It Takes a Spy...: A Secrets and Seduction book

by Jeane, Sheridan

  The question put her on her guard. Perhaps his last comment about clouts had been meant to rattle her. She cocked one eyebrow and shot back at him, “And you, sir, how old are you?”

  Bernini, walking past, must have overheard at least part of their exchange, because he paused and said, “Lord Huntley, please allow me to introduce our star pupil, young Alexander Gray. Master Gray, you have the honor of meeting the Marquess of Huntley.”

  Catherine didn’t snort. Barely. She wasn’t surprised to learn of the man’s exalted rank in the peerage. Huntley exuded an aura of superiority. Perhaps it would be wise to show him the expected amount of respect, despite his rudeness. “Lord Huntley, you do me great honor,” she said with a graceful bow. She raised her head and met his gaze with serenity. “How long will we have the pleasure of your company in London? I look forward to many more matches with your friend.”

  “I plan to stay here for the season. Both Lord Wentworth and I have a number of interests in town, and I have a project that will require much of my time.”

  “Yes.” Catherine nodded. “I believe I heard something about your ‘project.’ You’re in search of a bride, am I correct?” Asking the question felt very much like poking a hornet’s nest with a stick.

  Huntley cocked a brow at her. “You are remarkably well-informed for your age.” He narrowed his eyes. “I plan to be back here at the academy next week. Will I see you then?”

  She glanced away. “I try to come often, but I don’t have a set schedule.”

  “Yes, yes,” Bernini interjected. “The boy would improve much more rapidly if I could get him here on a more frequent basis.” He said this with a small frown. It was an ongoing point of contention between them. “I don’t know how he expects to do well in the tournament in two months’ time if he doesn’t work harder.”

  That stung, especially since he’d already said she had a good chance of winning. Had his opinion changed that quickly? “I haven’t decided if I’ll take part yet,” she said.

  Bernini shot her a sharp glance, and then grinned. “Playing coy? I know you, ragazzo. You’ll never be able to resist the challenge.”

  Huntley’s eyes flickered toward the door, and Catherine followed his gaze to find Wentworth standing there, glowering at them. He already wore his cloak and was obviously impatient to leave.

  Huntley gave Wentworth a nod and then turned back to them. “Maestro Bernini, Mr. Gray,” he said, glancing back and forth between them, “I bid you both a good evening. I look forward to our paths crossing again.” He took a step toward the door but then paused and turned back to Catherine. In a low voice he said, “I hope Wentworth’s temper didn’t offend you. He’s both quick to anger and quick to forgive. He might indulge in a bit of posturing, but he’s an honorable man. I’ve never had a truer friend.” With a brief nod, Lord Huntley left and joined his companion.

  She watched him for a moment and then frowned as she tried to parse his message. Was he trying to reassure her? Or perhaps to underscore his friendship with the other man? Perhaps he simply wanted to cast his friend in a better light.

  With a shrug, Catherine gathered her things together and met her brother near the main doors. “I didn’t get the opportunity to see your match with Lord Huntley,” she said. “How did you do?”

  He grimaced. “Badly.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand, preempting her. “Don’t ask.” Turning his back, he hurried into the foyer.

  Catherine caught up to him. “Wait,” she said, grabbing his forearm and pulling him to one side. “What do you think about the tournament? Should we enter?”

  He twitched one shoulder. “Why? I don’t have a chance, and even if you manage to win, what would you do with the trophy? Hide it in the stables?”

  She jutted out her chin. “Maybe. But first I’d have to win it. Where to put a trophy is the least of my concerns.”

  He shrugged. “Enter. I’ll help you get here. It’ll probably be during the day, so I can help you slip away from the house.”

  She squeezed his solid forearm by way of a thank you and then crossed the foyer to Mr. Winston’s tall desk. It didn’t take long to fill out the entry form and provide him with the fee.

