Lord and Lady Spy

by Shana Galen

  Adrian rolled his eyes and looked back at Sophia, who was smiling. “You were saying?”

  “I want to be inside you.”

  “This isn’t the time or the place.”

  “And apparently your very private bedroom under our own roof isn’t the time or place, either. Why?”

  She looked down. For the first time since he’d learned she was a spy, she looked embarrassed. “I told you before. I—I can’t.”

  The quaver in her voice, the way she avoided his eyes, the way she obviously enjoyed lovemaking but refused to complete the act. Suddenly, it all made sense. “You’re afraid you might conceive again.”

  “I—” She looked down. Adrian could have sworn he saw the shimmer of tears on her lashes, but an instant later they were gone. “Yes.”

  Her words shocked him. He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, comfort her, but even with the apple seller shielding them, that was too bold an action. He settled for putting his hands on her shoulders. The Sophia he was coming to know wasn’t afraid of anything. To hear her sound so fragile roused his protective instincts and quelled his annoyance at being told no by her. He hated being told no, but this was no longer about him. If denying him was what Sophia needed, then he could put his own desires aside. He was not so much a bastard as to think only of himself.

  She looked up at him, her brown eyes dry. “I can’t lose another one, Adrian. I won’t survive it.”

  “You would.” He squeezed her shoulders. “You’re strong, and you have me—really have me—now. We’ll get through it.”

  She was shaking her head.

  “Sophia, what if you didn’t lose the child?”

  She glanced up at him, and he saw the flicker of hope in her eyes.

  “Sophia, I want a child. I want something that’s part of both of us. I want the family I never had.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t give that to you. I’m sorry. I know I’ve failed you, failed as a wife.”

  “No—”

  “Lady Smythe?”

  Adrian turned at the sound of the woman’s voice and saw Mrs. Jenkinson. He shut his eyes briefly in frustration. “That’s all right,” he said before the apple seller could shoo her away. “Go back to your cart.”

  Sophia stepped forward, all traces of sadness gone. “Mrs. Jenkinson. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.” And she did look well in a loose black bombazine gown that almost disguised her condition, and a frilly little cap on her dark hair. “Are you unwell, my lady?”

  “Lady Smythe felt dizzy. She needed a moment’s rest,” Adrian answered.

  “Lord Smythe was worried for nothing. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “I’m glad I found you. It saves me the trouble of sending a note. My valet, Callows, will return the day after tomorrow. Did you still wish to speak with him?”

  Finally. Adrian wanted to shout with victory. Now they would make progress on this case, and none too soon, as they were to meet with the prime minister at Lord Dewhurst’s ball tomorrow night.

  “Yes,” Sophia was saying. “May we call on you when he returns and speak with him?”

  “Of course. Do you mind if I ask if you’ve made any discoveries?”

  Sophia glanced at Adrian, and he said, “We’ve spoken with Mr. Hardwicke and are on our way to speak with Mr. Linden now.” That was as much as he was prepared to reveal to her.

  “Oh. I doubt Randall is awake this early.”

  Adrian gave Sophia a sidelong look, which she ignored.

  “Oh, well, you can’t worry too much about the niceties when you’re investigating a murder.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?” The woman’s eyes were huge now. “Investigating?”

  “We’re merely helping Lord Liverpool,” Adrian said. “We don’t mean to keep you, Mrs. Jenkinson. We shall call on you soon.”

  “Of course.” She opened her mouth then closed it again. “Good day.”

  Adrian offered Sophia his arm, and they continued along Piccadilly toward St. James Street. Something told him to look back. Millie Jenkinson was still standing there, watching them and ignoring the apple seller, who was holding out his choicest wares for her to inspect. Damn him if Sophia’s talk of intuition wasn’t getting to him, because he couldn’t help but think Millie Jenkinson knew something she wasn’t telling them.

  ***

  When they turned onto St. James Street, Sophia noticed the crowds thinned and the clamor all but ceased. A very few bucks were up and about this morning, and no dandies or fops that she could see. St. James was all but deserted. The dark windows of the gaming hells and clubs gave them a sleepy, half-lidded appearance.

