Espionage and the Earl

by Win Hollows

  Elorie paused.

  “If you do not sign that betrothal contract, we are ruined. And your sister will be spit upon in the streets. Do you want that?”

  “I-I…” Elorie’s heart plummeted, the wind taken out of her sails.

  “No, of course you don’t,” Cosette declared. “You will sign the paperwork as soon as His Grace’s solicitors deliver it by the end of the week.”

  Anger brimmed over. Her chest heaved, and she clenched her fists. She was to marry a disgusting old man instead of someone who would sweep her across a ballroom like Cinderella, and she couldn’t see a way out. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

  “I hate you.” She looked them both in the eyes. “I will never forgive you for this.”

  “Elorie, don’t speak with that tone. Ladies don’t use such tactics to get what they want like a spoiled child. You’re fifteen years of age. You’re a woman now, and you need to begin to act like it.”

  Her mother was right. Her impotent rage didn’t affect them. But perhaps there was a way to at least get something out of this. She was a woman now, and women knew how to manipulate their circumstances. Her mother had at least taught her that well.

  “I will sign your contract,” Elorie stated, her mind whirring. This was her only chance, and she wouldn’t waste it. “On three conditions.”

  Cosette rolled her eyes. “Oh, Elorie, cease these antics. You—”

  “No, you stop!” she spat. The days of her childhood were over, and she would never act like a simpering, innocent little girl again. “If you want me to sign your precious betrothal agreement, you will give me what I want and nothing less.”

  “What do you want?” her father said grimly.

  Cosette gasped at him, but said nothing.

  Elorie shook with the weight of what she was negotiating, but she wouldn’t show her fear to these wretches. “I will not marry the Duke until I am nineteen years old, not eighteen.”

  “We cannot expect His Grace to wait—”

  Her father held up a hand. “What else?”

  She steadied herself as her heart beat an erratic rhythm, gaining confidence in her demands. “I am leaving. I will stay with my cousins in France or at Aunt Tempi’s home in Cardiff until it is time to fulfill my obligation.”

  Cosette’s porcelain face turned a blotchy red.

  “And the third condition?”

  Elorie walked toward them and stopped a few feet away, her eyes coldly beholding the people she had just excised from her heart. “You will not contact me during that time. Not a letter. Not a visit. Nothing. I will write you once a month so you know your investment is still alive, but that is all. We are not family any longer. N'est-ce pas?”

  Her father gulped. “So be it.”

  “You cannot be serious!” Cosette turned to her husband. “Ma chere, she is my daughter! I will not let her leave me for four years—”

  “What would you have me do?” he demanded, taking her hands in his, and his tone gentled. “I don’t want to see you suffer, Cosette. It is done.”

  Yes, Elorie thought. It is done. She had four years in which to live a life she would remember for the rest of her long years as the Duchess of Morley.

  Elorie swept past her parents and did not look back.

  The Duke now narrowed his eyes on her. “It will bring me no small amount of pleasure to break you in once you’re my wife, especially one as pure as I have been assured you have kept yourself for me. I have waited more than most men ever would for a prize like you, and I intend to savor it like the good French wine you are. Sip by sip, until I’ve consumed all of you.”

  His words scared her more than anything else ever had. More than failure. More than death.

  “Well, you’ll have to wait just a little longer,” she said sweetly, determined not to let him know how much he terrified her.

  His thin upper lip curled. “You’re more insolent than I had hoped for such a lovely thing, but that, too, can be rectified in time.” He cupped the back of her neck and pinched, bringing her face closer to his. “One month, my pretty French flower. I intend to have you pregnant within three.”

  A cold wave of nausea washed through her. She had known this was to be expected, but to hear him speak of it… It had always been this distant thing, but now it loomed like some vast army swarming down a hill toward her with no escape on the horizon.

  He continued, putting pressure on her neck as she resisted his proximity. “You should consider yourself extremely fortunate that I have supported your family all this time, in addition to providing a dowry for your sister. Most betrothal contracts are not nearly so generous. I would advise you to keep that in mind when thinking about the honor of becoming my duchess.”

