by Shana Galen
“Records of payments made to George Jenkinson.” He turned the papers in his hand as though seeing them for the first time. “With the information obtained for each payment.”
“He was selling confidential information about England’s war efforts,” Sophia said.
Foncé shrugged. “Naturellement. But here is the problem.” He wagged the documents. “It’s such a scandal. The brother of the prime minister selling England’s secrets? Oh là là! Your Liverpool will allow me to go rather than involve himself in such a scandal.”
Unfortunately, he was correct, Sophia thought. Liverpool would not want to sully his name. But Melbourne could see Foncé was dealt with, if not for Jenkinson’s murder, then for his other crimes. But she needed those documents. They needed to know how many of England’s secrets had been compromised by Jenkinson.
“Give me the documents.” Adrian cocked the pistol and pointed it at Foncé.
“Let me go,” Foncé said.
“We can’t do that.” Sophia held out her hand. “Give them to me.”
Foncé held the documents toward her then jerked his hand and tossed them in the fire. Sophia inhaled quickly, and too late saw Foncé reach into his coat. “Down!” she ordered, but the pistol shot screamed through the air even as Adrian dove for the fire.
Twenty-two
“Bloody hell!” White-hot pain shot through Adrian’s leg. He’d made a leap for the fire and the documents, and his leg had obviously collided with some furnishing.
Except this hurt more than a simple bump. This felt like…
He tried to get his bearings, lifted his head, and looked into the fire. The documents had landed on the edge of the hearth. They were still intact, but the fire licked at them, clawing closer.
“Adrian!” Sophia was across the room, looking down at him. Was he on the floor? How the bloody hell had he ended up on the floor. “Adrian!”
And then Foncé was behind her. Before Adrian could warn her, the man had his arm about her waist. She immediately jabbed her elbow into his abdomen, but the man gripped her hair, yanked her head back, and put a knife to her throat.
Sophia’s knife.
She stilled, her gaze meeting Adrian’s. He could see the plea for him to stay put, not to intervene. She wasn’t afraid, not for herself. She was afraid for him.
Foncé dragged her across the parlor, through the door, and out of sight.
The hell he was going to stay put. He would… But when he tried to rise, his leg buckled. He tried again. And failed. Levering himself to a sitting position, he glimpsed his leg. “Bloody hell.”
No wonder his thigh was throbbing. He had a gaping hole in it, blood pouring from his leg and onto the ugly green-and-white carpet.
He stared at the door Sophia had disappeared through, then looked at the fireplace. The flames had singed one corner of the documents, and the parchment was smoking now.
And he was lying on the floor like a bloody invalid.
He heard the sound of something shatter, and grinding his teeth, reached for the chair leg nearest him. Black spots danced before his eyes as he struggled to hold on.
***
Sophia stumbled into the vestibule, feeling the cold metal of her knife—her own knife!—at her throat. Foncé’s arm was warm and solid about her waist, and it hadn’t escaped her notice that he held her closer than was necessary.
“Unhand me,” she demanded.
“Tired of my embraces already, Lady Smythe? Or should I call you Agent Saint?”
She stiffened involuntarily, and he laughed, low and husky, near her ear. She was able to control the shiver.
“That’s right,” he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. She closed her eyes, trying to block the sensation. “I know exactly who you are, and I must say, you are far more beautiful than I was led to believe.”
“I’m far more dangerous as well. Unhand me.”
“I don’t doubt you have a nasty bite, and that is precisely why I will not unhand you.” The knife he held dug into her neck, and she felt the prick of the sharp blade. A blade she’d sharpened herself. “Unlike your esteemed colleague, I’m going to give you a chance to live. One chance, madame.”
She swallowed, knowing the best strategy here was to play along. “What chance is that?”
“Join me.”