  She wished Adrian were not with her. Not because he wouldn’t be an asset when she questioned Linden. The fact the two were old school chums would make the encounter that much smoother. She wished she were alone because Adrian distracted her.

  She wanted to push him into one of the dark doorways and kiss him. She wanted to shove her hands underneath his starched linen shirt and run her nails over the muscles of his chest. She wanted him to push her against a wall, wrap her arms around him, and…

  She shivered.

  “Are you cold?” Adrian asked.

  She cleared her throat. “No.” Far from it. Why couldn’t the man see she wanted him as much as he wanted her? But she couldn’t risk it. Yes, she knew she was a failure as a wife. She hadn’t produced an heir, and she wouldn’t be able to produce an heir. And now Adrian said he wanted a family. After what she’d learned about his family last night, about his feelings toward his traitorous father, she understood why he wanted children of his own. She knew what he needed to prove.

  She wanted a family with him, too. Her heart ached when she thought about how she couldn’t give him, either of them, the children they both desired. She thought about all the Christmases before them. She could not remember a Christmas they had spent together. Perhaps because there was no reason for them to spend it together. The holiday and excitement of opening brightly wrapped packages and gifts was for children. She’d seen Cordelia’s little ones’ eyes grow big when presented with a gift. Sophia knew she would never watch her own child’s eyes light up in the same way.

  She would never hold a sleeping baby in her arms, never watch him attempt those wobbly first steps, never hear her laugh with innocent abandon.

  A small part of her wanted Adrian to be right. Maybe if they tried again…

  But how many times did she need to fail before she admitted she was not capable of producing a child? The third time had convinced her.

  “Do you remember the direction?” Adrian was asking.

  “His flat is on King—” Her nose itched. She rubbed it with her hand. “I believe it’s number twenty-seven.” Her nose itched again. “I…”

  Her nose itched!

  Without another word, she reached in her boot and drew her dagger. She felt Adrian tense, go on alert. He sensed something as well. They were passing a small side street housing mews. Sophia saw the flash of movement, but Adrian pushed her to the ground before she could warn him.

  She heard the ball as it flew over them.

  “Bloody hell.” Adrian was up and dashing into the alley. Sophia had to untangle her skirts before she could go after him. She drew her pistol and, using a bit more caution, stepped into the gloomy street.

  As her eyes adjusted to the murky light, Adrian hissed from her right, “Straight ahead.”

  There was an abandoned cart ahead of them, the perfect place for an assailant to hide.

  “I’ll flank him,” she said. That gave Adrian the more dangerous task of approaching the cart directly, from the front. She didn’t like the thought of putting him at risk, but she could more easily keep to the shadows and surprise their attacker from behind.

  “Go,” Adrian said and began to move forward.

  She shifted into the shadows, thankful she had not chosen to wear a light color this morning. The burnished red would conceal her
nicely. She knew the attacker had a pistol, so she dug her pistol from her reticule and tucked her dagger into her boot. Little good the dagger would do against a pistol, but she might need it later. In fact, she hoped she needed it later. She was a miserable shot.

  She crept forward, seeing Adrian do the same from her peripheral vision. It was her own fault she was a bad markswoman. She didn’t practice nearly as much as she should. She supposed that was because she disliked the impersonal nature of the pistol. If she were going to be killed, she’d much rather look into her killer’s eyes as he or she plunged the knife in. She didn’t want to be taken by surprise with a shot in the back.

  She was even with the rear of the cart now, and crouched down, making herself small. Adrian was almost at the front of the conveyance, and their attacker had made no further move. She tilted her head, peered under the cart, and saw nothing.

  Either the man was gone or he was hiding behind one of the wheels. Which one?

  She angled for the cart, making a wide sweep so she’d approach it from behind. She moved silently, trailing her skirts in the dirt and muck of the side street. Another gown ruined.

