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

by Alina K. Field

  For what that was worth.

  Obed’s head inclined. His hair was dark and stick-straight, his skin burnished, his features European, his eyes large and round, and golden—in other words, his nationality completely indeterminable.

  Bakeley touched his head. The bleeding had stopped. “And I can vouch for his right hook.”

  “I beg pardon, sir.” No expression wrinkled the foreign man’s brow.

  “Pardon granted, provided you use those fists on our enemies.”

  Sirena waved a hand. “Please, everyone, sit. Charley, exactly who pulled you out of White’s?”

  “One of the blood—er, one of Kincaid’s Scotsmen. They are both hanging about outside. Whose snug pied-a-terre is this?”

  “It is mine.” Lady Arbrough took a seat. Sirena’s brother quickly took the chair next to her that Charley was eying.

  Charley grinned and carried a chair from the table. “You make an elegant fellow, Lady Arbrough.”

  Obed stood near the door and crossed his arms over his chest, reminding Bakeley of a picture he’d seen of a genie. All the man needed was a turban and flowing trousers.

  It was not a group to inspire confidence.

  “So,” Charley said, “What is the plan?”

  Chapter 25

  Later, Sirena followed Bakeley into one of the bedchambers in Lady Arbrough’s hideaway, where a Scotsman stood outside the door.

  They would spend the rest of the night here—Shaldon’s idea, Charley said. Given their injuries, her weariness, and the tumult at Shaldon House, Sirena was glad for it.

  Compared to the bedchambers at Shaldon House, this room was simple fare, lacking ornamentation, and sparsely furnished. The bed would be a squeeze for the two of them, and they’d share a wash bowl and lamp. However, the deal table had been set with a bottle, two glasses, and a covered plate.

  Bakeley poured some of the liquid.

  She sniffed at it. “Laced with laudanum, is it?”

  “It’s hard to trust, isn’t it? But no, I believe this is just wine. Will you have some?”

  “No.”

  He sighed and set down the glass. “You must sleep.”

  “I’m not sure I can. Why not let me keep watch while you rest?”

  He emptied his pockets of a tiny gun, a larger pistol, and a wickedly long dagger, and plopped onto the padded settee.

  “Come.” He patted the cushion next to him. “The fire is warm. Will you eat something now?”

  Her stomach fluttered at the thought. “Not yet.” She circled the table and trailed a hand over the mantel. More plain deal. This might have been a tradesman’s lodgings, and not a terribly rich one.

  She rather liked the lack of fussiness.

  Bakeley looked at home here, also, legs sprawled like he had no cares in the world. The dim light cast shadows across his face, the flickering of the fire mirrored in his dark eyes.

  He hadn’t chosen the life of a titled nobleman. He’d been born into it, just as her brother had. Only, unlike her brother, Bakeley hadn’t made a mess of his life.

  He reached out a hand. “Come here.”

  The fluttering in her belly moved lower. She glanced at the door.

  “I locked it. Come here.”

  They should not. He needed to sleep.

  But...did he not almost always doze off after they made love? And if Hollister kills me tomorrow, it will be the last chance for it.

  She pushed that thought away and crossed to him in three strides, standing over him. “You need to be my protector tomorrow, Bakeley. You need to sleep.” She dropped to her knees and slid her hands along his thighs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It occurs to me that I know a way to make you sleepy.”

  He let loose a shaky chuckle. “You were sick tonight. I had planned to be considerate.”

  “I’m not sick now.”

  She was terrified, and she must not let him know it, else none of them would be able to follow this through. “I’ve been missing my husband’s touch.” She let her hands travel up over his great hard member to his fall, unbuttoned it, and leaned down.

  “No.” He eased her chin up with one finger. “Not that way. That will be for some other night. There will be other nights, Sirena.” He raised her by her elbows, lifted her skirt, and helped her stand. “Up, girl, on my lap.”

  Afterward, when she’d collapsed against him, he cradled her close, her heart beating with his, waiting until her breathing smoothed out. She’d been overwhelmed by the night’s events, her worry palpable, her bravado shaken.