  It was a cold night, and Catherine tossed her black cloak over her shoulders. As she stepped onto the front steps, her breath trailed a puff of white smoke in her wake. She immediately spotted Huntley in the flickering gaslight. Even here, in the near darkness, the man commanded her attention.

  Huntley and his friend climbed into a carriage, chatting amicably. When Wentworth spied her on the steps, he shot her a cold look.

  She lifted her chin at this and stared back at him. She’d beaten him, and publicly, too. He clearly resented it. She kept her gaze locked on Wentworth’s eyes until the movement of his carriage carried him out of sight. She’d show him and all the others not to underestimate her.

  She’d win that tournament.

  §

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  Gambling on a Scoundrel: Excerpt

  §

  Gambling on a Scoundrel

  Available now

  Lonely railroad heiress Tempy Bliss is a budding journalist, and she is elated that Charles Dickens wants her to write an article about gambling for his newspaper. But when casino owner Lucien Hamlin bans Tempy from his gambling palace once he learns of her profession, she begins to suspect a much bigger story is at hand. Lucien’s secretive behavior goads Tempy into uncovering the real story.

  Lucien is a hard-driving businessman whose life is about to be upended by his unexpected inheritance of an earldom. It’s a fact he’d rather not have announced, and certainly not in newsprint, until after the sale of his casino.

  With Tempy's career goals progressing, as well as her dreams of becoming a part of her fiancé's family, she refuses to accept defeat even when Ernest sends her a letter from Paris informing her he's fallen in love with a Frenchwoman. Tempy resolves to win him back while simultaneously conducting her research at the sumptuous Hamlin House casino.

  Chapter One

  Pink’s Tea Shop

  Mayfair, London, 1861

  FRENCH TART STEALS BLISS'S BLISS

  The imaginary headline Temperance Bliss conjured from her fears mocked her as she hurried along the refined streets of Mayfair. Tempy brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of her glove, hoping any passers-by would assume it was a drop of rain. Her other hand clutched a letter pressed tightly against her corseted waist.

  She needed to compose herself. One simply didn't comport oneself this way in Mayfair. It wasn't done. Lifting her chin, Tempy erased all signs of emotion from her face. The best way to regain her composure was to focus on honing her imaginary headline. Perfecting it always helped calm her.

  BLISS BETRAYED BY FRENCH TART

  Slightly better, but still not quite right. Still not catchy enough.

  How could Ernest undermine her in her moment of triumph? "I'll always be here for you," he'd said. But now...

  She lifted a handful of her full, bell-shaped skirt to keep it from dragging through any of the puddles that had the temerity to form on the otherwise pristine sidewalks of this exclusive section of London.

  Everything would be better once she reached Millicent. Her friend would know what to do. She always did. Millicent had the advantage of age and wisdom, although she probably wouldn't like hearing those qualities ascribed to her.

  Until then, Tempy'd keep working on that headline.

  FRENCH WENCH BANISHES BLISS

  That was more like it. Short and catchy. Plus, it worked with both meanings of "bliss."

  As Tempy rounded the street corner, she spied her destination, Pink's Tea Room. She glanced up at the clock tower overlooking the square. Her punctual friend would likely already be sitting at one of the cozy tables.

  She peered through the tea shop's large window with its overly cheerful red mullions dividing the pan
es of glass and quickly spotted Millicent Kidman. As usual, her friend wore an ostrich feather hat perched on her graying upswept hair. It made her look like some sort of species of exotic bird. Millicent was pouring the steaming liquid into her cup, and Tempy saw that a second pot sat before the empty chair across from her at the four-person table. Wasn't that just like Millicent, to mother her on the rare occasions they were able to meet?

  As she looked at the little white teapot that awaited her, a sense of comfort washed over Tempy. Her chest relaxed, and she was able to stand more upright. Millicent would help her make sense of all this.

  Tempy entered the building and spoke briefly with the man in charge of seating the guests before wending her way between the tables to join her friend. Millicent looked up at her with a welcoming smile, but it quickly froze when Tempy lowered herself into the chair facing her friend.