  She was still a good five feet from the cart when she saw him move. He popped up and pointed a pistol in Adrian’s direction. “Down!” she called as she lifted her own pistol and aimed it. She cocked it, pulled the hammer back, and fired.

  Damn it! The shot went wild. But now the man had turned toward her, and she had to dive to avoid the lead ball he fired. Her knee protested with a sharp scream of pain, but she ignored it and was up again, charging the man. Now was her chance, before he reloaded. She had her dagger in her hand but no intention of using it except to wound him. She wanted information. Someone obviously wanted them dead, and she suspected that someone was the person responsible for George Jenkinson’s murder.

  Another pistol shot rang out, echoing through the gloom. She ducked but heard a soft cry. Adrian?

  Her heart thumped wildly against her chest, and panic welled inside her. Not since the Paris fiasco had she felt such panic on a mission. “Adrian?” she cried. “Adrian?”

  It seemed an eternity before he finally answered. “I’m fine. That was my pistol.”

  Damn it. He’d hit their attacker. Sophia rushed to the cart and saw the man’s form slumped over the box. She slowed, palmed her dagger, and approached cautiously. He wasn’t moving, but that didn’t mean this wasn’t a trick.

  Adrian was moving in carefully from the other direction, but she reached the man first. She poked his shoulder with her dagger and received no response. She pushed him with her hand, and he began to slide. She caught him, turned him, and watched as he fell hard onto the ground. Even in the gloom, she could see his eyes were open and staring.

  Dead.

  Fourteen

  “Bloody hell.” Adrian stared at the dead man. He hadn’t meant to kill him. The man would have been far more useful to them alive.

  Sophia huffed out a sigh. “Well, that’s unfortunate. I would have liked to question him, find out who he was and why he wants us dead.”

  “It must have something to do with the Jenkinson case.”

  “Probably, but we can’t assume that. We both have enemies.”

  Adrian knelt down and checked the man’s pulse, just to be certain. Nothing. He began going through the man’s pockets, hoping to find a clue as to his identity. “Agent Wolf has enemies, but they don’t know where to find me. Rarely have I been assaulted on English soil.”

  “Anything?” Sophia asked. He handed her the man’s cheap pocket watch and a pound note found in the man’s pockets.

  “That’s all.”

  “Not very enlightening.” She sighed. “If only you hadn’t killed him.”

  Adrian rose. “I was trying to save you, madam.”

  It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it immediately, even before she put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I don’t need to be saved.”

  He didn’t want to argue with her, but he couldn’t allow this to pass. “Your shot was wild. You weren’t even close to hitting him. He would have fired on you next.”

  “It would have taken him a moment to load another ball and gunpowder. I had my dagger. And I was trying to save you. He almost hit you.”

  “The point is,” Adrian said, starting for the mouth of the side street and not really caring if she followed or not, “if you had wounded him, I wouldn’t have needed to shoot to kill.” He said the last over his shoulder and heard her stomping after him.

  “Oh, I see. You had to kill him because I’m a poor shot.”

  Adrian kept walking. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I was going to wound him.” But instinct had taken over. For a second, he had feared for Sophia’s safety, her life. In that moment, he hadn’t cared about who the assailant was or what information he might hold. Adrian just wanted Sophia safe.

  “So you’re such a good marksman, you killed him accidentally.”

  He scowled and rounded on her. “Sophia—”

  A dagger flew past his head and landed in the wall behind him. Too late, Adrian blinked, but he was able to control the instinctual flinch.

  Sophia stood staring at him, her arm outthrust. “I’m not so bad with a dagger, am I, my lord?”

  Adrian took a deep breath, turned to study the dagger protruding from the wooden wall behind him. If he backed up, he had no doubt the dagger would be a hair from his face. “Perhaps in the future you should avoid pistols.”

  “Perhaps I will.” She retrieved the dagger and tucked it in her boot.

  He offered his arm, and with a small smile, she took it. “What should we do with him?” She gestured to the dead man.

  “I’ll send a note to Melbourne, have one of the agents pick him up. Perhaps someone knows who he is—was.”