  “Then why didn’t you choose some other lucky girl?” she hissed. Elorie knew not to push him too far, as he was right, but she had always wondered why he would choose waiting for her over some other milksop daughter of the aristocracy.

  Morley chuckled. “Your mother didn’t tell you all this time?”

  Elorie grimaced as he rubbed the nape of her neck with his thumb, longing to give him a swift punch to the throat. “Tell me what?”

  He laughed again, clearly relishing the task of dispelling her ignorance. “I pursued your mother many years ago. I had never seen anything so beautiful or full of life. But estate business kept me away during her debut season, and she accepted your father’s suit in my absence. I did not see her for a very long time after that, and I never had the urge to pursue anyone else. But when I saw you one day on the passing from France, it was like looking at your mother in her youth. You with your bright blonde hair and wide smile. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” His eyes passed over her face in reverie.

  “When I began to inquire about your family’s finances, I knew it was meant to be. Your parents needed money more desperately than I’m sure you realized, and I knew then I could have what I had lost all those years ago. You have the same vivacity, the same beauty. Even your dimples are the same,” he remarked, letting go of her neck to brush the edge of her mouth with his thumb.

  Repulsion coursed through her, even as numbness slackened her limbs. So that was what it had always been about. If she was honest, it wasn’t hard to believe. Her mother had left many broken hearts and unconsummated affairs in her wake, but Elorie hadn’t thought her parents would serve their own daughter up to one of Cosette’s past suitors.

  Her mother was selfish, yes. But how had she convinced her father to go along with such a devil’s deal?

  Then again, perhaps her father didn’t know the reason behind the Duke’s fascination with her…

  “I’m not her,” Elorie whispered, shaking her head. “You will be disappointed.”

  He shrugged. “I think not. But if you refuse to play your part, there’s always your sister, whom I am gratified to see looks very much like the both of you as well. She is more subservient than you. But I confess, I rather like your fully blossomed spirit.”

  Elorie reared back, her throat working in panic. “No. You cannot—” She swallowed. “I will marry you, Your Grace. I will marry you in one month, and you will never have need to think of my sister again.”

  The duke smiled, victory in the slant of his colorless lips. “I know you will.”

  ****

  Sitting in the Marquess of Blackbourne’s study across the desk from his cousin Asher was definitely making Max’s list of top ten awkward moments in his life. It was like looking into a disapproving mirror that was slightly off, meeting his cousin’s piercing blue eyes set in that remarkably familiar face. Asher sat slouched back in his chair with his chin propped on a hand, waiting for Max to say something. Although Asher was a bit taller and lankier than Max, they could have been mistaken for twins and had often been mixed up by common acquaintances throughout the years.

  Max cleared his throat. “How are your wife and the children doing?”

  Asher raised a brow in the same fashion Max alway
s did. “Lily and Rowan are quite well, as is Ivy.”

  Max nodded, the tinkling of china somewhere in the house loud in the silence that stretched. “And you, y-you’re well?” The beats of his heart were deafening as his cousin simply looked at him with suspicion.

  Asher sighed and tented his hands in his lap. “You’ve never really cared before, so I’m confused as to the point of these questions.”

  He deserved that. He deserved every bit of disdain that dripped from Asher’s lips. It would always be this way now, he knew. There was no going back to even pretended civility between the two of them after what he had done to Asher. In truth, Max bore no ill will toward his cousin and never had. He had been bitter for a time that Asher had succeeded in everything he did, whether it was school, business, or women. The marquess had always been a favorite at ton social events, gentlemen’s clubs, and brothels alike, always flitting from thing to thing in a sort of careless whirlwind of affirmation. Yet Max had never wished for anything but good for Asher.

  He’d done what he had for the Damarek and not out of some petty game Asher had assumed he was playing. It had all been an act—every condescension and snide remark, every time he had pretended to believe Asher was insane and feign obliviousness to the condition his head injury had caused. He had even flirted with the woman who was now his cousin’s wife, acting drunk and careless around her to see if she had any information that would help his cause.

