by Robyn DeHart
He wanted to have an affair with her, and he’d made that abundantly clear on more than one occasion. But tonight, in light of the situation with her brother, he’d given her a reason to accept his proposition. She genuinely liked Sir Fenton. As a man, not as a potential suitor. He had always been kind to her, had always flirted with her and made her feel sought after, when other men spared her so little attention.
Her gaze drifted across the parlor to where Harrison leaned insolently against the wall.
Blowing out a breath, she turned her attention back to Bailey. What he was proposing was outrageous…or was it?
He stood. “I shall give you time to consider my offer. Just remember that I can ensure your brother stays in England, safe and close by.”
Was she actually considering his offer? A laugh from across the room caught her attention. The Duke of Sutcliffe chuckled boisterously at a jest his companion had shared. If he had made the same proposition, she would likely have climbed atop him here in the parlor. Well, certainly she could have waited until they were alone. So why was Sir Fenton so different? Because he was less handsome? Less powerful?
He had assured her he could keep her brother safe. Certainly her virtue was worth that. It was not as if it was currently serving her any purpose. How could she grow into the eccentric spinster aunt without having some worldly experiences?
…
Harrison lay still in the darkness. A sound had awakened him, and it took him a moment to realize it had been the click of his door unlatching. Someone was in his bedchamber. He reached to the bedside table and retrieved his pistol. He hated these bloody country house parties—they exposed him to too many people. He had only attended so that members of the Seven, the elite group of spies he led, could exchange information without drawing undo attention to themselves. But apparently he hadn’t been discreet enough, because someone was entering his room. He gripped the pistol’s handle and tried to appear as if he were still sleeping.
There was movement by his bed, and he wished he hadn’t allowed the fire to die down to nothing but a handful of coals. It wasn’t chilly in the room, but it was unforgivably dark.
Then pressure on the mattress as someone crawled in beside him. Soft feminine curves pressed to his bare chest—soft, naked curves. No doubt a servant girl looking for a toss. He sighed in relief and his taut muscles relaxed. She nuzzled closer.
“I’ve been unable to stop thinking about our conversation this evening.”
He knew that voice, and it was most assuredly not a servant. “Prudence?” he asked in a hushed whisper.
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Shh. This will be easier for me if you let me do the talking.”
Well, she’d better do the talking, because he didn’t understand what the hell she was about. He set the pistol back on the bedside table.
Yes, he found Prudence Hixsby undeniably appealing. How could he not with her intriguing curves, her sharp mind, and her straightforward practicality? She was precisely the sort of woman—maybe even the precise woman—he would court, if he was a man in the position to court a woman.
But there was no place for romance in his life, let alone marriage, and Prudence was not a woman one romanced without the intention of marrying her.
Which was precisely why he’d worked so hard to ignore the attraction he felt for her. Until this very moment, he’d been certain he did such a good job disguising his feelings that she hadn’t a clue that he was attracted to her. Apparently he was less adept at hiding his desire than he’d thought.
“Pru,” he began, his voice so rough he didn’t even sound like himself.
Again she stopped him. “I understand that this isn’t marriage you’re offering. I believe I can accept that. I am old enough and practical enough to know that doing this isn’t going to ruin my chances on the marriage mart.” She drew in a breath, as though she was mustering her courage. Then she pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Please. I want to do this.”
He should have protested. He intended to but, before he could, she crawled atop him, kissed his chin, and then his jaw. Hot, sweet kisses all the way until she reached his mouth.
He had not expected Prudence to seduce him. She seemed so very irritated with him much of the time. Perhaps that was merely her way of flirting.
Her chaste kisses were driving him insane. That and the very unchaste feel of her naked skin against his. He was hard. She wanted him. He sure as hell wanted her.
He rolled her over and kissed her intensely, taking her sweet seduction and setting it afire.
His hand found her breast, and she released a surprised moan. She was plump and deliciously curved against his palm, and he wanted to explore every inch of her body. He cursed himself again for allowing the fire to burn down. He desperately wanted to see her, wanted to see the flush of desire spread across her lovely creamy skin, the pink at the center of her breasts, the dark curls at the apex of her thighs.
Her tongue darted out and rubbed against his own, and lust surged hot and wild through him. Perhaps he should attend these parties more often.
Her moans of pleasure echoed around him. His hands continued to explore her breasts while he kissed her thoroughly. He reached down and moved a hand up her leg, her skin smooth and soft beneath his palm.
His fingers traced behind her knee to the sensitive flesh of her thighs. When he brushed across the juncture of her legs, she released a seductive moan of desire. His own need poured through his veins and settled heavily in his groin.
He moved through her nether curls and found her flesh hot and slick with her need. She trembled when his fingers moved against her. She moaned softly. He continued his exploration.
He slipped one finger inside her, and slowly he began his rhythm. Her pleasure mounted as he moved his finger within her. He found the nub beneath her folds and stroked across it. Her pleas became erratic. She arched toward him. She was intoxicating. Her body, her touch, her smell. All of her surrounded him and he wanted this moment, this night, to last forever.
