My Lady, The Spy

by Barbara Devlin

  Indeed, Dirk Randolph was a man of order. Rebecca surmised that in his life, as in his quarters, everything had its place.

  “Is that coffee I smell?” She also detected a hint of soap and shaving foam.

  “It is.” With a grin, he offered his mug. “Do ladies not favor tea?”

  “I would not know, as I’ve had little time to be a lady.” A gull soared in the air, and she traced its path as she sipped the steaming brew and hummed her appreciation. “This is delicious.”

  “Do you never smile?”

  Rebecca choked on the hot liquid.

  “I have seen few things in my lifetime that made me want to smile. War is ugly business.” She stared at the horizon and tried to ignore the misery of her situation. “Men commit heinous atrocities in their quest for freedom and democracy.”

  “There you have me, but the war will end some day.”

  Rebecca recalled Colin’s violent demise, and a chill slithered over her flesh. “Perhaps, but a spy never plans beyond the present.”

  “I suppose I can understand your position. Is that why you expend so much effort admiring the landscape?”

  She had misjudged Dirk’s acumen. As she met his too insightful gaze, she suppressed her amazement at his correct assertion. “There is something special about the dawn hours. In some respects, sunrise is a rebirth.”

  “Is that what you are hoping for?” He leaned on the rail and pointed at another gull. “A rebirth?”

  How could he read her so well?

  “No. Not for me but for our country.” The shoreline in the distance piqued her curiosity. “Tell me, Captain, why have we not docked in London?”

  “Because I am avoiding the usual routes.” Dirk stood upright. “I am carrying valuable cargo and am unwilling to chance another attack.”

  “Do you believe your mission has been compromised?” The helmsman ascended the companion ladder, and Rebecca lowered her voice. “Have I put you at risk?”

  “Lady Wentworth, all of my missions involve risk.” He chuckled. “But you are safe aboard the Gawain. I trust you slept well?”

  “I did.” In silence, Rebecca counted to three and lowered the boom. “After you came into my quarters.”

  A charming blush colored his cheeks, and Dirk shuffled his feet. With the look of a child caught with his fingers in the cherry compote, he said, “My intentions were honorable. You screamed, and I thought a member of my crew had disturbed you.”

  How chivalrous of him.

  In that instant, Rebecca decided she liked Captain Randolph.

  “And you sought to protect me?”

  “Yes.” He averted his gaze then stared into her eyes. “Wait a minute, you were dreaming. How did you know I was there?”

  “The well-honed survival instincts of a spy.” She shrugged and opted not to temper her response, because she guessed that, for her, with him, polite decorum was unnecessary. “Had I sensed a threat, I would have come fully awake.”

  Which is why she had not bothered to conceal her nakedness. She had wanted to know how the oh-so-noble mariner would react, and he had not disappointed her.

  “And I am not a threat?” Dirk frowned, and his tone implied she might have insulted him.

  “No.”

  “How can you be so sure?” he asked with obvious agitation.

  Rebecca smoothed the folds of her black cape and realized she also enjoyed his verbal fencing. “Because I could take you in a fight.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Hands on hips, he added, “I am twice your size.”

  “That may be, but I suspect you fight fair.”

  “Of course.” Righteous indignation invested his patrician features. “I am nothing if not a gentleman.”

  “There ends the lesson, Captain.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  London slept as the carriage rocked along the city streets. Cloaked in black wool, Rebecca inched to the edge of her seat and peered at the passing storefronts. How nice it was to be home. Even in the dead of night, with dark windows and empty sidewalks, the heart of the British Empire beat with an intensity that pervaded her flesh and quickened her pulse.

  “The Ministry of Defense is closed at this hour.” Swallowing her excitement, she eased into the squabs and stared at Dirk. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Randolph House.”

  “Why?” Trepidation mingled with disappointment. Perhaps her gallant naval man was not so honorable, after all. “My brother maintains our family residence. I can stay there.”

