The Undercover Scoundrel

by Jessica Peterson

  Carefully he untangled her limbs from his own, and settled her comfortably in a nest of embroidered pillows. He tucked her gown about her torso and legs—wouldn’t do to have Mr. McCartney discover her naked as the day she was born—and smoothed the hair from her face. His fingers lingered on her cheeks, indulging one last time in the softness of her skin.

  She was so beautiful.

  His hand fell. He slipped off the edge of the sofa.

  With a wince, Henry pulled his breeches over his hips. Despite drinking deeply of Caroline’s body, it seemed his own lusted for more; he was hard as a rock, his erection straining painfully against the fall of his breeches as he worked to button them.

  He ducked into his shirt, waistcoat, boots—damn it, why were his hands shaking?

  He made for the door. The sun was rising now, burning away the gray. At the threshold, he paused, glancing one last time over his shoulder. The light caught on Caroline’s dark eyelashes; a stab of longing left him breathless.

  He had to leave. They couldn’t be together. Had the twelve years he’d spent away from her taught him nothing? Caroline deserved better than the violent, peripatetic life he’d chosen. She craved solitude, and stability, above all else.

  Henry had to leave.

  One foot in front of the other.

  He gritted his teeth and did as his will bade him, heart clenching as he stalked across the grounds. He glanced at the gardens as he passed.

  The peonies Henry and Caroline planted together were in full bloom, the dusky pink flowers so heavy, their stems bowed out onto the path.

  Henry looked away, the flowers’ earthy scent filling his head, and made for the street.

  Forty-three

  Russell Square, Bloomsbury

  Several Days Later

  As was his usual habit, the lieutenant general was conducting business from the palatial manse in which he’d installed his mistress—and most decorated spy, Lucy Joplin—some years before.

  Henry applauded the general’s genius; one must, after all, give credit where credit is due. Russell Square was in a well-kept but not-quite-fashionable part of London; no one much cared for the comings and goings of the not-quite-fashionable people who lived there.

  Which was a good thing, because today the house was a beehive of activity. Clerks and footmen and agents darted in and out of various rooms, closing doors behind them with careless force. Henry watched from the end of the long hallway as a young man, caked head to toe in sweat-streaked mud, was led, limping, out of one such room to the kitchens.

  The hairs at the back of Henry’s neck stood to attention. Something had happened. There was news. Big news, from what he could tell by the sudden rush of voices that filled the hall.

  He slipped his hand inside his coat, his fingers tapping the telltale bulge inside his waistcoat pocket. Hopefully they had not suffered a defeat, an indignity, that could have been prevented by the French Blue.

  Henry had waited for what felt like an eternity: for four days, the general was incommunicado, and only this morning had returned to Russell Square. An assignment, perhaps, or something to do with this big news that had everyone so stirred up. Still, the general’s absence—his silence—was surprising, considering he assigned Henry the task of obtaining the jewel years ago; it was a major victory for England, now that the Alien Office was in possession of it.

  And Henry was rarely made to wait besides.

  He tapped his foot impatiently against the polished marble floor. The ache in his leg had returned suddenly, the pain just short of agony. He leaned the back of his head against the wall and closed his eye.

  He saw Caroline, her lips, her swanlike neck, the pile of dark hair swirling atop her head. He saw her eyes flutter shut as he ducked between her legs, her body rising to meet his kiss—

  “Lake, old boy, no time for sleep on a day like this!”

  Henry started at the familiar, mottled shout. The general—known to the beau monde as Baron Richards—leaned out of a nearby room, waving his arm.

  “Come, come!” he said. “And make quick work of it!”

  Henry shuffled inside the room, a high-ceilinged parlor that had been repurposed as a rather feminine-looking office: buff-colored walls, carpet, and cut-velvet drapes. Everything was pink, right down to the trinkets that littered a generously sized desk in the middle of the room.

  The general clapped Henry on the back, a smile curling at his thin lips.