Closer and closer he brought her to the edge, then he would pull back. He wished he could see her, watch the pleasure play out on her expressive face. She was, undoubtedly, the most passionate woman he’d ever touched. He needed to be inside her. His own desire was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. So he kissed her deeply.
His finger dipped in again as he flicked across her folds. She tightened around his finger as the pleasure shot through her. “Yes,” she whispered. Her head pressed into the pillow behind her. “Yes.”
Quickly he guided himself into her before her climax subsided. Oh God, she felt good. Hot and tight and so slick.
Her climax started again, and her walls squeezed around his shaft as he increased the depth of his thrusts.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “Sir Fenton, I had no idea—” her words dissolved into breaths.
For a moment Harrison faltered, but he was already inside her and he knew that nothing would stop his climax from coming, even her cries for another man. His release rocked through his body, and he grunted a primal moan and collapsed atop her.
Prudence Hixsby had just seduced the wrong man.
…
Six weeks later
Harrison stood in the obnoxiously decorated red and gold parlor and glanced around at the faces in the crowd. He’d come to the Blake’s party in hopes of seeing Prudence. Earlier, he had confirmed that she and her brother Johnston had been invited.
It had been a little over a month since Harrison had last seen her. Since that fateful night she’d mistakenly crawled into his bed. He still couldn’t reconcile her affections for Bailey—the man was probably twice her age. He knew Bailey; hell, they worked together. Then again, Harrison had never claimed to understand the female mind.
Still, she deserved to know the truth about that night. Perhaps she already knew. Perhaps she had seen Bailey and even now, she wondered whose room she’d entered. Either way, Harrison fully intended to tell her precisely
that.
If he were an honorable man, he’d insist she marry him. But the truth was, she’d endured enough. She’d lost both of her parents and now played mother and father to younger siblings—he never could remember how many there were. She’d endured enough grief, though, so marrying her was not an option, not while his tasks for the Crown put him in such immediate danger.
Again he searched the many faces of the people before him. Several members of the Seven milled about, as well as a myriad of other people he recognized from London. They would be entering the dining room shortly, and he wanted to speak with Prudence before they ate, as he planned on leaving soon after.
He moved back to the entrance of the parlor, hoping to catch her as she arrived. Fortunately he didn’t have to wait long. Johnston walked down the corridor first, nodded to him, and stepped into the parlor. Prudence followed, striding across the corridor. She walked past him and for a moment stopped. Her eyes shone with anger. Perhaps she already knew, had already figured things out on her own. A flush pinked her cheeks, enhancing her already lovely features. He opened his mouth to speak, but she walked past him, directly over to Bailey. She said something to the man, and the two of them left out the door that led to the corridor.
Harrison followed, keeping some distance from them.
“I should prefer to speak with you in private,” Prudence said.
“This is private enough,” Bailey said with natural authority. “All of the other guests are in the parlor waiting for dinner to be served.” While the man was only a knight, a courtesy title granted to him by the king, Bailey Fenton was a man of means. He was also the liaison between the Seven and the prime minister, so his work for the government was no small task.
Harrison inched closer, following them around the corner. They were in a dimly lit corridor that led to the servants’ staircase. Only a handful of wall sconces scattered sparse light about.
“I was under the impression that you and I had made a bargain, yet my brother is scheduled to ship out next week,” Prudence said in a harsh whisper.
“Indeed. My proposal was that I would ensure your brother’s safety in exchange for certain favors.”
“Precisely,” Prudence said tartly.
Harrison’s stomach soured. He leaned against the wall behind him, his eyes turned heavenward. He’d always known Bailey was a bit of a lecher, but he figured the man kept his appetites sated with servant girls and the occasional widow. He never imagined the man would solicit a woman such as Prudence.
“My dear Miss Hixsby, I waited for you that night, but you never came to my room. I certainly cannot give you something for nothing. My time is too valuable.”
Harrison sneaked a peek around the corner in time to see Prudence bring her hand up to her chest as if to repress her pounding heart. Her skin paled visibly, losing all its lustrous warmth. “What are you saying?” she asked.
“The agreement never came to pass, so this,” Bailey motioned between the two of them, “is nothing more than a conversation we once had. Perhaps you’d care to reconsider my offer?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Pity. I was very much looking forward to your company.” Then footsteps as Bailey walked away from Prudence, leaving her standing alone in the hall.
Harrison nearly stepped out from his hiding place, but what would he say to her? Prudence bit down on her lip and her eyes widened. He watched her clever mind work through the truth behind Bailey’s insinuations. She shook her head and said, “No” again and again.
He could nearly read her thoughts, so transparent were her expressions. She had not sneaked into Bailey’s room, therefore she had seduced the wrong man. She had not saved her brother after all. Her shoulders crumpled under the weight of the realization. He felt the burden of it himself.
When he’d realized she’d meant to seduce Bailey, her actions had seemed almost incomprehensible. How could such a luscious and enticing creature possibly be attracted to Bailey? The man was a good spy, an excellent leader, and had been Harrison’s own mentor, but one could hardly consider the man attractive to women. Now that Harrison knew the truth, everything made more sense. But the truth was even less satisfying than his confusion had been.