  But Asher would never know that. Max would forever be the demon who’d had him thrown in bedlam out of spite. All for the Damarek.

  Taking a deep breath, Max decided that quick and painful was the best approach. “I know I’m your enemy, Asher. I know nothing I can say will change that. However, I need to tell you something that must not leave this room. Ever.”

  “All right,” Asher said slowly. “Out with it, cousin. Do you have another scheme going to take some other relative’s birthright?”

  He looked away, shaking his head. “No. I need your word that this conversation will remain of the utmost secrecy.”

  Asher rolled his eyes, as was his way. Max knew his flippancy was merely a diversion, his cousin’s mind working faster than anyone else in rooms. “Yes, fine. But then I need you to get out of my house as I was having a perfectly good waste of a day before you arrived.”

  “Fair enough.” Max wasn’t here to reconcile. Quick and painful. He took a deep breath. Here went nothing. “I have been working as an agent for the Home Office for several years now. Since Oxford, actually.”

  Asher let out a bark of laughter and a long, drawn-out sound of amusement. “That’s a good one, Max. Didn’t know you had that sort of creativity in you.”

  He didn’t let it needle him, although deep down, his cousin’s words stung. Max just stared at him until Asher blinked and said, “Wait, you’re serious?”

  “Deadly, as a matter of fact.”

  “Well, pluck me and put me in a stew.” Asher let out an amazed expletive.

  “Yes, it often feels that way,” Max replied ruefully.

  “You. The Earl of Eydris. You’re a spy?”

  Max shifted in his chair. “No one really calls me that. I don’t take undercover assignments often. My connections are worth much more as an Earl than a made-up identity’s.”

  “Fascinating.” Asher’s eyes contained the feverish glint of curiosity that Max had come to know. “And here, all this time, I just thought you were a regular prick of the boring variety.”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, coz.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Asher assured him. “You’re still a prick. Just no longer boring.”

  Max smiled without humor. He started from the beginning, telling Asher of his recruitment by the Home Office and then described the political ramifications of the Damarek’s recovery. During the whole of it, Asher didn’t move a muscle but kept a rapt eye on him. If Max was honest, it felt good to say everything out loud. It felt good to finally be free of the secrecy that had poisoned their relationship since their school days. It felt good to have Asher know he wasn’t the man his cousin had always assumed he was.

  “That’s what I took from the deposit box,” Max explained. “Our ancestor, the first Marquess of Blackbourne, was tasked with keeping the Lance of Longinus safe for the King, but no one knows what happened to it after that. It was lost, and I was the best chance to recover the right information to lead us to it. The Blackbourne Marquessate’s records spurred more leads, but I am at a standstill. I cannot make heads nor tails of the clues I have now. Which is why… Which is why I need your help,” he finished, looking at his cousin’s narrowed eyes.

  Asher was silent for a long moment, and then, “So you’re telling me you’ve never wanted my title, you didn’t believe I was insane, and you worked for years to have me thrown in bedlam in order to get information for this artifact that might or might not exist?”

  Max didn’t miss the skepticism in his voice, nor the fact that his cousin had conveniently skipped over anything having to do with Max’s noble career. God forbid Asher acknowledge Max’s accomplishments. But that bitterness had no place here and now. More important things were at hand. “It does exist, Asher. And I need to find it.”

  A frown darkened Asher’s brow as his eyes blazed into Max’s. “Did you ever think to simply ask me for access to the Marquessate records? I would have gladly given them to you, Max.”

  A lump rose in Max’s throat. This was what he was afraid of. “I couldn’t tell you about any of it. I couldn’t trust you. You were in your cups every night then, and all it would have taken is one drunken boast to a French maid for the whole mission to fail.”

  Asher looked away, nostrils flaring before eventually nodding. “You’re right. I was not the most responsible of wastrels for many years. But you didn’t bother to know me well enough by the time you stole the records to know that I was not that person any longer. I haven’t been for a long time.”

