is he here now? Will you introduce us?”

  “I don’t see him, and I believe he said he was going to the country for a few days, visiting a friend in Lancashire. What ho, strange is it not, him going into the Commons when he’s a lord?”

  Charley frowned. “He gives up his lordly privileges, does he not?”

  Bakeley stared at his drink, his vision clearing, an idea taking shape. “A risky business. He can be tried for crimes just like a commoner.”

  Penderbrook laughed. “Good thing he’s a gentleman. Capital fellow, they say, else he wouldn’t be a member here, eh?”

  “Yes,” Charley said. “No rogues here. Perhaps you should call on him, Bakeley, when he returns to town. Do you know where he’s lodging, Pender?”

  “The Oxford Arms, I believe. He hasn’t taken rooms or found a friend or relation to impose on yet.”

  Charley grimaced. “You must tell him, Bakeley, he’s not welcome at Shaldon House until after your honeymoon.”

  Sterling Hollister would never be welcome. “He had no residence here?” Bakeley asked. “Where did he live before coming here?”

  Penderbrook shook his head. “At his estate in Ireland, I presume. Though before that, I don’t know. An army man. Telling stories about Waterloo, I hear.”

  “Indeed.” Charley’s face clouded.

  Charley had been at Waterloo, though to hear him talk he’d got only as far as the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball.

  “You must introduce him to Bakeley and me the next time, Pender.”

  Penderbrook promised to send round a note when he heard Hollister was back in town.

  Which would not be necessary. Bakeley’s next stop would be that inn, and with enough coin he could know everything he wanted to know about his new cousin’s stay there.

  He said his goodbyes and settled into a hackney. Nothing would proceed on the Donegal matter until his father’s men returned from up north.

  His hair rose and a ripple went through his skin. Hollister had gone north, just as Bink was attacked. Could the two facts be related?

  He shook his head. The description of Donegal, rough and hairy, was not the description of a gentleman. No, they were two different men, and two different threats to Sirena. One threat to her person, the other to her person and reputation.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t bother seeking the man out. Perhaps shutting him out of society and influence was a better tactic.

  Hollister would call Sirena a liar. That was a given, so any legal dispute was his word against hers. The Glenmorrow servants might testify, but only if they hadn’t been terrorized already, only if Bakeley could protect them from Hollister’s wrath.

  And then what? A trial that would drag her name through the London gutters? He wouldn’t put her through it.

  There must be another way. If he were on better terms with his father, he’d mention it to him, but then he’d have to share with him what the man did to her.

  Or perhaps his father knew it already. Would Shaldon have declared himself happy with the marriage if that were the case? He didn’t know his father well enough to answer that question.

  At the inn, he tracked down the proprietor and greased the wheels of his plan. Hollister had indeed kept rooms there for himself and two servants, and was expected to return on the morrow. Yes, the innkeeper would send a message when the Earl of Glenmorrow arrived, and most importantly, the man promised to keep Bakeley’s inquiry secret from everyone, including the man he was tracking.

  A promise that could easily be b
ought by a higher bidder.

  He must make one more stop on his journey home.

  It was near dark when Bakeley returned to the Shaldon residence. He sought out his father and found him in the library with Perry.

  “She’s safe,” Shaldon said. “I’ve not locked her in the dungeons.”

  The dry humor caught him up. It was not like his father to joke. “Good to hear. Where is she then?”

  Perry smiled. “In your chamber.”

  He should send Perry away so he could talk to Shaldon in private. Or...he could talk to him after he’d checked on Sirena. Yes, that would be better.

  He excused himself and ran up the stairs. His bedchamber door stood open and a maid was dusting. She bobbed a curtsey.

  He blinked. All of his things were gone—books, bottles, newspapers, all of the paraphernalia that made the room comfortable. “What the devil?”

  “Oh, sir.”

  The housekeeper entered. “My lord, we’ve just got everything moved.”

  “Moved?”