  What to make of Roland James Hollister, he didn’t know, and he sensed the same speculation in Sirena. Jocelyn had vouched for the man, but she was his chere-amie now—what sort of testimony could she offer?

  Of all the players in this game, the only one he truly trusted was this bundle of woman whose hair was tickling his nose.

  He stroked a hand down her back. In the council of war at the Home Office, they’d concluded that Sterling Hollister wanted many things—to acquire power through his radical colleagues, to ensure Roland Hollister stayed dead, to retrieve any evidence of his treason, and to accomplish it all without any blame pointing his way.

  He wanted revenge on the late Lord Glenmorrow also, and one thing Bakeley was certain of—Sirena had thwarted him once. Perhaps he suspected she was the blackmailer.

  The villain thought himself on the way to becoming a powerful man, destroying his enemies without so much as removing his gloves.

  If all went as planned, they would strip him bare.

  Unease settled over him. He thought about Shaldon’s whispered conversation with Fox. Bakeley had shared all his secrets with Sirena, but he sensed Father had more.

  Sirena patted the sable ribbon tied at her neck. A narrower, matching one twined through her hair which Jenny had braided and curled and piled atop her head.

  A diamond brooch—Bakeley’s mother’s—had been pinned to the wide ribbon, and she wore the matching earbobs.

  The necklace that was part of the set was back in the safe. She would wear that when her bruising had cleared.

  “A bit more paint on her cheek, Jenny.” Madame had personally supervised the final arranging of her hair and her jewelry and her dressing—or, as it had been, re-dressing.

  When Madame arrived with the forgotten ball gown, Sirena had already been wearing the fine gold and red dress from her wedding.

  The sight of it had given Madame pause.

  While Jenny helped her out of the dress and her stays and into a new steel-boned set that Madame had made especially for her, there’d been some low conversation between the modiste and Barton. And then Madame had proclaimed the wedding dress exquisite, and then everyone had agreed Sirena should wear the new one, of a deeper shade of gold, and which, as it turned out, had been crafted with specially concealed pockets for weapons. Madame had whispered that fact to her as she’d stitched her into the dress.

  Aye, the world was filled with ex-spies. If Barton or Lady Jane popped up and said she was working for Talleyrand, she’d not be surprised.

  Madame handed Jenny a painter’s brush, and the fine bristles whisked over her cheeks smoothing out the pink dabs there.

  “Well, I look less like a bosky tavern wench now.”

  Jenny frowned.

  “Do not be vexed, Jenny. I’m only having you on.”

  “She’s nervous,” Lady Jane said.

  “I should say we all are.” Paulette handed Sirena a pair of golden gloves and she worked them up over the scrapes on her hands. “You look like a queen, Sirena. Golden. Glowing.”

  “Like Brighid, Queen of fire,” Perry said.

  Upon their return to the house that morning, Sirena had shared the story of her brother, the quaternary knot, and Brighid with Perry, who’d rushed to write it all down.

  “I am positively green with jealousy,” Paulette said. “I would just like for once to be something other than little and dark.”

>   “Jealousy?” Sirena said. “And you in your crimson gown? You look like a Spanish contessa. I should never be able to wear that shade without it swallowing me alive.”

  Perry pushed her glasses higher. She wore pale green, laced with silver and embellished with matching seed pearls and embroidery, and looked like a tall, bespectacled wood sprite. “You don’t need to worry that Bink’s eyes will stray, Paulette. They will be only on you, well, and perhaps—”

  Sirena cleared her throat. Though a hoard of men had descended on Shaldon House early that morning, swarming the garden and the public rooms and even the cellar, Lady Jane, Barton, and Jenny were not privy to the night’s undertaking. Though, knowing Jenny, she’d probably sniffed out the impending conflict. And the lord only knew what Madame had been told.

  Perry had almost been left out, but Sirena had insisted Perry had to know. Bink had tried to keep Paulette home, and had finally told her why. After that, there was no holding her back.

  Someone scratched at the door and Barton answered it.