  “Because my orders are to deliver you into the hands of Sir Ross Logan,” he said with an air of superiority that grated her nerves. “Until such time, you are my responsibility.”

  “I see.” His proprietary demeanor pricked her pride; she was not a child. Had the man not realized she was better trained to defend herself than was he? “Tell me, Captain. What happened at Deptford?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Though his question implied ignorance, a tick above his right eye betrayed comprehension of her query.

  “When we docked.” Inhaling deeply, Rebecca summoned her spy instincts. “There was a commotion in the rigging.”

  “Ah, that.” Dirk compressed his lips. “I issued the wrong orders, which necessitated a reversal of my commands.”

  “Really?” Suppressing laughter, she plucked a speck of lint from her cloak. “Do you do that often?”

  “No,” he replied without hesitation. “I have not done anything quite so foolish since I was a midshipman.”

  Though Rebecca suspected he would rather cease her chosen topic of conversation, she asked, “And why did you err tonight?”

  “Because my concentration was off.” Her would-be-protector adopted a charming pout and vented a groan. “I was distracted.”

  “And what distracted you?” Had her decision to join him on the quarterdeck diverted his attention and caused his faux pas? Though she had tried not to disturb him, she could not help but stare as he barked directives. Had she been the source of his discomfit?

  “Well--”

  The carriage came to a halt.

  And Dirk all but ran from the equipage.

  “We are home,” her temporary guardian said as he turned to hand her down.

  Rebecca took a single step and froze. “The lanterns--your servants have been alerted to our presence.” She glanced left and then right. “We must leave.”

  “Relax.” Dirk slipped an arm around her waist. “I dispatched my cabin boy with a missive informing my staff of our impending arrival. And my mother is in residence.”

  “Your mother?” She ascended the entrance stairs, and the front door opened. “You live with your mother?”

  “Of course.” He gave his attention to a servant. “Good evening, Hughes.”

  “Welcome home, my lord.” A stodgy, very proper English butler bowed.

  “Lady Wentworth is staying the night.” He passed his greatcoat and gloves to Hughes.

  “Very good, my lord.” The butler accepted her cloak. “I will wake the staff to prepare accommodations.”

  “Excellent.” Dirk cupped her elbow. “We shall wait in my study.”

  The foyer of the stately Mayfair mansion boasted oak paneling and sumptuous leather wall coverings. And although the entryway had marble floors, the hall sported burgundy carpet, which lent the abode a decidedly masculine air. As aboard ship, the dwelling was not extravagant. The furnishings, devoid of flamboyant prints and garish trimmings, appeared of the highest quality, and she surmised that practicality must be a long-running trait in the Randolph family.

  Bookshelves covered two walls, and the subtle smell of cigar smoke lingered in the spacious study. While Dirk flipped through a large stack of correspondence, Rebecca perused the titles and was nonplussed to find the discourses confined to sailing, hunting, and fishing techniques. Curiously enough, there were neither etchings nor erotic literature. She selected a volume touting the ultimate guide to club hauling and settled into a Hepplewhite chair.r />
  “Did you find something of interest?” her host inquired and perched on the corner of his desk.

  “I am not sure,” she said while studying a picture of a ship. “Please, do not feel as though you must entertain me. I am capable of occupying my time.”

  “I am using you as an excuse.” Dirk glanced at the mountain of envelopes. “They are invitations, you see. The Season will soon commence.”

  “And you are not a fan of stale teacakes and weak lemonade?” Rebecca closed the tome that may as well have been written in Greek and set it on a side table.

  “I endure the monotony for the sake of my mother and the title.” After opening each missive, he placed the engraved stationary in one of two piles. “And you?”

  “I have never attended a ball in London, but Colin assured me I did not miss anything of significance.” Rebecca slipped off her gloves and inspected the welts that remained from her duel with the thorny hedge. “My occupation requires a low profile, and the Corps does not follow the social calendar. How could I explain a sudden absence?”

