The Spy and His Lady Love

by Christine Donovan

  Chapter 9

  “What do you mean he disappeared?” Harry bellowed to Edmond.

  “Smythe never checked in last night.”

  Breathe. In and out. Keep breathing. If anything happened to Smythe, Harry would never forgive himself. He’d wanted the Runner working for him. Working with him. Because of him, he was missing. Tension coiled inside every muscle and tendon in his body. “Bloody hell. Put Franklin and Broderick on it. Meanwhile, I’ll go out and see what I can find. Hopefully he’s fine, just in too deep to pull out and make check-in. When was his last known contact?”

  “Night before last. With Franklin just outside the Hounds of Hell Pub in St. Giles.”

  “I’ll start there,” Harry said as tingles of awareness traveled up his spine. If he was a betting man he’d bet Smythe was at the pub. Only question was, was he there of his own accord? Or was his cover blown, and he was being held prisoner. Only one way to find out. This called for Harry’s disguise that very few members of the War Office knew about. Desperate times called for desperate measure.

  However, there was something he had to take care of before he left. He found Penelope in the family drawing room making a list. This was not how he planned on telling her about his dual identity only a sennight into their marriage. But God forbid something should happen to him while out looking for Smythe and he never returned. He needed to clear the air with Penelope. It would be shocking enough if she learned of his death but to learn of his deceit would be unthinkable.

  Harry entered the drawing room and closed the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed. “I was hoping to speak with you before I leave for the War Office.”

  She stopped writing, placed her lap desk on the coffee table and said, “Please sit and tell me what has you so unsettled.”

  How could she tell? He forwent his cane, leaving it by the closed door. He never put his knee brace on that morning, so he walked quite normally to a chair opposite the settee she resided on. And decided not to mince words but get right to the point of what he had to say. He only hoped she forgave him eventually for his deceit.

  With her inquisitive blue eyes on his face, he slid off his patch and removed his make-up with his handkerchief. The only sound he heard was her gasp. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened with disbelief. After that, nothing. Uncomfortable silence hovered around the room. Soon her eyes narrowed into stormy slits, her cheeks reddened, and he waited for her temper to explode.

  When still she said nothing he couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to tell you since we wed. Truthfully, since we met, but how to explain that Harry and Hugh are the same person?” The sound of her inhaling and exhaling had him pausing, believing she wanted to speak. When she didn’t, he continued. “I work for the War Office as a spy. To do my job, I have different identities. I’m Harry. Although most people think I’m a cripple, I’m perfectly normal as you can see. I created Hugh and the injured Harry so I could move within society without anyone truly knowing what capacity Hugh or Harry had inside the War Office. I also have two more identities I use when I go deep undercover.” He paused, stood, and began pacing back and forth across the room.

  “Which is why I needed to explain all this before I leave today.” He paused in front of her and swallowed down the guilt eating him alive at the look of hurt, pain, and shock marring her beautiful face.

  “First you need to know that I never enjoyed deceiving you. I hated having to. And I know it’s too much to ask of you now, but I hope in the near future you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.” He scrubbed his hands down his face, hoping for words of wisdom. None came. “I don’t blame you if you hate me.”

  “I don’t.”

  His eyes locked with hers. “You don’t?”

  “No. I feel many things, but shockingly, hate isn’t one of them.” She paused and ran her hands down her skirt. “Some part of me is relieved. Another part of me wants to hurl everything I can get my hands on in this room at you because I’m so angry. But most of all, I’m hurt. Beyond hurt. When I have time to think and go back to the very beginning, not when I met you at the Spencers’ for a dinner party but when you were being Hugh. How I made a fool of myself, I’m sure even more anger will come crashing over me.” She stopped running her hands up and down her skirt and clutched the fabric tight and twisted. “I want to scream. I want to run and hide. But mostly I want to hit you.”