  “Yes. Her ladyship ordered, er, instructed, that all of your things be moved to your new chambers. The bathing chamber was very appealing.”

  The bathing chamber. “You’ve moved me to the state suite.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Carry on.”

  The bathing chamber was appealing. The great tub there could easily accommodate two.

  He knocked on the door of the lady’s bedchamber and waited, hearing footsteps crossing the room, anticipation building in him.

  Jenny opened the door and curtsied.

  “Is Lady Sirena here?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  He pushed past the maid. Sirena’s single trunk stood lonely and dwarfed by the massive expanse of space, and another young maid was helping with the unpacking. Sirena was nowhere in sight.

  She’s in your chamber.

  He dismissed the maids, and hurried through the dressing room and into his chamber, clawing at his neck cloth.

  His books were stacked neatly, his razor and brushes laid out in order. A side table held an assortment of liquor and glasses.

  And the door to the bathing chamber was ajar. He flung off his coats.

  Chapter 17

  Sirena lay back, eyes closed, savoring the heat of the water, and only a wee bit wondering how she had got here. Jenny had helped wash her hair, and then Sirena had sent the girl away, content to have these few private moments alone, away from Shaldon’s steely gazing and Perry’s enthusiastic scheming. And, oh, yes, away from the fretting housekeeper, eager to discuss menus and accounts with her new mistress.

  Mistress of Shaldon House—wasn’t that a laugh? It had been but two days since she’d gone out to the docks, and here she was, a viscountess living in the home of her country’s enemy. Whether ’twas a blessing or a trap she wasn’t sure.

  She hadn’t noticed the ache in her body until she’d soaked for awhile in the blessed heat. Her legs were tired from her long walk, and her arms from the fight on the street. Between her legs, aye, she was sore there also, but not so much as to keep her from thinking of Bakeley and what he’d made her treacherous body feel. She sunk a little lower and blew bubbles in the water.

  A door closed and she waited for Jenny to pop in. “It’s still quite hot,” she said. “I’ll stay in a bit longer.”

  “Then I’ll join you.”

  Her eyes shot open. Her hands flew to her breasts. “Bakeley.”

  “James.” He was shedding clothing willy-nilly—shirt, boots, stockings, trousers.

  Water shot up her nose and she choked. His male part was erect, and…and...

  She took a deep breath and stifled a giggle. “You’re flapping.”

  He grinned as he climbed over the side of the massive tub, nudging her around and settling her on his lap. “You have that effect on me.”

  Did she now? “Shall we crash through the floor below?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “It will be worth it, will it not? We are christening this tub, Sirena.”

  “No one has bathed here?”

  “It’s not the bathing I’m talking about. Unless,” he kissed her neck, “you are too sore.”

  Too sore? Perhaps. His fingers swirled around her breasts, wiping away all thoughts of discomfort.

  “No.”

  A chuckle rumbled through her ear. “I am glad. And don’t worry, I had the builder reinforce the flooring to support the weight. We could host ten dancing elephants within this chamber without even shaking loose a pipe.”

  She nestled back against him, that buzzing awareness blossoming in her and turning her mind to blancmange.

  “I see you’ve decided where we’ll live,” he said.

  “You said you’d leave the choice to me. Are you angry?”

  From the way his fingers stroked across her, she didn’t think he was.

  “No. I’m astonished. You could have had your own house to run without Father and Perry underfoot. And, there’s a perfectly good bedchamber next to my old one, but I’m glad you picked this suite of rooms.”

  She turned around to look at him. His afternoon stubble sparkled with splashed droplets. She let her fingertips glide over the roughness, noticing the dark circles under his eyes and a worry line between his brows that hadn’t quite relaxed. He knew something. He’d learned something.

  She opened her mouth to ask, and then shut it quickly. One took one’s time with a hotblood like Bakeley. One used ones wiles. She turned and got upon her knees, watching his eyes go darker.