  Kincaid filled the doorway, dressed to the hilt in Shaldon livery. “All the dinner guests have arrived,” he said.

  Madame’s back stiffened and she cast him a withering look. One that he returned.

  Sirena swallowed a gasp. By all that was holy—Madame and Kincaid—here was a story she wanted to hear.

  “We’d best go down,” Lady Jane said. “Cook will be frazzled if we delay the first course.” Lady Jane ushered Sirena’s two new sisters to the door.

  Jenny fastened Sirena’s gloves, straightened her skirts and stood to examine her. The bonny girl clasped her hands together and smiled. Madame and Barton lined up next to her.

  “We have done well,” Madame said. “Perhaps one last thing. Turn this way, my lady.”

  Unseen by the others, she slipped a thin, sheathed dagger from her pocket into Sirena’s and whispered. “Slash up. Avoid bone. Courage.” The last was said in the French manner.

  “Merci.” Sirena’s heart rattled against her stiff stays. Well, and she would need courage, no matter how one said the word. If all the dinner guests had arrived, then Sterling Hollister was here.

  You are a brave girl. Shaldon’s words to her that night in his study came back to her.

  She straightened her shoulders and took as deep a breath as she could with these lacings. Yes, I am.

  Bakeley took his place with his bride and sister for the receiving line and had his first good look at the floor. “I met your artist, Perry,” he said over Sirena’s elaborate coiffure. He’d complimented his lady’s appearance earlier, lamenting the number of hairpins and braids he’d have to delve through later that night.

  First the risk, then the reward, and later would come.

  “My artist?” Behind her spectacles, Perry squinted. “You mean Fox. And what do you think of his design?”

  “I think the Glenmorrow arms should be quartered with ours at the center of this canvas.”

  “I’m sorry, Sirena. There was not time for the research. I hope that you at least like it.”

  “Of course I do.”

  The first guests were announced and they entered, transfixed by the floor.

  “Ignore your brother in this, Perry,” Sirena said. “Your Fox’s floor will be the talk.”

  Pink tinged Perry’s cheeks at the teasing compliment. Or—Bakeley took another long look at his sister—perhaps it had been the mention of Fox.

  The first lady in a long queue curtsied before them. They would sort out the wholly inappropriate Fox later.

  Pleading poor health, Lord Shaldon was seated in a place of honor at the head of the room, with Kincaid and one of his liveried Scotsmen flanking him, and a real footman at Kincaid’s elbow. Kincaid had sought Bakeley before the dinner, reminding him that one of his men would be on Sirena at all times, and that he himself should take no risks that might tip off the villain.

  Shaldon would keep an eye on the room and the extra footmen-cum-guards—more carefully screened than the last group—would report to him throughout the evening. If things started to go sideways, Father could swoon and they would send everyone home.

  Bakeley almost wished it would come to that.

  At a break in the line, Sirena turned a bright smile on him. “It’s very subtly done, I am noticing.”

  He followed the line of her gaze. Servants were circling near Sterling Hollister. Not for one moment had he been left unsupervised. Placed between Paulette and Perry at the small family dinner, he’d been peppered with questions about Waterloo on Paulette’s side, and Irish politics on Perry’s. Hollister’s last condescending responses had carried an edge of irritation.

  Now the man stood watching the receiving line.

  “Counting the number of dukes, is he?” Sirena asked.

  “Waiting for Liverpool.” Perry whispered. “Oh, excuse me, Father is summoning me.” She headed off into the crush.

  “Deserter,” Sirena muttered, nodding to the next couple in line. They greeted another string of guests.

  The room was filling up, the rumble of voices making it impossible for the crowd to hear Lloyd calling names.

  “Mr. A. Fox,” he intoned.

  Sirena edged forward to peer around Bakeley.

  “Sirena.” He caught her eye. “Another surprise invitation?”

  She straightened, her smile growing wider as Fox appeared in front of them. The drunken lout from the night before was gone. Fox was shaved, groomed, and pressed, the same tall dark-haired fellow with a poet’s demeanor and a blacksmith’s strong build who’d visited Cransdall and painted all of them.