  “If the attack was related to the Jenkinson case,” Sophia began as they turned toward King Street and Randall Linden’s flat, “then this is bigger than we first thought.”

  She was right. It meant Jenkinson’s death was no act of anger or revenge. It was planned, and planned by someone with the resources to hire assassins like the one they’d just encountered.

  Adrian wanted answers. Now. Unfortunately, he didn’t think Randall Linden would have them.

  Sophia remembered the address—she did seem to have an uncanny ability to remember numbers—and he knocked on the freshly painted yellow door of the ground-floor flat.

  “A bit garish,” she whispered.

  “I’m sure it’s dernier cri,” Adrian said. “Linden is nothing if not fashionable.”

  “Perhaps we should have our unfashionable black door painted yellow.”

  Adrian winced. “I leave those decisions to you, madam.”

  Adrian knocked again, and they stood a good five minutes before the door was opened by a young manservant with his hair flying in several directions. “May I be of assistance?” he croaked, obviously just out of bed.

  “Lord and Lady Smythe to see Mr. Linden,” Adrian said, pushing the door open and moving past the servant to enter the drawing room.

  “Mr. Linden is not at home,” the manservant said stiffly, and Adrian, whose patience had worn thin a quarter of an hour and two bullets ago, grabbed the man by his wrinkled tailcoat and slammed him against the drawing room’s wall. Sophia stepped demurely out of the way and pretended to study a vase.

  “Listen…?”

  The servant swallowed. “Jarvis,” he squeaked.

  “Listen, Jarvis. You have a choice. You can either go rouse your master from his inebriated slumber, or I will do it for you.”

  “I’ll wake him.”

  “Do that.” Adrian released the man, who started for the closed door at the other end of the room. “And Jarvis? Be quick about it.”

  The manservant hurried across the room, quietly opened the door, then closed it behind him.

  Sophia wandered the room, studying the shabby furniture, dirty plates and bowls strewn about the room, and the over
turned glasses. The room reeked of brandy and stale smoke. She lifted a man’s coat from a chair, draped it over a side table, and sat. “We might as well make ourselves comfortable,” she said. “It will likely be a few minutes.”

  Adrian grunted and paced. He was going over the attack in his mind. How was it tied to the Jenkinson murder? Who would want them dead?

  The barely grieving widow? Adrian didn’t think so. Or had it been coincidence she’d met them on Piccadilly this morning?

  The business partner? But did he have the funds to hire an assassin? The man who had attacked them had given little warning that he’d been following them. He’d been a good shot, too, and smart enough not to carry any identification on him. He wouldn’t have come cheap.

  That eliminated all of the Jenkinson servants—not that Adrian had suspected any of them in the first place.

  Their last two suspects were Randall Linden—Adrian shook his head at the very idea the man had hired an assassin; though he had to admit, as the heir to a barony, Linden had access to the funds—and Callows, the Jenkinson valet. Would a valet have the money to hire a professional assassin? He wouldn’t earn enough, but what if he’d been stealing from the Jenkinsons?

  Adrian shook his head. The Jenkinsons were in debt. They were unlikely to leave monies lying about.

  “Adrian,” Sophia said. “Come sit down. You’re making me nervous with all that pacing.”

  He moved toward her just as Linden’s bedroom door opened and Linden, looking surprisingly clear-eyed and tailored, emerged. He was in shirtsleeves and trousers, but his boots were shined and his linen was starched. He hadn’t had time for a cravat, and from the way he touched his neck, Adrian surmised the lack thereof bothered him. His brown hair curled over his brow in the Roman style, and he was freshly shaved.

  Adrian clenched his fist. He’d told the butler to hurry, not to dress Linden in his best. If he saw Jarvis again, the butler was going to regret it.

  “Lord Smythe, old chap,” Linden said with a puzzled smile. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  Sophia stood, and Linden’s brows rose considerably.

  With exaggerated movements, he bowed, sweeping one hand so wide it almost felled a lamp. “My lady.” He glanced at Adrian. “Lady Smythe, I presume?”