Lord and Lady Spy

by Shana Galen

  So work had to bow to social obligations for the night. Normally, Adrian would have told Marksby he could eat that starched cravat, but Liverpool had specifically told them to meet him at the ball. A good agent knew that work sometimes had to be interrupted to report to one’s superiors.

  Besides, he was interested in Liverpool’s opinions on…

  A flash of crimson caught his eye, and he stopped pacing, whirled, and stared at the steps leading to the upper floors. The chandelier above him blazed bright, reflecting off the rubies sparkling at Sophia’s pale throat. The gems matched her gown, a deep red in glossy silk. Her hair was equally glossy, coiled and woven in an artful style with just enough tendrils escaping to fire a man’s imagination.

  Adrian decided then and there he was firing Sophia’s maid. She was too good at her job.

  Sophia smiled at him and took a step down. Still speechless, he watched her move, watched her skirts swish, watched the play of light on the rubies. The waist of her gown was impossibly high, the neckline impossibly low, and he had an enviable view of her ample breasts cushioning the rubies. He remembered them now. They’d been a present—three weeks late—for their first anniversary. When he’d given them to Sophia, she’d smiled vaguely, said they were pretty, and he’d never seen them again.

  Of course, she’d still been dressing in high-necked sacks at that point. Perhaps he’d thought they might encourage her to dress in something more alluring. Perhaps he thought she’d think them pretty. Perhaps he hadn’t been thinking at all. But if he’d known then she could look as she did now, he might have bought her a shawl or a cape or a robe with a collar to her chin instead.

  She stopped before him, cleared her throat. “You look handsome, my lord. I see you decided on a new style for your cravat this evening.”

  He frowned. Had he? He’d forgotten even to look at Marksby’s work.

  “And your hair.” She nodded. “The style suits you.”

  It looked no different than it had this afternoon, except it was free of daisy petals.

  He continued to stare at her; there were small rubies in her ears—those he hadn’t given her. He wanted to reach out and stroke her ear. She had such small, delicate ears. “Where did you get these?” he asked, giving in to touching her and using the excuse of the earrings to do so. If Wallace and several footmen hadn’t been standing by, he would have done much more than put one finger to her earlobe.

  “Prague.” Her brows arched. “Is that all you have to say? I thought you more charming.”

  “I could be charming,” he admitted. “But the flesh on display makes it difficult for me to think.”

  She laughed and nodded to Wallace, who brought forth her pelisse. Thank God she’d be covered for a few moments. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

  Wallace opened the door, and they stepped out into the cool night. A breeze swept past him, and he caught the scent of citrus. Her scent. He led her down the walkway, staring at their coach, knowing in a moment he’d be inside with her. Alone. Curtains drawn. He hoped the Dewhursts lived very, very far away. Derbyshire would suit him.

  He handed her into the coach and took the seat opposite her, but as soon as the footman closed the door, he was beside her, his hand cupping her neck, his mouth on hers.

  He hadn’t realized he was tightly coiled, ready to snap. As soon as his lips touched hers, everything loosened and relaxed. She moaned slightly, her hands clutching his shoulders. “I’ve missed you,” she murmured against his lips.

  He’d missed her too. They’d been apart—what? Three hours? Four? It had felt like days. “I feel like I’m nineteen again,” he said, bending to press his lips to her neck. And there were those escaped tendrils of hair brushing his lips with their fragrant softness.

  “I didn’t know you at nineteen,” she said. “What were you like?”

  He grinned up at her, not certain she could see in the dark. “Impatient.”

  “Ah.” Her fingers stroked down his arm. “I know the feeling.”

  He reached up, loosened her pelisse, and watched it fall open, revealing that swell of skin. Reverently, he ran the back of his fingers over her. She sighed and shivered. Unable to resist, he bent his mouth to the soft flesh, felt it give enticingly as he pressed lips to breast.

  “I want to climb on top of you right now,” she murmured, voice husky. “I want to pull the bodice of this gown down, hike my skirts up, and let you take me as we ride through London.”

  He’d been hard before, but now he was painfully so.

  “But you know we have work to do.”