  “You must have fascinating tales to tell.” Dirk pressed a finger to his chin in an affectation of thought that she found strangely endearing. “But, as a woman, would you not prefer to lead a normal life with a husband and children? Have you ever considered leaving the Corps?”

  Bloody hell, he seemed so naïve and...so noble.

  She would wager her dowry that she could teach him a few things about the world.

  “What is normal?” A blaze crackled in the hearth, and she stared into the flames. “I fear my tenure as a spy might never afford me the freedom to marry, much less have babes.”

  “Has it been that bad?”

  The quiet sincerity with which he broached his query struck a chord. It had not occurred to her that someone would deem her wifely material, especially if the same person were apprised of her true vocation. Had the man honestly thought her fit for such a role? Her chest tightened, Rebecca fought uncharacteristic tears and caught him in her sights.

  “May I ask a personal question?”

  He dipped his chin. “Indeed.”

  “Why did your butler automatically assume I would be sleeping in a guestroom?”

  His mouth fell agape, and the room grew silent as a tomb.

  Dirk blinked and tugged at his cravat. “Because I believe a viscount’s bed should be saved for his viscountess. Neither would I insult my mother in such vulgar fashion.” Dropping a portion of missives on the floor, he frowned. “When I keep a mistress, I lodge her elsewhere.”

  Good heavens, the captain was a veritable saint.

  Shame and regret burned as a lead ball in her belly, and Rebecca struggled to form an apology. A knock at the door gave her pause, and relief washed over her when Hughes peeked inside.

  Saved by the butler.

  “The lady’s chamber is prepared, my lord.”

  In a rush to escape the mess she had created, Rebecca stood. But her principled host claimed her hand, brought it to his lips, and pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles. And her knees threatened to buckle.

  “Hughes will show you to your room,” he said as he ushered her into the hall. “We shall meet Logan in the morning.”

  Like a dutiful child, Rebecca followed the butler. Surreptitiously, she studied the paintings adorning the walls of the gallery and noted many resemblances to her host. Once ensconced in her chambers, she blew out the candles, doffed her boots, dropped her cloak, stripped, and slipped between the soft cotton sheets of the large four-poster bed. Staring at nothing, she stretched her arms and crossed them beneath her head. With a yawn, she conjured a mental image of the handsome sea captain with a quiet, unflappable nature.

  Dirk Randolph was the perfect English gentleman.

  He bowed politely, held open the door, helped her into the carriage, and served as her escort. He treated her with dignity and respect; something she had little experienced from anyone other than Colin in her trade. Such courtesy was oddly refreshing. She felt almost human in Dirk’s company.

  Yet she seemed out of place in his world.

  And in her attempt to fit in, she had resorted to childish teasing. Her question concerning her quarters had been a deliberate attempt to throw him off balance. Other than a momentary lapse of comportment, he had remained stalwart as ever. During her work for the Corps, Rebecca learned it was the quiet ones who usually had something to hide. She wondered what Captain Randolph kept hidden beneath his placid façade.

  And then Rebecca wondered why she cared.

  Perhaps it was because, like her, Dirk seemed lonely.

  “Ho-hum.” She patted her mouth, rolled onto her belly, and snuggled up to a cold pillow. A creak tickled her ear, and she came out of the bed in a second. Tiptoeing across the floor, she spied a sliver of yellow light at the foot of the entryway. Rebecca leaned close and listened for the slightest sound of an impending intrusion.

  #

  On the opposite side of the oak panel, Dirk held his breath and pressed his ear to the door. There were no shouts of alarm, no cries of horror, and nothing to indicate his enchanting guest was suffering another nightmare. Although he knew he could not stand guard for the remaining dark hours, he hoped only pleasant visions visited the alluring spy while she slept under his roof.

  Why it mattered, Dirk could not discern.

  Nothing about the intriguing operative, or his reaction to her, made any sense.

  But what he steadfastly refused to admit, to himself or anyone else, was that he desperately wanted to turn the knob, enter her room, chase away her demons, and create sweet dreams in her arms.