  Henry peered at him, warily. “I don’t think I’ve seen you this jolly since you first met Lucy. Tell me, what’s happened?”

  “Ah, but a drink first,” the general replied, sidling up to a makeshift sideboard at the other end of the office.

  Henry arched a brow. “You’re beginning to frighten me, sir. Is this a good news drink, or a bad news one? I must know if I am to be celebrating, or fortifying myself against horrors yet to come.”

  “Sit down, old boy, and I’ll tell you.”

  He lowered himself into the chair; a spike of pain shot through his leg, and he sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. But God, it had never hurt so ardently, his leg. It was nearly unbearable.

  The general frowned at Henry as he passed him a snifter of brandy. “You’ve seen the surgeon I told you about, the one in Calais?”

  “I have,” Henry nodded, swirling his brandy. “Seems I am beyond repair.”

  His superior officer took his seat behind the desk, his gaze never leaving Henry. His light brown eyes were soft with sympathy, concerned lines etched into his broad forehead. “I didn’t know it had gotten so bad.”

  “Keeping busy helps—it’s all this sitting still that’s the worst. When I feel it most,” Henry replied. He took a long pull from his snifter, a pull he hoped did not betray his desperation. “So, keep me busy.”

  The general arched a brow. “I’ve a feeling you’ve been doing a fine job of that yourself, Lake.”

  Henry met his eyes. Setting his snifter on the edge of the desk, he dug inside his coat.

  A moment later, he placed the French Blue on the desk with a hollow thwunk. In the bright afternoon sun, the diamond glittered and winked flirtatiously, a translucent shard of light.

  The general choked on his brandy. Pounding his fist against his chest, he set aside his brandy and plucked the diamond off the desk.

  “By the prince regent’s bollocks,” he coughed. “You’ve actually found it. How—?”

  “You know I’m not going to answer that question.”

  The general held the jewel up to the light, wincing as the diamond flashed directly in his eye. Henry watched as his initial disbelief faded into something that looked suspiciously like dismay.

  His stomach clenched.

  “I thought—,” the general began. “From your missives, I thought the jewel was lost. And the papers, what with all the news of it being stolen from Thomas Hope’s ball—I thought—”

  Henry grinned, a rueful thing. “But I found it. We can begin negotiations with the French straightaway. They’ve approached me, and they’re quite eager—”

  “Wait, wait,” the general held up a hand. “Does this have anything to do with the capture of the Marquess of Woodstock? We found him in a hole at Newgate. Apparently he’s the one we’ve been looking for—the spy back in Oxfordshire. What was that, ten, twelve years ago?”

  Henry set his hands on his thighs and squeezed. This wasn’t how he imagined his conversation with the general would go. He wanted to leave London—leave her—as quickly as possible, before he changed his mind, or drowned in his grief. Already this was taking too long.

  “Yes,” Henry ground out. “I had a vendetta of—ahem—a personal nature to settle with his lordship. I won. Thought he’d do well at Newgate. Although I fail to see how Woodstock is more important than the French Blue. He hasn’t worked for the French for years now.”
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  The general set down the diamond and clasped his hands, leaning his elbows on the desk. “We broke him, easily. Just the threat of pulling out his fingernails, and he spilled the names of a dozen of Old Boney’s agents, working here in London. It’s a victory of enormous proportion.”

  Henry started for the second time that day. “Woodstock—he broke?”

  Heavens, if only he’d known it would be that easy!

  The general nodded. “So far, we’ve rounded up six traitors. A seventh is in custody up in Norfolk. A bang-up job you did, Lake.”

  Grasping his brandy, Henry took one long, last pull. “Well. This is certainly news.”

  “Excellent news. News worthy of a promotion—several promotions, in fact.”

  Henry blinked. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “No,” the general said, rising, “I didn’t think you would. Which is why I am offering you a pension, in addition to a rather large token of my personal gratitude. I believe you’ll find it satisfactory—it’s certainly enough to provide a comfortable retirement.”