  “Good. Get your anger out. I don’t blame you. But know that I had no choice in the beginning but to deceive you. The life of the people I work with and my own relied on my deceit. After we wed, I’ll admit I’ve been trying to tell you the truth. But I failed you. I’m sorry. Be angry with me, but remember there were many lives I needed to protect. And know that we are one now, and I must protect your life.” He began pacing again. “I’m going deep undercover, looking for one of my men. I needed you to know the truth before I leave.” He stopped in front of her and bowed. “I bid you good day, my dear.”

  That was it. “I bid you good day, my dear” and he left without another word. Before she could yell and scream and throw things at him? Not that she would actually throw objects at him, and she’d had her chance to yell at him and she chose not to. Chose not to because he looked as though his best friend had died. Behind his apology and explanation was filled with deep regret and sorrow. How could she yell at him when he truly felt sorry for deceiving her? Oh, she knew later that day when she processed all that transpired between them since the very first meeting, she would be beyond angry. But right now she was in too much shock to feel much of anything, except the look in his eyes as he bowed to her, plagued her mind. It appeared as though he was saying goodbye. That they would never see each other again. She jumped up and hurried down the hallway to his chambers and knocked on the door. Edmond, his valet, opened it and bowed.

  “May I help you, Your Grace?”

  “I need to see Har…His Grace.”

  “He left.”

  Without another word, she swallowed the lump forming in her throat. Fear gripped her heart, and she walked to her room, shut the door behind her, and fell onto her bed on her back. Staring up at the plastered ceiling, and prayed the ominous feeling that spread inside her body quicker than a kitchen fire wasn’t a sign of what would come. She prayed Harry would be safe. That she would see him again. Be able to explain that she understood why he did what he did. Even if truthfully, she didn’t. But she did. Confusion and worry for Harry’s safety overwhelmed her until her eyes closed and she fell asleep.

  Harry hated leaving Penelope the way he had. But he had no choice. He’d brought Smythe into the inner circle of his spies, and he was responsible for his safety. He’d already lost two members of his team, he refused to lose another. He left by the servants’ stairs, dressed in shabby dockworker clothes, and hailed a hackney to take him to the Hounds of Hell Pub where Smythe was last seen.

  A Mr. Fitzpatrick who ran the underbelly of St. Giles owned and operated the pub. He was the man sane persons feared most. Anyone who went against him was usually found floating in the Thames, bloated and nibbled on by fish. Harry shivered beneath his tattered coat. Not because of the chill in the air, but because icy talons of death crawled up his spine, warning him. He would bring Smythe home, dead or alive. He owed it to the man and his wife. And Penelope? He owed her everything. All that he was and would be. Would he live to tell her? Beg her forgiveness and tell her he loved her? Only time would tell. Time he didn’t have if he hoped to save Smythe. If it wasn’t too late already.

  As two drunks stumbled out the doors of the pub, Harry slithered in hopefully unnoticed. He took a seat facing the door at a table in a dark corner where he had a view of most of the pub. Middle of the afternoon, the place was quiet. In another hour or two the dock workers would come in by the droves looking to quench their thirst and fill their bellies. A young serving wench with greasy brown hair, tired and bruised features, and a stained dress showing off her generous
bosom approached his table with a wary smile. Someone had smacked her around recently. That someone deserved to be beaten.

  “What canna get ya?”

  “Pitcher of ale and some bread.”

  “Com’n right up.”

  The ale was barely drinkable, the bread was something else entirely. He pushed it aside and sipped on his watery mug of ale, biding his time. Watching and listening. His hat pulled low on his head, hiding his eyes from view. Every time the door opened, the serving wench started and her eyes flew to the person or persons entering. Once she got a good look at the person or persons stepping over the threshold she relaxed. It wasn’t until Fitzpatrick came in through the kitchen that Harry saw her turn white and shrink into herself. So the big man himself caused her bruises. And what brought him to this pub in particular? He owned dozens around the city. Did it have anything to do with Smythe? Most likely it did. Harry would reserve one room on the second or third floor for the night and hope Smythe was being held in another. Please don’t let him be dead and fish food in the Thames.