  #

  “Lady Rebecca, it is good to see you again.”

  Sir Ross Logan, the mysterious head of the Counterintelligence Corps, lifted the beautiful spy’s hands to his lips, and Dirk suddenly wanted to hit the man in the face.

  “I am saddened by the loss of your partner.” Logan escorted her to a chair. “I recruited Colin myself.”

  “As far as I am concerned, he can never be replaced.” Rebecca drew back the hood of her black cloak and sat. “My only hope of avenging his death is to thwart our French counterparts.”

  “Colin’s dispatch provided vague information.” Largely ignored, Dirk took a position at her side and asked, “What can you tell us?”

  She gazed at him and then directed her response to Logan. “There is a traitor among us.”

  His face betraying no hint of emotion, Sir Ross rose from his chair, walked to the front of his desk, and sat on the edge before her. “How do you know?”

  “Someone slipped a note into Colin’s pocket while we attended a house party in Paris. It was crowded, and he did not see the perpetrator who delivered the missive. But the message addressed him by his code name, Eagle. And it demanded that he reveal the identity of the spy known as L’araignee or risk assassination.”

  Perplexed by her contradiction, Dirk scratched his temple. “I thought you never attended the balls?”

  With a half-hearted chuckle, Rebecca said, “Colin posed as French nouveau riche, and I portrayed his mistress. We circulated throughout the Parisian ballrooms to maintain our cover and gather national secrets. The French generals love to boast of their military prowess.” She smiled and batted her eyelashes. “You would be amazed by what you can learn during a waltz, Captain.”

  At her admission, his mind filled with bawdy images of what she might have done, of salacious acts she could have performed, in the name of duty. How many life and death situations had she survived? What danger had she courted? And what sins had she committed in service to King and Country?

  “You are very brave,” Dirk replied with sincere admiration.

  “When was your first contact?” Sir Ross inquired.

  “Shortly after we discovered Massena is planning to attack Wellington at Fuentes de Oñoro.”

  “What?” Shock investing his expression, Sir Ross bounded to his feet. “Have you warned the Ministry of Defense?�
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  “Not directly. We sent an official communiqué last month, just after Graham’s victory at Barrosa Hill, detailing Massena’s plans for a counter attack to re-take Portugal,” she explained. “Did you not receive it?”

  “My God, someone must have intercepted your correspondence in transit. We must get word of this to Wellington and Beresford immediately.” Sir Ross snatched a pen from an inkwell and a sheet of stationary from atop the blotter and wrote a few sentences. “Dirk, would you kindly summon Clarkson?”

  “Of course.” He walked to the door, opened it, and cleared his throat. “Sir Ross requires your presence.”

  “Aye, sir.” The skinny young man in drab attire nodded and jumped from his seat.

  “Sir Ross, are you saying you never received our letter?” Rebecca asked, as Dirk closed the distance between them.

  Logan narrowed his stare. “This is the first news I have heard in regard to Massena’s forthcoming assault.”

  When the secretary approached, she pulled the hood of her wool cape over her head and faced Dirk. He wondered if the agent feared for her safety even in the confines of the Corps’ headquarters.

  Clarkson clicked his heels. “You have need of my assistance, Sir Ross?”

  “Deliver this at once--in person.” After affixing his seal to the envelope, Sir Ross handed the note to his secretary.

  “Yes, sir.” Clarkson sketched a hasty bow and exited the room.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Dirk fisted his hands and shook his head. “Who in our government would deliberately withhold vital war information from our generals?”

  “I do not know.” Sir Ross rubbed his chin and frowned. “Any number of persons could have seized that dispatch, but only a handful of operatives could have matched Colin with his code name. And another more disturbing and telling revelation is that even fewer agents know of the existence of L’araignee. Whoever the traitor is, he must be a high ranking member of the Ministry of Defense, which will make catching the blackguard a tricky affair.”