My Lady, The Spy

by Barbara Devlin

  Your most humble servant,

  Dirk, Viscount Wainsbrough

  What began as a few giggles soon erupted into a full-blown belly laugh. How predictable, how sensible, how perfectly honorable was her captain?

  “So he will endeavor to preserve my virtue, will he?” She wiped a stray tear from her cheek and snorted. “Darling Dirk, you are too good to be true. But I think your virtue is in greater peril than mine.”

  Rebecca crossed the room and rang for a bath.

  While the footmen and maids made the necessary preparations, she rummaged through several boxes until she located a bottle of lavender water. After dismissing the servants, she poured a small amount of the scented concoction into the tub, disrobed, and sank into the fragrant warmth. A knock at the door had her inching lower.

  “Come.”

  “Your pardon, my lady.” A squatty-bodied maid with salt and pepper hair entered the chamber. “His lordship asked that I inform you of an invitation to dine with the Earl and Countess of Lockwood, this evening. And your dress was delivered.”

  The domestic walked to the armoire. “Shall I air it out proper for you?”

  “Please, do so.” Rebecca closed her eyes and sighed.

  “Also, his lordship wanted you to know that he is in his study, should you care to join him.”

  “Thank you.” Smiling, she rested her head on a bath cushion. “Tell Viscount Wainsbrough that I have decided to lie down and will see him when we depart for dinner.”

  Let the chivalrous knight wait.

  “Yes, ma’am.” With a quick curtsey, the maid quit the room.

  In her mind, Rebecca envisioned Dirk’s face and pondered his reaction to her new finery, which happened to be his favorite color, a fact his mother provided without prompt. The burgundy gown cost twice as much as the other selections, but she simply had to have it. The odd Frenchwoman, who preferred a monocle to eyeglasses, had insisted it was part of another order, and she could not let Rebecca purchase the stunning creation. But she had made the designer an offer no sane person could refuse.

  The dress signaled the opening round in a game her spy skills could not have predicted.

  Because despite her best efforts, despite her heretofore-vaunted personal restraint, Dirk possessed a mysterious power to stir her blood, assail her senses, and charge her nerves whenever he neared. Her palms dampened, her pulse quickened, the world around her disappeared, and nothing else mattered.

  In short, Rebecca liked him.

  And it was obvious she affected him, too. The handsome viscount blushed and stammered at her suggestive remarks, which were all in good fun. Although her curiosity could be nothing more than an immature desire to flap the unflappable captain, her competitive nature demanded she enter the arena.

  But there was another, more important, motive behind her actions. While she remained confused in regard to his questions concerning her future and prospects as a wife and mother, there was one fact of which she was absolutely certain.

  Rebecca wanted Dirk Randolph.

  But could he truly want her?

  Most noblemen considered a woman with an occupation beneath them. They married ladies of leisure, not female spies. Still, Dirk had planted a seed, one that grew by the minute. And their mock courtship provided the perfect venue in which to explore the possibilities.

  Could she forever doff her black wool cloak of the Corps in favor of an ermine collared pelisse?

  Could she trade her pistol and dagger for an oriental fan and an opera glass?

  Those were questions for which Rebecca had no answer, but she was more than willing to throw down the gauntlet. Thus her sights fixed squarely on the none-too-rakish Randolph.

  Let the games begin.

  #

  The whole of his frame bristled with nervous agitation as Dirk paced before the fireplace in the drawing room, awaiting the arrival of his mother and Rebecca. But as far as he was concerned, his tremors of excitement and anticipation stemmed from the new mission and had nothing to do with the spy with sad eyes. And while she had refused his earlier invitation, his disappointment with her absence derived from his inability to discuss their next move--not her rejection.

  Footfalls in the hall interrupted his thoughts.

  “I told Hughes to have the carriage brought around. Your intended is right behind me.” His mother smiled as she pulled on her gloves.

  Dirk rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. “Mama, it is only pretense for the sake of her safety.”

  “Perhaps, but let us not abandon the idea.” She averted her stare. “Rebecca is a charming girl, and her connections are impeccable.”

  “Yes, but--”

  “Come along.” She flicked an entreaty. “We do not wish to be late.”

  As the dutiful son, he followed her into the foyer and helped her with her wrap. Although it was spring, the night air was chilly.

  “I shall be in the carriage,” the viscountess said as she crossed the threshold.

  “Fine. We will be there momentarily.”

  Dirk checked his appearance in the wall mirror and smoothed a stray lock of hair. He straightened his cravat and adjusted the lace cuffs of his shirtsleeves. After consulting his timepiece, he re-pocketed it. The rustle of skirts caught his ear, and he turned to find Rebecca standing midway down the staircase.

  And he nearly fell to his knees.

  A vision in burgundy silk, she dipped her chin. “Good evening, my lord.”

  “Your dressmaker has my eternal gratitude.” Heart pounding in his chest, he swallowed hard. “May I say you are stunning, my dear.”

  “You are rather ravishing, yourself.” The corners of her mouth lifted.

  She smiled.

  And an invisible thunderbolt struck him in the gut, sending a wave of molten heat straight to his--

  “Shall we?” Rebecca asked as she glided like an angel to his side.

  “Indeed.” He assisted her with a matching pelisse, then offered his arm in escort and made a mental note to keep his coat fastened or risk embarrassing himself and giving his mother an apoplectic fit.