  Next time he saw the wench, he passed her a coin. “I need a room for the night.” She disappeared, only to come back moments later with a key. “Room 205. ‘Nother shilling if ya wan clean linens and towels.” He gave her two. “Be back when tis ready.”

  By the time his room was ready the pub was crawling with dock workers, the stench of fish, ale, and whatever came from the kitchens. Christ, he’d be forced to order the barely edible food for himself soon before the ale went to his head. When the tired wench came back, he gave her more coin. “Please, some decent food.”

  Not long after, she came back with a bowl of stew that smelled and looked quite good and bread that wasn’t crawling with mealy worms. And a crock of clotted cream that looked fairly fresh. Coin talked. Perhaps if he offered her enough and his protection, she would tell him about Fitzpatrick or Littleton.

  Several boring hours went by. Harry noticed Edmond come in and sit down with some slimy workers and join their hand of cards. He hoped he knew what he was doing. They looked like a dangerous bunch. But then again, so didn’t everyone in the place. Not that Edmond couldn’t handle dangerous. He could. Which was why Harry relied on him most in perilous situations such as this.

  Chapter 10

  Penelope sat in the family drawing room, the only light coming from the blazing hearth and the one candle she’d brought with her. Since it was the middle of the night, the room had been chilled when she arrived. Her long ago skill in building a fire served her well as she ignited a warm orange flame in the hearth. Dragging a chair close to the fire, she sat down with a deep, wary sigh. Her body ached, as well as her heart, making her feel years older. Ever since Harry left that afternoon, there’d been no word from him. Even his valet had disappeared. No one in the house seemed to know where he went or when he would return.

  Now that she knew about his dangerous job, his actual job, anxiety had her unable to sleep for worry about his safety. Surely, no good would come of being gone at all hours of the night.

  Her mind still grappled with trying to make sense of what he explained about his life. How he had multiple personas. One good thing came of his explanation, though, she no longer felt guilty about being attracted to both Harry and Hugh. It made perfect sense that she would be attracted to Hugh, as he was Harry. One small consolation from the awkward and enlightening conversation.

  A slight noise behind her had her heart accelerating in anticipation that Harry had come home to her. “Welcome home, Harry.”

  No answer. Before she could turn around and wonder if she’d imagined the quiet footsteps, a middle-aged man dressed in black stood before her. “Sorry to disappoint you, Your Grace, but your husband is not home. It is I, Baron Littleton.” He toyed with a small brown glass bottle in his hand. “Will you come with me willingly and quietly, or will I need to drug you?”

  Go with him? Was he out of his mind? Who was this man, and why would he want her with him? Her eyes widened and her heart slammed against her chest as reality dawned on her. This was Harry’s enemy. Her mind screamed out to go peacefully with him. That all would be well if she didn’t resist. Her body had other ideas. Either she tried to escape and scream for help, or she fought him with her person. Either way, she would lose. Too bad she didn’t listen to her mind telling her to be reasonable.

  She flew to her feet, brought up both hands, and shoved the man back. He stumbled for a moment since she’d caught him off guard. She turned to flee, inhaling a deep breath, ready to scream for help. A hand reached out, grabbed her elbow, swung her around. He grabbed her lips, forcing her mouth open, and poured a vile tasting liquid into her mouth. Laudanum. Before she could spit it out, he clamped her jaw closed, and she had no choice but to swallow. Dizziness surrounded her as she felt her legs give way and blackness descend all around her.

  “Well, well, well, you have finally awakened.” The man’s voice from the drawing room penetrated through her foggy mind. She tried to speak, but her mouth appeared sealed shut. So dry. The taste awful. For several moments she licked her lips, trying to moisten them and her mouth so she could form words.

  “Where am I?” Her voice came out low and deep.

  “You are safe…for now.”