She almost laughed. She couldn’t believe he was serious, and then he whirled her to face him, and she saw how deadly serious he was. She tipped a table, causing a vase to shatter, but the knife was still in his hand. She hadn’t thrown him off balance. He gripped her neck and bent it back, but he was tall enough to lock his gaze with hers. “I think we could make a good team. We already have the most important component—passion.”
She shook her head. “I don’t—”
“Try and deny it, but I can see you want me.”
She couldn’t deny he was attractive, but then she imagined the devil himself could appear handsome when he so chose. Obviously, Foncé found her appealing, and that she could use to her advantage.
“Want you?” Sophia gave him a sultry smile. “I know I shouldn’t, but…”
Foncé’s lips descended on hers, and she dug her nails into the palm of her hand to keep from retching.
***
Adrian dragged himself to his knees and rested his forehead on the chair. The fire poker was at arm’s length, but it required him to put pressure on his bad leg. If he could grasp it, he could use it to fish the documents from the flames, and as a crutch, to make it across the room. With an oath, he reached for it. His leg screeched in agony, and his forehead poured with sweat, but he closed his slick fingers around the poker. His leg buckled, and as he fell, he made a desperate swipe at the fire.
***
Sophia kissed Foncé back. It was her only chance. This wasn’t the first time she had had to feign passion to survive, and she knew how to make a man lower his guard. She kissed him hard and with fervor, and when he lowered the knife and pressed her to his arousal, she struck out. She bit his roving tongue, and drove her knee into that arousal. Then, when he attempted to slash her with the knife, she sidestepped, causing him to lose his balance. She kneed him in the face, and he went down, the knife clattering into a far corner.
Sophia left it and raced for the parlor, Foncé’s shouts of “Guards!” echoing in her ears.
***
Adrian groaned, but something was pulling him out of the darkness. Sophia’s face swam before his, and he shook his head, tried to close his eyes again. She clasped his face in her hands.
“Foncé,” Adrian croaked. “The documents.”
“You have the documents right here.” She lifted them and tucked them into her shirt. “Foncé is still a concern. We need to move.”
He nodded. “Let’s go.” But he couldn’t find the strength to rise.
Sophia’s face disappeared for a moment, and he felt something probe at his leg. Then she was looking down at him again. “You’ve been shot,” she said unnecessarily.
“That’s four for me,” he groaned and tried again to stand, eliciting a string of curses he probably shouldn’t utter in front of his wife. “We’re even.”
“You’re competing with me? At a time like this?”
His head felt fuzzy, but there was no mistaking the worry in her voice. Foncé was probably collecting his troops even as they spoke. In a moment, the guards would burst through the door, and then Foncé would be carving letters on Sophia’s perfect porcelain skin in the cellar. “Get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving without you.” She looked over her shoulder at the door. “Can you walk?”
He scowled at her. “Madam, have you seen my leg?”
She scowled right back. “I’m not leaving you.” She bent beside him, and he thought she would help him to his feet, but she reached in his pocket and withdrew his pistol. Tucking it in her coat pocket, she lifted the other from where it had fallen on the floor and put it in his pocket.
“God help us now.
You’re armed.”
“Stubble it.” She bent, got her arms hooked around him, and said, “Stand.”
He knew enough to do it quickly, so putting all his weight on his good leg, he levered himself up. “Give me the poker.”
She did, and he leaned some of his weight on it.
“Lean the rest on me.” She adjusted position so she was beside him, supporting him. “Let’s go.”
“We’ll never make it out. Go without me.”
“You’re wasting time.”
She began to move toward the door, and he tried to follow. The first shuffling step went well, and then he put the smallest hint of pressure on his injured leg, and black dots swam before his eyes. He prided himself on not whimpering when his leg screamed in protest, but he thought he might have screamed a bit in sympathy. “Have mercy,” he panted. “Leave me.”
“No.” She pulled him forward, and he found the next step as excruciating as the last, but this time he was prepared. She opened the parlor door, leaned him against the doorjamb, and peered out.