Harrison slipped behind a large tapestry hanging on the wall to hide himself as his esteemed colleague walked past. Then he heard a decidedly female sob from Prudence’s direction. He certainly couldn’t tell her the truth now. She was already distraught. But he could do something to assist her.
He could prevent her brother from going to fight on the battleground. If Johnston wanted to be part of the war, he would recruit the man to join the ranks of the Seven. It would keep him far safer than the alternative, and at least Prudence’s actions wouldn’t have been in vain.
Chapter One
London, 1814
Harrison sat in the carriage outside Lord Brentwood’s London townhome watching the people who slipped through the door. He had received an anonymous note about the secret meeting of the Seven that had been called to Brentwood’s. The rub was that this was his organization. He led the Seven, the Crown’s most elite spy organization; he called their meetings.
When the war had first begun, he’d been approached to coordinate something in London that could prevent the French from infiltrating the English government. So he’d pulled together a group of men who were the very best at weaponry, code breaking, and the like, and created the Seven, called thus because of the original seven members. It had grown since then to more than double that size.
And together they’d prevented an infiltration at the prime minister’s level, kept the Crown safe, and ensured that Napoleon stayed in exile. For years, they had worked on behalf of the Crown in secret, foiling countless plans with their machinations. However, in the past few years, Napoleon’s own network of spies had made more headway than it should have. The Seven had always caught it in time, but Harrison had become suspicious that there must be a traitor. The Seven had spent considerable resources investigating the suspicious activities of Lord Comfry only to have the man turn up dead. Murdered on the orders of the real traitor. Furthermore, the investigation into Comfry’s death led to the conclusion that the notorious traitor was a member of the Seven. Now it would seem that private meetings were being called without him.
He wasn’t certain what Brentwood was up to. The man wasn’t even an active spy, merely a glorified informant who did nothing but complain. If Brentwood were more competent, Harrison might suspect him of being the traitor. But Brentwood wasn’t competent. Furthermore, some of Harrison’s most trusted friends were attending this meeting. He simply could not believe that Remy or Alistair would turn traitor. So what precisely were these men here to discuss?
Harrison would be damned if he’d allow a meeting of this sort to go on without him.
He waited another twenty minutes to allow everyone time to settle in, and get the meeting started, before he stormed inside.
They sat in Brentwood’s study, his fellow members of the Seven, the very people he had recruited. He caught everyone’s attention as he stepped into the room. Brentwood’s mouth momentarily fell open, then he shifted from behind his desk and sat in a chair near the Marquess of Coventry. Either the man was a brilliant actor—which Harrison doubted—or he was not the one to call the meeting. The marquess Alistair Devlin’s mouth twitched, as if he were merely enjoying the show.
“I don’t recall receiving a notice about this meeting, nor did I call for one,” Harrison said. “Mind telling me what the devil is going on?”
Remington Hawthorne, the Earl of Westbridge and Harrison’s closest friend, sat next to his wife Emma. They both shifted their glances away from him. Bailey took to his feet.
“Harrison, as you know, the decoding work that Coventry did on Comfry’s journal has brought some disturbing news to our attention. The idea that someone within these very walls is the traitor—”
“Indeed, I know precisely what Devlin discovered,” Harrison
said, nodding to the man himself who sat quietly, his cane leaning against the table.
Alistair Devlin, the Marquess of Coventry, had spent the better part of last month decoding the deceased Lord Comfry’s journal.
“I know that one of us is a traitor. One of us is working hard to raise funds and bring Napoleon back into power,” Harrison said. “What I don’t know is what the rest of you are meeting about. Nor who called this meeting.”
“I did.” Brentwood came to his feet. “You should watch your tone—”
“Gentlemen, there is no need for that.” Bailey said. He strode over to Harrison, ushered him aside. “There is evidence, overwhelming evidence,” Bailey said, his tone hushed so that only Harrison could hear him. “Nothing is being brought to the prince or the prime minister at this time, but I would suggest you get your household in order.”
“What the deuce are you talking about?”
“The evidence leads directly to you, Harrison.”
“You suspect I am the traitor?” Harrison asked, not believing what he’d heard. “What kind of evidence do you have?”
“I cannot disclose that, certainly you must realize.” He squeezed Harrison’s shoulder. “I can give you a few days before this must be brought before His Majesty. You should leave now. Brentwood has already called for some Bow Street Runners. He intends to have you arrested.”
“Certainly you jest,” Harrison said.
“Be careful,” Bailey said and then stepped back over to the others. “We shall continue to investigate.”
“Unless you’d care to confess now,” Brentwood said.
“Not bloody likely.” He had devoted countless years of his life to this organization. He’d sacrificed everything for the Seven. It was his life’s work. And now he was being accused of being a traitor, not just of the Seven, but of the Crown. “The only thing I’m confessing is that I’m going to find out which one of you is behind this, and I will uncover the truth. When I do, I will rip you apart with my bare hands.” He turned on his heel and walked out. He had work to do.