  Her eyes moved around the room, taking in her surroundings. Behind the brown velvet curtains lightness peeked around the window. Morning had come. Or afternoon. She had no way of knowing how long she’d been out from the vile drug. The moment it had hit her tongue, she’d known it was laudanum. The way he recklessly poured it into her mouth, it was a wonder she woke up at all. “Where am it?” she repeated.

  Deep laughter traveled to her ears. “You are safe…for now. If you try to escape or scream for help, neither of which will aid you, I’ll be forced to tie you up and keep you drugged. The choice is yours, my dear. Easy or hard. Either way, I don’t care. I’m only using you to get to your dreadful husband.”

  Her heart sank. He was using her. Why else had he taken her. Did Harry care enough about her to get her back? Rescue her? See her safely back home? Perhaps not. No. No. She must not think that way. He would find her. She had to believe that. If he didn’t care for her, he never would have married her. Which he did willingly. She needed to believe in him in order to survive her captivity. “I’ll not try to escape or call out. You have my word.”

  “Your word,” he spat out with a snort. “The word of a bastard. A tragic day in society when a bastard becomes a duchess. Even worse, when Harry became a duke. The prince really needs to be more careful with whom he surrounds himself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a duke to reason with.”

  The click of the lock turning in the door had her realizing she truly was a prisoner. Looking around her, she found herself in a small, stuffy, dreary room with only a small bed and dresser and the chair she sat on. Most likely servants’ quarters. Was the baron daft enough to have brought her to his London residence? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Did it really matter? No. A prisoner was a prisoner no matter where she was held captive.

  She stood on wobbly legs and paced the small room, feeling closed in, and finding it hard to breathe. On the dresser sat a tray. She inspected it and found barely warm tea, a hard cold roll, and eggs. With her stomach unsettled, she sipped the tea and nibbled the hard roll as she continued her pacing. When she finally sank down into the wooden chair, she heard footsteps coming from the room beside hers. Was there someone else being held captive?

  She tiptoed in her slippers to the wall. Why she tiptoed she did not know. She pressed her ear against the wall and listened to the footsteps. The turning of a key. The creaking of a door. Then the unmistakable voice of the baron. Only he spoke quietly. She could not make out what he was saying. Once in a while she recognized a word, but not enough to understand what he said. Or whom he said it to.

  After he left, she raised her hand to the wall and knocked and spoke. “Hello. Is someone there?”

  A knock back. Then a man’s voice. “Yes. Sm
ythe here. Who are you?”

  “Penelope. Duchess of Newbury.”

  “My God. How did you?” Silence. “Never mind. Harry will come for you. And that is the problem. He wants him dead. The French want him dead. Actually, more than dead, they want information. They will hold you hostage until they have what they need, then torture and murder him.”

  Penelope gasped, one hand covering her mouth, the other her heart. Harry dead? The thought paralyzed her insides. “He mustn’t come here.” If anything happened to him, how would she forgive herself. If he hadn’t married her, none of this would be happening. Her heart believed that, but her mind knew otherwise. If the French wanted information and death for Harry, they would have found another way. If not through her, through someone or something else.

  “He will come. You’re his wife. His responsibility. From what I’ve gathered in the little time I’ve worked with him, no more honorable man exists elsewhere. The people he worked for and with say it, so it is so. He will come. To him he will have no choice. His honor won’t let him do otherwise.”

  That was what she was afraid of. He would be honor bound to save her. He could send his people, but he wouldn’t. He alone would be obligated to come for her. Tears stung the back of her eyes when she thought of never seeing him again. Never kissing him. Holding him. Seeing his handsome face, with or without his disguise, across the dining table. Never waltzing with him. Or making love. Or carrying his babe. No longer were the tears burning her eyes, they were running freely down her cheeks. She didn’t bother wiping them away as more would only take their place. Instead of continuing her conversation with Smythe, she crawled on the small bed, curled into a ball, cried, and prayed Harry stayed away from her. From this vile place that would only bring forth his death.