  He did know. He knew it all too well. Always work. He placed a finger under her chin, tilted her face up to his. “We work now, but later…”

  She nodded. “Later.” It sounded more like a threat than a promise.

  “Lord Dewhurst’s residence!” the coachman called.

  Adrian sighed and shifted back to his seat. “Let’s find Liverpool and get out of here quickly.”

  “Agreed,” she said, adjusting her pelisse.

  The coach stopped, the doors opened, and the glittering lights blinded him for a moment. Then he stepped out, reached back for Sophia, and led her into the lights, music, and crush of perfumed guests.

  Apparently, Marksby hadn’t exaggerated when he’d predicted the Dewhurst’s ball would be the event of the Season. The baron’s town house was modest in size, similar in proportion to Adrian’s own, but it was bursting with the powdered and plumed. Adrian didn’t know Lord Dewhurst. The man was a celebrated dandy, if an overfondness for coats and gloves and snuffboxes could be celebrated.

  “The Dewhursts only just returned from America,” Sophia said, smiling at one lady after another as they made their way through the crowds and into the actual vestibule. “So you might inquire about their voyage.”

  Adrian was grateful for the information. He never knew what to say at these gatherings and usually remained silent. It gave him a rather unsociable reputation, but he didn’t really care about his reputation.

  “They have a daughter.” Sophia never stopped smiling and nodding, even as she shed her pelisse and handed it to a waiting footman. They were announced, and Adrian saw the Dewhursts up ahead, receiving their guests. He was blond and far too pretty. She was a redhead, and in green silk, almost as stunning as Sophia.

  “Don’t ask about the daughter’s name,” Sophia was saying.

  Adrian frowned down at her. “How do you know so much about these people? You can’t have much more time than I to follow the scandal sheets.”

  “Dewhurst used to work for the Foreign Office,” Sophia said, still smiling and nodding. “I worked with him before…” She trailed off, apparently not wanting to speak of the Barbican group where there was any possibility they’d be overheard.

  “Well, I say, old chap!” Dewhurst, a tall blond man in a complicated cravat and tight coat, bowed with a flourish then smiled broadly. “It’s about time I met you. Known Soph there for years.”

  Adrian raised a brow. Soph?

  The aforementioned Soph stepped in. “Good to see you again, Freddie.” She offered her hand, and he raised it to his lips, kissing it with great ceremony. Adrian wondered if there was anything the man didn’t do with ceremony.

  “You’ve met Charlotte, haven’t you?” Dewhurst put a hand on his wife’s arm, and she turned from a conversation with a beautiful blond—Lady something or other—to smile at them.

  “Why, Lady Smythe!”

  Adrian noted she pronounced it Smith.

  “How good to see you again. I declare, it’s been ages.”

  “And this is Lord Smythe,” Dewhurst said. Adrian bowed, and Lady Dewhurst executed a very formal curtsy.

  He caught Sophia giving him a meaningful look and realized it was his turn to say something. He’d been taken off guard by the woman’s American accent. “Sophia tells me you’ve recently visited America. I hope your voyage was uneventful.”
>
  “It was lovely,” she said in that Southern American drawl. “Alvanley had the time of her life in Charleston.”

  “Alvanley?” Had they taken the dandy with a famous fondness for apricot tarts with them?

  “Our daughter,” Dewhurst explained. “Don’t ask about the name,” he hissed.

  Lady Dewhurst rolled her eyes. “No need to worry. I’ve quite forgiven you for that horrible wager. Oh, but your dress is beautiful, Sophia.”

  Dewhurst nodded. “I quite approve.”

  “High praise indeed,” Sophia said. “But we’re holding up your receiving line. Has Lord Liverpool arrived yet?”

  Dewhurst’s brows rose slightly, but Adrian would not have noted the man’s surprise if he hadn’t been looking. “Not yet. I’ll let him know you’re in attendance when he does so.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lady Dewhurst smiled at him as they made their way into the ball. “Do have some champagne, Lord Smythe. Freddie ordered it all the way from France.”