Foncé’s butler was standing in the vestibule, wringing his hands. He squealed when he saw them. Sophia pointed the pistol at him, and since the man didn’t know she couldn’t have hit him had he been standing at the barrel’s end, he lifted his arms. “I surrender!”
“Go call for your master’s coach.”
“B-but, my lady, it’s already out front. Monsieur Foncé called for it just now.”
“And where is he?” Adrian asked.
The butler shook his head, and Adrian thought he would not answer. “He went to fetch his tools,” the man whispered, fear in his voice.
Sophia glanced at Adrian. “That doesn’t sound promising. Let’s go.”
“And if we go, Foncé won’t be here when we return.”
“And if we don’t go, you and I will end up in the cellar beside Twombley. I know when to cut my losses, Wolf. We’ve got the documents. We’ll get Foncé later.”
She pulled him into the vestibule, and he clenched his jaw and followed. Behind them, he heard the rumble of men running and the sound of voices.
“Open the door!” Sophia screamed at the butler. He flapped his hands then ran to do her bidding. The butler moved away from the door, and the man with the jagged scar stood in the opening, grinning.
***
Sophia raised her pistol and fired. She was aware of Adrian’s weight on her side and tried to compensate with her aim, but really, she couldn’t fail to miss at such close range.
And she didn’t. The man fell backward, clutching his abdomen.
“You hit him.”
She scowled at Adrian. “Don’t sound so surprised.” She handed him the pistol so he could prime it, and yanked him out the door, wincing when he made a sound of pain as they descended the steps. Behind them, she saw Foncé’s men swarming into the vestibule. “Shoot!” she ordered.
“Shoot what?” he asked.
“Anything!”
He turned and fired, forcing the men converging on them to duck and take cover. She dragged Adrian toward the carriage. The coachman was running away—not that she blamed him—so she would have to secure Adrian inside and drive the vehicle herself. The distance to the coach seemed interminable. Her instinct was to run, but she tamped it down and supported Adrian. She hadn’t underestimated his strength. He must have been in enormous pain, but he was moving quickly.
She leaned him against the door of the coach, and he prepared his pistol to fire again. Just as she swung the coach door open, shots rang out from the house. “Damn it!” she yelled, ducking.
Adrian returned fire before she pushed him inside the carriage then ran around the far side to avoid being hit. Lights came on in the house across the street, and she could only imagine what the neighbors must think. Sophia wasn’t frightened now. She wasn’t even thinking. At this point, she simply acted.
Shots rang out again as she reached for the footboard. The horses were spooked and jostled the carriage, causing her to lose her grip. But finally she was in the box and reaching for the reins. The horses needed no urging; they danced into motion. One of the faster guards reached the carriage and grabbed the lead horse. Sophia grabbed for her knife, realized she’d lost it in the struggle with Foncé, and grasped a horseshoe on the floor of the box instead. She hefted it at the guard, hitting him in the forehead.
With an oath, he fell back. Another approached, but Adrian, somehow he was still conscious and fighting, shot at him from the carriage window.
And then she had the animals under control, and they were speeding away. She gave one look back, saw the guards streaming into the street, saw Foncé standing on his front stoop, holding a dark valise.
“This isn’t over,” she called.
He gave her a salute and stepped back inside.
***
“These aren’t completely useless,” Melbourne said, smoothing Foncé’s charred documents on his desk deep in the Barbican’s headquarters. “The little information I can still read is fairly damning.” He glanced at Liverpool, who was pacing behind the chair where Sophia was seated.
It was two weeks after The Fiasco—as Adrian liked to think of it—and Adrian’s leg still hurt like hell, though Farrar, the Barbican surgeon Sophia had insisted he see, told him he was lucky the bullet had missed the major blood vessels.
He didn’t feel lucky, but he wasn’t going to take any more of the mind-numbing medicine Farrar had offered him, so he propped his stitched and bandaged leg on the couch and clenched his jaw whenever he accidentally moved it. Sophia cast him another of her worried looks. She didn’t think he should be out of bed, and she was probably right. But he wouldn’t have missed this meeting for anything.