  Max felt the ever-present guilt rising, but he wouldn’t apologize for what he’d done. There was no point now. “Will you help me or not?”

  Max watched Asher’s jaw grind as he glared at him, a pen flipping back and forth between his long fingers. “I will help you, but for two reasons only.” He stopped rotating the pen. “Number one, pettiness and anger at your arse of a relative isn’t a good reason to refuse to help prevent a war. And number two, it just so happens I’m bored.”

  Max’s lips rose at the corners. It didn’t matter the insults that Asher would toss about. It didn’t matter that his cousin clearly didn’t think Max worthy of his help. None of it mattered because a bored Asher Blackbourne was about the most formidable mental weapon to walk English shores.

  As he brought out the books and notes he’d made in relation to James MacDowell’s enigmatic epitaph, one thought flashed through his mind:

  The Damarek might just be within his reach after all if they didn’t end up killing each other first.

  Chapter Eleven

  Elorie reached under her white domino mask to scratch an itch on the bridge of her nose. That was the problem with costumes. They were so itchy. She swallowed a lump of nerves and let out a breath as she stood at the edge of the Marling’s ballroom. It was a mad crush tonight, everyone behaving more outrageously than they would without the benefit of a costume. They acted as if no one could possibly guess who they were, even though most of them saw each other on a regular basis. There was an air of excess that seemed to have convinced the patrons of their own invincibility to social consequences. Flirtations, lewd gestures, and raucous laughter abounded almost everywhere one looked.

  Thank goodness this was just the sort of thing her mother enjoyed, Cosette having immediately left her side to bask in the attention of her usual circle of friends and admirers. She wouldn’t be back anytime soon, even though she always espoused to Elorie how important it was that she stay above reproach due to her betrothal to the duke. But Elorie supposed it wasn’t her mother who needed the golden
reputation, so off she had gone, telling Elorie to only allot one dance to each man lest tongues wag like they had done about that “silly earl” she had danced with last time.

  He would come. He had to come.

  There hadn’t been a note in Elorie’s pocket this time. There hadn’t been any word from Max in a week. He didn’t even know where she was now or how to communicate with her. She knew she should be thankful. Her wedding was in twenty-nine days, and she couldn’t afford to do anything to jeopardize it. It was for the best that anything between her and Max was well and truly over.

  Yet every time she’d thought about it, a surging agitation had clawed at her until she thought she’d go mad if she didn’t see him again. She needed to hear his voice, touch his skin, feel his lips on hers. The idea that she would never see his face for the rest of her miserable existence sent a panic through her mind in an inaudible scream.

  As she’d lain in her bed last night, eyes staring wide into the darkness, she’d made her decision. Once more. Just one more time with him, and then she’d let him go forever.

  She’d scrawled a note out on a piece of foolscap. Then she had crept down to the entry hall to set it with the stack of other correspondence going out with the morning’s post, just a blank envelope with one line to direct the postmaster. Earl of Eydris. Grosvenor Square, London. And inside:

  Ten O-clock. The Marling Masquerade. Artemis.

  As a grandfather clock nearby began to chime the hour, she prepared herself for disappointment. Perhaps the mail coach had not been able to deliver the note without the address, though it shouldn’t have been hard. Grosvenor Square was a well-known pocket of London with only so many large residences of prominent peers. Perhaps Max had received the note but hadn’t known it was from her.

  “Stupid men. Completely daft, the lot of them,” she mumbled, preparing to go get herself another glass of ratafia from the adjoining refreshment room. Wiggling her toes in the high-heeled, strappy slippers made to look like sandals, Elorie shoved the small quiver of arrows she wore to the center of her back so that the leather strap didn’t rub her collarbone. The white dress she wore gathered tightly under her breasts with gold braiding and hugged her form in the Grecian style of floor-length skirts. Her breasts were thrust up out of a deeply draped neckline that gave attention to the gold necklace dropping straight down between the globes of her breasts. The gold was echoed further in the leaves at her bare shoulders and the laurel in her upswept hair.