  Sophia was on Adrian’s arm again, but he wasn’t leading her. She was pulling him away from the ballroom. “Let’s find somewhere less crowded, so we can breathe for a moment.” They stepped into a parlor, tastefully decorated in muted tones, where several young women lounged, obviously intent on escaping the crowds as well. It would still be an hour or more before the dancing began, and no one wanted their gowns wrinkled before they were put on display.

  Adrian leaned against a wall, and Sophia stood beside him, fanning herself. “How do you know Dewhurst again?” he asked.

  Sophia smiled. “You heard me the first time. And, yes, I know it’s difficult to believe, but he really was quite good at what he did.”

  “Well, no one would suspect him.”

  Sophia nodded. “That’s exactly the point.”

  Adrian was tempted to check his pocket watch, but he knew seeing the time would only disappoint him.

  “You really hate these affairs, don’t you?” Sophia asked.

  “Don’t you?”

  “No. These days I find them more amusing than the theater. You see, everyone here has something to hide. Something they don’t want others to know. It’s fascinating trying to discover what it is.”

  “All right. What’s the brunette over there hiding?”

  Sophia glanced at the young girl in a white dress with pink flowers. She was shifting from foot to foot and fumbling with her fan. “That’s too easy. She’s nervous about the ball. This is her first Season, and she’s yet to make a match.”

  Adrian didn’t argue. It didn’t take a trained observer to see the woman’s nervousness and her exaggerated laughter and smiles to cover it up.

  “You’re right. Too easy. What’s Lady Dewhurst hiding?”

  “She’s expecting again.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  Sophia shrugged. “When we entered, she was talking to her good friend Lady Selbourne, and touching her belly. She’s expecting.”

  Adrian had seen only the redhead and the blond conversing. He hadn’t looked for more. He crossed his arms. “What am I hiding?”

  She laughed. “Nothing. You’re making it quite clear to everyone that you find this extremely tedious.”

  “Fine. What are you hiding?”

  She looked at him for a long time, so long he thought she might not answer. Then she said, “I envy Lady Dewhurst.”

  He felt his gut spasm as though a knife had plunged into it. He could hear the pain in her voice. “Sophia—”

  The parlor door opened again, and a footman nodded at them. “Lord and Lady Smythe, could you come with me, please?”

  Adrian gave Sophia a look then offered his elbow. They stepped back into the throngs, following the footman past the seemingly endless receiving line. Lord Dewhurst caught Adrian’s eye and gave him a mock salute just as the footman turned into a dark corridor. The din of the crowds faded as they left the ball behind. At the end of a short corridor, the footman paused and opened a door. He gestured into the darkness.

  Sophia moved ahead, but Adrian held her back. After the events of the last few days, he was on alert. He pushed her behind him, an action he expected her to protest. But she sighed and allowed it, waiting as he stepped into the dark library alone.

  Eighteen

  Sophia waited until Adrian had stepped inside the library then looked at the footman. “Is it Lord Liverpool?” She appreciated Adrian’s caution, but sometimes it was more expedient to simply ask the servants.

  “Yes, my lady. He didn’t wish to draw attention by making an appearance in the ballroom.”

  “Thank you.” She stepped inside the library and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. The first thing she noted was the sumptuous decor. Freddie never faltered in that regard. Her slippers sank into a rug in blue-and-green tones. She was no judge of rugs, but she was pretty certain this was an Aubusson. As the current style was all things Greek and Roman, she wasn’t surprised to see paintings and busts in that style all about the house. But none lurked here. Everything in the library spoke of seriousness and masculinity. The furnishings were leather, the color palette dark; even the desk, which was so large it took up half of one wall, was a dark mahogany.

  She smiled when she saw a yellow-haired doll lying forgotten on one of the large couches. Freddie might appear the fop on the outside, but here, when he was alone, he was obviously a different person altogether. The same could be said for Adrian, only she had never looked past his Greek and Roman busts to see the real man—not that Adrian had any Greek or Roman busts. He wasn’t that fashionable…

  “Lady Smythe,” the prime minister said, rising from one of the couches. Adrian stood before the fire, and she moved to join him so they faced Lord Liverpool as one. Liverpool watched, and the effect was not lost on him. “Quite a difference from your behavior several days ago. Then I was given to believe you actively disliked one another.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” Sophia took Adrian’s hand and squeezed it. It felt wonderful to stand beside him tonight. To know she had a partner in all things. He squeezed her hand back, reassuring her.