  Henry’s heart lurched. “Retirement?”

  The general walked around the desk, planting a hand on its surface as he looked at Henry from beneath his furry brows. “This is the biggest intelligence victory we’ve scored in a decade. Perhaps even longer. You’ve done well by your country, Lake.”

  Henry blinked again. Retirement did sound lovely. But what about his work? England was still at war, lives were at stake, the future map of Europe was at stake; there was so much to be done . . .

  “My work,” he said at last, looking up at the general. “I can’t just leave it. And retirement—I’ll get fat, and lazy . . .”

  The general’s eyes warmed; he grinned. “You’ve given England twelve years, and half your body besides.” He nodded at Henry’s leg, stretched out stiffly before him. “You’ve groomed Moon; let him go back to Paris. I’ll put my best men under his command. No doubt he’ll miss you, but I think it’s time you sat on your fat ass and enjoyed yourself for once.”

  That also sounded lovely—enjoying, rather than punishing, himself.

  Henry didn’t know what to do. So he laughed, a deep thing that made the sides of his torso ache. Inside his chest his heart felt light, the vise grip of his grief released at last. The throbbing in his knee slowed, then disappeared altogether.

  He could not wait to see Caroline’s face when he told her the news.

  The general was laughing, too, and then he was pouring Henry another drink, and then another, and they were having toasts to being potbellied old men.

  When Henry had drained his third brandy, he set the snifter down and nodded at the French Blue, still winking from the general’s side of the desk. “But what about the diamond?”

  The general’s grin widened into a smile. “We’ve just received word that Wellington took Salamanca. Defeated that libertine Marmont—apparently he is wounded, but we can’t yet confirm that bit; it’s why I’ve been indisposed these past days. Wellington’s marching on Madrid as we speak. The diamond—well, we may not need to use it. The tide’s finally turned in our favor, Lake.” He let out a long breath, tucked an arm behind his back and looked down into his empty snifter. “Finally, all our work has come to fruition. Your men—with any luck they’ll be coming home soon.”

  Henry sat back in his seat. This was so much good news as to be laughable. What in hell had he done to deserve a day like today? Perhaps the devil had at last agreed to the bargain Henry had been trying to make for twelve years. Anything, he had sworn, I’ll give you anything if Caroline is happy.

  Henry was going to make her happy.

  “You take the French Blue,” the general said, making his way back to the desk. He slid the diamond across the desk’s gleaming surface. “I task you with being its keeper; you must safeguard it at all costs. It would serve us to keep the jewel in England for a while longer yet. Save it for a rainy day, as the saying goes. Just keep it safe, hide it if you must, should things take a turn for the worse in Spain. Perhaps return it to your friend Thomas Hope for safekeeping? After that horrid episode in his ballroom, no doubt he’ll have the most heavily guarded vaults in all Europe.”

  Henry didn’t realize he was shaking until he held the gem in his hand. It took two tries to tuck it back into his pocket.

  The general set down his snifter. Henry rose to his feet and met the general’s gaze; he shook his head and scoffed.

  “Forgive me, sir, but you’re sure this isn’t a hoax?” Henry asked. “I really am not worthy of retirement. There’s so much left to do . . . ”

  The general waved away his words. “None of us is worthy, Lake. Or maybe we all are. I haven’t quite decided which one it is yet. Regardless, after you secure the jewel’s safety, use your pension and go buy a manor. A house, a cottage—whatever your pleasure, buy it. Marry your lady, and bring her there. The two of you can get fat together having twelve children.”

  “Lady?” Henry said, eye trained on his boots. “How did you—?”

  “For one so infamous for his disguises, you certainly have trouble disguising what you feel for her. It’s written all over your person. Your face, the way you sit. It’s frightfully obvious.”

  Henry sighed. Why was everyone so intent on pointing out the look of love he apparently bore? He’d spent plenty of time looking in the mirror; he hadn’t seen it.

  Then again, he hadn’t seen how quickly he would fall in love all over again with Caroline until it was too late, and he was in way over his head.