  "My dear, what's wrong? You don't look yourself," Millicent said, keeping her voice low as she glanced around for possible eavesdroppers.

  Tempy pressed her lips together, unable to bring herself to speak. What if some reporter saw how upset she'd become and decided to write about it? Even now, she could feel the pressure of fresh tears threatening to spill out, so she mutely handed over the letter.

  Millicent peered at Tempy thoughtfully and then rummaged around in her reticule, extracting a small pair of reading glasses. She dropped her head a bit as she slid them on and turned away from the room so that the wide brim of her hat concealed her face from most of the other patrons. She'd only recently started using eyeglasses to read, and Tempy had noticed that she was still self-conscious about them. Millicent quickly scanned the letter, letting out a "humph" and frowning. Upon finishing it, she removed the glasses and peered at Tempy. "So, he's gone and found someone else, has he? And he can't be bothered to tell you in person?"

  "After all, he is in France. Telling me in person would be quite a challenge." She pressed her lips together. Why was she defending him?

  Millicent didn't even pretend to look forgiving and instead uttered another "humph."

  "He's bringing her back to London with him, along with her parents." She envisioned greeting him at the dock tomorrow only to have him rebuff her and introduce the French woman. How appalling. "At least his letter spared me the humiliation of meeting her as they disembarked the steamship."

  "You'll forgive me for being blunt, but the least he could have done was not ask someone to marry him while still being promised to you."

  Tempy felt the blood rush to her face. "It's not...I mean, we weren't officially engaged."

  "Don't be foolish. Everyone assumed the two of you would marry, including him. And he couldn't be ignorant of the effect this news would have upon you. And yet, he has the gall to ask you to...Now let me get this straight." She slipped her glasses back on and glanced at the letter. "'...treat Clarisse like a sister and welcome her into your heart'?" Her voice ended with a squeak of outrage.

  Upon hearing those words, Tempy's chest began to tighten again and she glanced around to see if anyone was listening. They weren't.

  Perhaps she'd wake up and realize she'd accidentally stumbled into one of those opium dens she'd read about. An opium-induced hallucination would be vastly preferable to this.

  But no. This was reality.

  Tempy slumped back in her chair. Or at least, she slumped as much as her tight corset and the tiny chair would allow, which was very little. After a brief moment, she sat upright again to relieve the uncomfortable pressure on her ribcage. Then, she forced out the question she'd been agonizing over all morning. "Am I so unlovable? After all, Father never really cared about me and I have no friends other than you and Ernest. And now I don't even have him. Is there something wrong with me?"

  "Unlovable? You? That simply isn't possible," Millicent said, shaking her head vigorously. Her hat looked as though it were readying itself for flight with the way she sent its ostrich feather fluttering from side to side. "Please don't measure your worth based on your father's values. He was only interested in things, not people. His view of life was an extremely limited one."

  Tempy wanted to believe her. Really she did. But the evidence proved otherwise. Father had lavished his attention on Bliss Railways, on his employees, and even on other railroad men, but he'd been indifferent toward Tempy. He'd displayed the odd flash of interest in her at times, but it was always fleeting. She'd never fit in at home, and eventually she'd come to realize that she didn't fit anywhere in London society either.

  She shook her head. "I need to face the reality of my situation. The upper class might turn a blind eye to one or two eccentricities, but I have entirely too many of them to be accepted. Between my unwanted notoriety and my unfeminine interest in journalism, I'm a pariah."

  "You're wealthy. That will make up for any so-called eccentricities you have."

  Again, Tempy shook her head. "It's not as though I've suddenly been accepted since Father’s death. He might have left me with a large inheritance, but he made no friends when he was still alive. He was brash and untitled and he thumbed his nose at the peerage. Even worse, he didn't even have the decency to inherit his wealth. He earned his money."

  Logically, therefore, Tempy should have been able to fit comfortably into the middle class, but her wealth and notoriety made her an outcast there as well. Who would risk associating with a woman whose name frequently could be found in the newspapers? They might find themselves mentioned there as well.