  Liverpool gestured to the couch opposite him. “Please take a seat.”

  “I’d prefer to stand,” Adrian said. Sophia nodded.

  Liverpool spread his hands. “Very well. Go ahead with your report. Lord Smythe, would you begin?”

  He released her hand, and she felt him take a deep breath. “My lord, we’ve interviewed all of the suspects—Mrs. Jenkinson, the Jenkinson servants, Mr. Hardwicke, Mr. Linden, and the valet Callows.”

  “And?”

  “None of them are responsible for your brother’s death,” Sophia said. She glanced at Adrian, knowing he harbored doubts about Hardwicke. “Although some are still under suspicion.”

  “No, you were right the first time,” Adrian told her. Sophia raised her brows, surprised at this admission, especially with the prime minister listening. “Hardwicke had nothing to do with this.”

  Liverpool crossed his legs. “Then who did?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  Sophia could hear the hesitation in Adrian’s voice. She knew, first hand, the feeling of failure one experienced when giving a report not full of successes. Behind them, the low fire crackled. The room felt suddenly too warm.

  “But we’re closing in,” she added. “Recently we’ve had several encounters leading us to believe that whoever killed your brother knows we’re after him and doesn’t want us to succeed.”

  “You’ve been threatened?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Adrian said. “And when we uncover the man trying to kill us, we’ll have your brother’s murderer.”

  Liverpool pressed his lips together. “I didn’t intend to put you in any danger.”

  “We’re not,” Sophia assured him. “We can handle ourselves, but we do have a few questions for you, my lord.” She felt a trickle of perspiration run from her neck down her back and moved slightly forward, away from t
he hearth.

  Liverpool’s brows rose. “Am I a suspect?”

  She smiled. “Not yet, sir. Several of our suspects mentioned Mr. Jenkinson’s association with foreigners.” She tried to keep her tone light. “Do you know anything about your brother’s personal or business dealings with foreigners?”

  “Foreigners? Whom do you mean? The Americans? The Dutch?”

  “I was thinking the French,” Adrian said. Sophia glanced at him in surprise, but his face revealed nothing. In fact, he looked as cool and composed as ever. The heat of the fire did not seem to be bothering him. And was it just her imagination, or had he moved away from her, separating them?

  “I highly doubt my brother had any dealings with the French. Until very recently, they were our enemy.”

  Adrian remained silent as the implication sank in. Sophia bit the inside of her cheek. Slowly, Lord Liverpool rose. “What, exactly, are you saying, Lord Smythe? Are you accusing my brother of associating with the enemy?”

  “No,” Adrian said, his tone carefully neutral. Sophia’s heart was pounding now. She wasn’t certain where this was going, but she knew they should tread carefully.

  “The manner in which your brother was murdered…”

  “Ghastly,” Liverpool said with a shudder.

  “I’ve heard of something similar before.”

  “You have?” Sophia asked. Adrian flicked a glance at her, as though to indicate she should leave it for later. But that wasn’t going to happen. She faced him, stepped closer, into the gap he’d created. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “I did. I told you it seemed familiar when we were walking back from the Jenkinson residence, but we were interrupted.”

  “Am I to understand this is a new development?” Liverpool asked.

  “I haven’t had time to discuss my suspicions with Lady Smythe.” He looked at her, raised a hand slightly as though he would touch her, but he didn’t. “I haven’t even had time to confirm them.”

  She couldn’t argue. But it still bothered her. Was he intentionally keeping this information to himself, or was he telling the truth? Damn it! She clenched her fists and stepped back from him, hating that she still doubted him, hating that Henry was the first thought to cross her mind. A moment before, she’d felt so certain of her partnership with Adrian, and now she felt as though she were all on her own again. And she’d be alone much more if Adrian was given the Barbican position and she was left behind in London.