  Fox bowed. “Lord Bakeley. Lady Bakeley.”

  “’Tis a pleasure to meet you,” Sirena said. “Though I could have wished you’d arrived earlier. “The orchestra is tuning up and this great herd is already mucking up your wonderful design.”

  Fox smiled, showing white teeth.

  “It is a great success,” Sirena said. “You must dance on it yourself.”

  “I am not much of a dancer, madam, though I should be happy to try.”

  “Excellent. Though…my husband is expecting me to dance every dance with him, is that not shocking? So I must give my share of dances to Lady Perry.”

  Bakeley blinked. Fox and Perry—no. He must nip this matchmaking.

  “I believe Perry is engaged to dance the first dance with Charles,” Bakeley said.

  “Your brother won’t mind. The artist and his commissioner dancing together. I shall just go and find her—”

  Lady Arbrough was announced, and a murmur spread throughout the ballroom.

  “My dears.” She curtsied, let Bakeley bow over her hand, and kissed Sirena on both cheeks.

  “I’m so happy you’ve come,” Sirena said, making sure the crowd watching would see only a contented bride, as they’d discussed.

  “Do not worry. All is in place,” Jocelyn whispered.

  “I’m receiving a signal, Sirena,” Bakeley said. They were to lead the first dance.

  “The prime minister is not here.”

  “He’ll be along in a bit.”

  Sirena opened her mouth and closed it. “Very well.”

  “Ready?”

  She inhaled deeply. “Yes.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Be not afraid. I’m sticking to you tonight.”

  He led her through the crowd to the center of the dance floor where the chalked coat of arms was already mussed, and took her into his arms for a waltz.

  “Wait but a moment, please.” A booming voice drowned the tuning instruments. Sterling Hollister stepped out into the middle of the ballroom.

  A bit too close. Bakeley’s pulse raced. He released one of Sirena’s hands and pivoted her away from her cousin.

  “Speeches were not part of the program, cousin,” Bakeley said with a show of annoyance.

  “What, ho, interrupting a man with his bride in his arms?” That voice was Charley’s.

  A muscle ticked at the corner of Hollister�
��s eye. He bowed. “I beg your indulgence to allow me to offer a few words as the head of Lady Sirena’s family and her only living relative.”

  His pulse pounded, and next to him, Sirena bristled.

  Father parted the crowd. “Well say it, man.”

  Hollister started on a meandering speech about the Hollister family.

  “A ball,” Bakeley murmured. “A ball seemed like such a good idea. What was I thinking?”

  “I shall move him out of the way myself if he doesn’t shut up soon.” Charley had come up next to him. His stage whisper made Hollister flinch.

  “He’s killing time to put his plan in place,” Sirena hissed.

  “Yes.”

  He exchanged a glance with his father.

  The doorways were covered. The house, garden, and mews had been swept through by every agent and runner they could come up with and many of them had suited up as footmen. Not everyone was here though, not the highest flyers. The new king was hosting an impromptu event that had peeled off the highest ranking peers.

  “Lord Liverpool,” Lloyd intoned over Hollister’s speechifying.

  Hollister halted, looked toward the new arrival and bowed.

  Liverpool gestured that he should continue. Shaldon signaled the musicians and the opening strains of the waltz called them to order.

  Bakeley tucked his bride a little closer than was considered polite for the ton. He didn’t care. This was their dance.

  What had it been since that first country dance together, a tumultuous two or three weeks?

  She looked about her while they twirled, that pulse at her neck beating just above the ribbon that hid her bruises.

  “You should smile at me,” he said. “Do not worry. Not everyone is watching us.”

  She lifted her eyes to his.

  “You are the only woman for me.”

  That coaxed a smile, but no comeback. They turned in the dance.

  “She’s doing it,” Sirena said.

  Jocelyn had cozied up to Sterling Hollister.

  “We must not look. You must only have eyes for me.”

  “We make terrible spies, Bakeley.”

  He pulled her closer. “Thank heavens.”