  “I didn’t truly pick these rooms. Perry told me this is where we would be staying, if we chose to live here.”

  His hands had found her breasts. “Perry is brilliant.”

  “Full of ideas. You have no idea.”

  “Oh, I do. And I have ideas of my own.”

  A while later, Bakeley awoke to a wet, shivering woman in his arms. The water had gone tepid, and Sirena was chilled. He sat her up. “Stay right here.”

  He found a towel, helped her out, and rubbed her down, then wrapped her in a heavy velvet robe the maid had laid out.

  While he dried himself and drained the water, she grabbed towels and mopped the floor.

  “We’ve splashed something fierce, Bakeley.”

  “James. And do not worry. That was taken into consideration also when the room was built.”

  “Put on your robe, then, James, so you don’t catch cold.”

  He propped his hands on his naked hips and sent her a baleful look, watching warmth bloom in her cheeks and her gaze soften, making her laugh.

  “Well, and I’ve done my part tonight to keep you happy, and I must try to keep you healthy also, my lord. And I imagine you’re hungry.”

  “You dozed through the dinner bell,” he said. “They won’t expect us. I’ll ring for a tray.”

  “I’ll do that if you’ll feed the fire in the bedchamber.”

  “And then you must sit yourself next to it and dry your hair.”

  He ushered her into his grand bedchamber, found his robe, and then stoked the fire.

  She seated herself next to it and began brushing her hair, the long locks sparkling in the glowing fire. He watched her from the corner of his eye while he lit the lamps and candles. She was beautiful, a lure to any villain, common or aristocratic. What his father had in mind, he didn’t know, but no matter where she went, if someone was after her, she was in danger. A trip to Bond Street might as well be a trip to Cransdall, their family estate in the north, for the ease of ambush.

  He couldn’t accompany her everywhere, and he doubted she’d willingly live with a guard upon her.

  “We haven’t talked of your meeting,” she said. “What did you learn?”

  He went to her and took the brush. “Let me.”

  Her hair was thick and wavy. In his much younger years, he’d dallied with a lady with hair this blonde, but once the hair pieces and folderol came off, her hair had been as thin and straight as a baby’s. No
t like this.

  He lifted a strand of hair and inhaled, then bent to kiss her ear.

  “You’re dodging,” she said.

  “No, I’m not. You’re distracting me.”

  A shiver went through her. She, distracting him? Good heavens, and well, wasn’t it true? It seemed that each time she looked at him that manly part was standing at attention.

  She reached for the brush, and he pushed her hand away.

  “Very well.” The brush moved through her hair. “Fineas Donegal is, they believe, a name being used by an Irish nationalist. It seems, Sirena, that instead of providing you with information on your brother, he may be seeking information from you about your brother.”

  “So Jamie might be alive.” Her heart lifted. “But why me? Would I be going to him for information if I knew anything?”

  “Donegal disappeared at the same time as your brother. Perhaps they were on the same ship. Perhaps Donegal was pursuing your brother or your brother was pursuing Donegal.”

  It didn’t make sense. “But my brother was an Irish nationalist also.” The strokes settled into a soothing rhythm. “Unless there were differences among them in how to proceed. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  James set down the brush and knelt before her. “Not just possible, but likely. My father says that your brother did portray himself as a member of the rebel cause, but he was actually still loyal to England.”

  She studied his face, so serious, and his words began to sink in, bringing with them a chill beyond the room’s coolness, and making her shiver again. “He was a spy? My brother was a spy?”

  “So my father says.”

  His father, who was the Spy Lord. Sirena’s gaze dropped. “My brother worked for Shaldon.”

  James nodded. “So he says.”

  A wave of anger closed her throat and she had to take in great gulps of air to speak. “And yet,” she choked out, “the whole world goes on thinking that the Glenmorrow heir was a traitor.”

  “True. And yet, it may explain why your father wasn’t taken in by the authorities, and why he didn’t lose his estate or his head.”