  "Then they are all idiots."

  Tempy's eyes widened for a moment at Millicent's choice of words, and then she smiled crookedly. She took a fortifying sip of Darjeeling oolong tea, breathing in its subtle floral and citrus notes. A proper cup of English tea served as an excellent tonic for low spirits, but even better was Millicent's staunch defense of her. The anger and hurt within Tempy began to ease.

  Millicent, still watching her carefully, gave a satisfied nod. "I'm glad to see you're recovering some of your aplomb. But I feel I must remind you that we arranged to meet today for an entirely different reason. We're supposed to be celebrating your triumph."

  "Triumph?" Tempy said, nearly swallowing her tea the wrong way. "I haven't even written the article yet." She cleared her throat. "I'm hardly triumphant."

  "Of course you are, my dear. How many other women did Charles Dickens ask to write an article for his newspaper? Hmm? My guess is none, so by rights, simply being offered the project is cause for celebration."

  A bubble of pride rose within her. "You're not far off the mark, but I'm sorry to disillusion you. He's also having Eliza Lynn Linton write an article. Hers will be on pauper girls and workhouses." Tempy set her teacup back on the saucer with a slight clatter of china.

  "That's why I've always liked Mr. Dickens. He's such a forward-thinking man who isn't at all afraid to give talented women an opportunity to write. I'm quite proud of you, dear. We should celebrate."

  "Celebrate?" Tempy tried to force a cheerful smile, but failed miserably. She let out a sigh. "I'll try. Of course I'm thrilled about this opportunity. It's what I've dreamt of for so long that I can hardly believe it's happening. It's just...well...," she swallowed, "I can't stop thinking about Ernest."

  Millicent covered Tempy's hand with her own and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Of course I sympathize with you, darling. And I don't mean to push you. But you must remember, you're hardly the first woman to have her heart broken by a man. In London alone, there must be thousands of hearts breaking even as we speak."

  Imagining all that pain welling up throughout the city caused the band around her heart to tighten, so she tried to focus on Millicent's voice.

  "The offer to write this article has placed you at an important crossroads in your career," Millicent continued. "You need to seize the rare opportunity Mr. Dickens is offering. You can't let your emotions keep you from completing your work. That would only serve to support all of those naysayers who believe that women aren't constitutionally suited to the workp
lace. Remember, there are other women who will follow in your footsteps, and you owe them your best work."

  "I wouldn't dream of abandoning the article." Did Millicent think she'd quit on writing the same way Ernest had quit on her? Never.

  But she wouldn't quit on Ernest either.

  "I will complete it. I promise." She shot her friend a look of grim determination. "But there is something you can do for me." And Millicent wouldn't like it.

  "Anything. Tell me what I can do."

  "Help me win back Ernest."

  Millicent's jaw dropped and then she quickly clamped her mouth shut with a clack of her teeth. "Win him back? But why?"

  "I can't bear to lose him." There it was. As simple as that. Even considering living without him made her chest tighten. The thought of being alone...

  "But my dear, after what he's done to you, he's hardly worth keeping. You deserve a man who values you for who you are. And Ernest Lipscomb is certainly not that man if he's willing to treat you so shabbily."

  Tempy twisted her dainty handkerchief into a ball. "It's not just Ernest," she said in a soft voice. "If I lose him, I'll be losing his entire family too."

  "Surely that's not so. The Lipscombs have been like a second family to you for years. They’d never cast you off."

  "But they'd have to if he marries her, don't you see? Imagine how awkward it would be to have me hanging about on the fringes of their family events: at Ernest's wedding, or as they announce that they are expecting their first...," her voice broke, "their first child. It would be terrible both for them and for me."

  "Then move on. You have other people in your life. Your happiness doesn't depend upon Ernest."

  "I do? Who? Of course, there's you, but you're gone most of the time, so who else?"