  “Thank you, sir,” Henry said, bowing. He made for the door.

  “I hope you’ll name your firstborn after me!” the general called after him.

  Henry scoffed again. “Never! Harold is a terrible name, and you know it!”

  “At least the dog!” the general called, roaring with laughter. “Surely you can spare a dog?”

  Henry stalked out of the house and onto the street, mind racing. There was still one obstacle to his happiness, and to Caroline’s. One that seemed as dauntingly insurmountable as Woodstock, Henry’s work, Caroline’s grief. If not more so.

  He would call on the Earl of Harclay first thing the next morning. William was an early riser. With any luck Caroline would still be abed; Henry knew she took her breakfast in her chambers.

  That would give Henry plenty of time to convince Harclay that he was good enough for his sister.

  Henry had a feeling he’d need it.

  Forty-four

  Brook Street, Hanover Square

  The Earl of Harclay’s Residence

  Henry hoisted himself onto the small terrace and tapped the knuckle of his first finger against the window.

  Inside the breakfast room, the earl started. Dropping his fork with a muted clatter, he pressed his lips together and met Henry’s eye.

  Henry shrugged, pointing at the cremone bolts that locked the window casements in place.

  William glowered. After a beat, he dropped his napkin on the table and hobbled over to the window. Henry noticed his face was still mangled, the bruises taking on a greenish sheen; a flush of red marred one of his eyes.

  Whatever happened on that ship that night in the Docklands, it was clear William had come very, very close to losing everything—including his life.

  The earl turned the knob, bolts clicking out of place.

  “I’ll get it,” Henry said, and bent to open the window.

  “You know,” William said, ducking out into the morning, “the last time you snuck into my house, I challenged you to a duel. And here you are again, asking for more.”

  Henry ran a hand through his hair. His heart tripped inside his chest; God, but he was nervous. “I was hoping we could talk. I didn’t want to wake her ladyship your sister; she cannot know I came to see you.”

  The earl cocked a brow. Henry waited, bre
athless. He wouldn’t blame William for turning him away, telling him go to go to hell. The earl adored his sister, and only wanted what was best for her.

  A one-eyed Viking with a penchant for violence—well, no one wanted his sister to end up with the likes of Henry Beaton Lake.

  But Henry had to try. He wouldn’t let Caroline go without a fight. And he was determined to do things the proper way this time around—no sneaking about, no secret weddings.

  He would do right by Caroline, even if that meant losing her all over again.

  “Fine,” William ground out. “You have five minutes before Avery returns with my papers.”

  He turned and hobbled back to his seat, settling his napkin into his lap. As was his usual habit, he did not invite Henry to sit.

  Henry ducked into the breakfast room, done up in vibrant shades of plum. The strong morning light flooded the room in pale yellow beams, illuminating motes that danced high above the earl’s head.

  William sipped at his coffee, and looked up at Henry, expectantly.

  Henry cleared his throat and drew his hands into a tight knot at the small of his back. Rocking back on his heels, he said, “I’ve come to ask for your sister’s hand in marriage.”

  The earl let out a small scoff. “That’s easy. My answer is no.”

  “I thought you might say that.”

  “Then why, Mr. Lake, have you come at all, if you knew what my answer would be?”

  Again Henry cleared his throat. His face felt hot; doubtless his whole person was one shade of red or another. “Because I was hoping to convince you that I’m worthy of her. That I could make Lady Caroline happy.”

  “Do you believe her to be unhappy, Mr. Lake?”

  “I think we both know she’s been unhappy for some time, my lord.”

  The earl’s face fell at that; he knew it was true. He focused his gaze on his coffee; Henry noticed the neat, black stitches that held together his left eyebrow.

  “Caroline is a private woman,” William said softly. “She does not share much with me. I confess she has worried me these past years. I remember coming home that summer from Eton—I was, what, fifteen then? Anyway. She was different. Sad. She’d changed.”