Liverpool stopped pacing and clasped his hands behind his back. “We can’t allow word of this… this treachery”—he swallowed—“to become public.”
“Of course not,” Sophia agreed. She was seated near Adrian in an old leather chair. “But at least now we know what information the French were given. We’re lucky we know what codes were compromised, and have the names of several English traitors working with the French.”
“They’ll be arrested,” Liverpool said. “I can’t abide a traitor.” He began pacing again, and Adrian thought he heard him mutter, “My own brother.”
Adrian could understand the prime minister’s feelings. Once he had struggled with his own father’s duplicity. Now, given the chance, he would have told Liverpool that the sins of the father did not reflect upon the son. Liverpool wasn’t responsible for his brother’s betrayal any more than Adrian needed to atone for his father’s.
“It’s a shame Foncé was allowed to get away,” Melbourne said with a glance at Adrian. Sophia had gone back to the house with other members of the Barbican group, but there was no sign of the Maîtriser group. No sign they had ever been in residence.
Melbourne was still angry Adrian hadn’t sent for assistance, even though Adrian had explained there had not been time. But after a failed mission, it was natural to ask what if and to wonder what could have been.
Adrian had been over everything so often he dreamed about it. “We’ll find him. It’s personal now.”
Liverpool ceased pacing. “I suppose I owe the two of you thanks for discovering this treachery, and I did make you a promise—a position in the Barbican group. And that position goes to—”
“Lord Liverpool,” Adrian said. “Wait.”
From her chair nearby, Sophia glanced at him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m telling Lord Liverpool I think you should be given the position.”
Liverpool raised his brows and gave Sophia a sidelong glance. “I see.”
“Adrian, no…”
“She’s the better agent by far,” Adrian said. “She’s clever, daring, and her intuition is unsurpassed. I’ll never have that sort of sense about things. Agent Saint deserves the position in the Barbican group.”
Sophia rose and went to him. She took his
hands. “Oh, Adrian.”
“I want you to take it,” he told her. “I’ll probably die an early death from worrying about you, but I want you to take it.” He didn’t need the Barbican group anymore. He had what he wanted—Sophia and the possibility of children with her. She was his family, and nothing could matter to him more than giving her all she desired.
“This is quite a different tune from the one you were singing a mere week and a half ago,” Liverpool said. “I believe then your attitude was, may the best man win.”
Adrian remembered quite clearly his words the night he’d discovered Sophia was Agent Saint. He hadn’t thought a woman capable of what she’d done. What she could do. “I was misinformed,” he said stiffly. He glanced at Sophia and saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Oh, bloody hell. If you start crying on me, I take it all back.”
She laughed and dashed them away.
“Well, this presents quite a dilemma,” Melbourne said.
“What dilemma?”
“Agent Saint spoke to me privately before we began this meeting,” Liverpool said, “She argued you should be given the position in the Barbican group.”
Adrian stared at her. “Why?”
“You’re Agent Wolf,” she told him as if that said it all. “You’re the best.” Now she looked at Liverpool. “He’s smart and strategizes like no other agent I’ve ever met. Not to mention he’s a crack shot with a pistol and excels at interrogation.”
Adrian shook his head. “You’ve a much more subtle way with interrogation—”
“But you’re a better bully, and some men respond to that.”
“Yes, but—”
“This is all well and good,” Melbourne interrupted, “but I have an urgent mission in Prague, and I need an agent tonight. Who is it going to be?”
Adrian looked at Sophia, and she squeezed his hand then entwined her fingers with his. Adrian stared at their joined hands and understood what Sophia was telling him—they were two parts of the whole, stronger together than apart. Maybe that was why he’d never found what he needed in the Barbican group. Sophia raised her brows at him, not speaking but trusting him to make the right decision.