  “I must confess I am a trifle nervous about tonight,” she said, blessedly oblivious to his aroused state, as he handed her into the equipage. “Do you mind if I avail myself of your breeches?”

  Dirk tripped and fell into the squabs, face first. “I beg your pardon?” he inquired once he assumed his seat.

  “I meant as protection.” Rebecca hid the bottom half of her expression with an elegant fan.

  “Are you all right, my son?” Was the woman who brought him into the world actually smirking at him?

  Cursing his uncharacteristic clumsiness in silence, he dusted off his coat sleeves. “I am fine.”

  Thank God, the Lockwood townhouse was just around the corner.

  When the carriage halted, Dirk paid careful attention as he descended. In the entrance hall, he escorted his mother and Rebecca into the drawing room.

  “Why is there no receiving line?” Rebecca whispered with a squeeze of his arm.

  “This is family.” She seemed a trifle confused, and he winked. “No formalities.”

  While his mother made the introductions, Dirk concentrated on masking his irritation with his fellow Nautionnier Knights, who lingered a little too long over the spy’s hand for his liking.

  “Come, Rebecca. Let us sit with the women and discuss the latest embroidery techniques.” The viscountess indicated an empty spot on a sofa at the center of the large chamber. “While the men enjoy vastly superior conversation detailing the merits of Spanish brandy over French.”

  The bawdy remarks ensued the moment the fairer sex moved beyond earshot.

  “She is a succulent morsel.” Lance wiggled his brows. “No wonder you wish to court her.”

  “Oh, I say.” Blake clucked his tongue. “She is a tempting dish.”

  “Have you sampled her wares, brother mine?” With a wolfish grin, Dalton flipped his lucky charm. “Tails, how appropriate.
The interpreter does have a lovely--”

  “One more disparaging comment in regard to Lady Rebecca, and I will permanently box your ears,” Dirk stated in a low voice as he clenched his fists. “And stop tossing that infernal coin, else I shall shove it down your throat.”

  Damian whistled in monotone. “Someone is a tad sensitive this evening.”

  “Indeed.” Rocking on his heels, Blake’s eyes widened. “We are only expressing our sincere admiration for your temporary partner.”

  “We meant no insult,” Lance said with the countenance of a saint.

  “Gentleman, do not spoil my wife’s dinner party, else I shall be forced to hang the lot of you from the Hera’s highest yardarm. Come, Dirk.” Trevor slapped him on the back and led him to the hearth at the far wall. “They are only spouting such nonsense for your benefit.”

  “I beg your pardon?” With an elbow resting on the mantel, Dirk studied the gentle curve of Rebecca’s neck from across the room. “What benefit could I possibly derive from attacks on her person?”

  Trevor vented a groan. “You really have it bad, old boy.”

  “I have--what?” The bodice of her burgundy gown accented her ivory bosom. How he wanted to bury his nose in the valley of her breasts.

  “Do you not realize that your behavior is encouraging their rakish antics?”

  “What behavior?” Dirk imagined her dark locks splayed across his pillow. “I have done nothing ungentlemanly.”

  “Then I suggest you stop undressing Rebecca with your eyes before you truly offend Caroline and the other ladies in attendance.”

  Dirk looked at him, dumbfounded. “Bloody hell, I do not know what is happening to me.” Shock shivered deep in his chest, and he met the earl’s stare. “Is it possible...can two people...do you believe in--”

  “Love at first sight?” Trevor completed the thought with unnerving accuracy.

  Dirk almost swallowed his tongue.

  “I did not, until I found my wife.” With a chuckle, Trevor shook his head. “‘Course, it could have had something to do with the fact that Caroline was naked at the time.”

  Dirk blanched. “That is more than I wish to know.”

  “Right.” Trevor cleared his throat.

  He teetered. “I need a brandy.”

  “Follow me.” At a side table, Trevor lifted a decanter and filled a pair of balloons. “Tell me something. Are your palms unusually damp whenever Rebecca is in your presence?”

  “Indubitably, as an untried lad.” And how he resented it.

  “Does your heartbeat quicken when she enters the room?” Trevor queried, with a smirk.

  “Like a salvo.” As it had done since they met.

  “When you look on her, does it feel as though you were just punched in the gut?” Trevor had posited another eerily relevant question.

  “I would describe it as a thunderbolt.” And Dirk had been powerless to deflect the disconcerting plague.

  “Has the mere thought of her provoked any uncontrollable salutes from your mainmast?”

  With Rebecca in close proximity, His Jolly Roger had taken on a life of its own. “Yeessss.”

  “You are done for.”

  “Bloody hell.” Dirk consumed the contents of his glass in one gulp.

  “Easy, friend.” Trevor whisked the crystal from his grasp. “While brandy might lessen your discomfort, it could dull your faculties, and you will need all your strength for the battle that is to come. And do not even try to convince me that there is not more to her story.”

  Dirk snapped to attention. “What battle?”

  “The game of hearts.” Trevor cast him an expression of unutterable pity.

  “How can that be? We have only just met.” Dirk speared his fingers through his hair. “It makes no sense.”

  “That is your first mistake.” Trevor appeared to have captured his wife’s interest. “There is nothing sensible about love.”

  Caroline glanced at a chaise tucked in a dimly lit corner, then peered at her husband.

  “Is that a summons?” Dirk inquired.

  “You are a quick study.” After emptying his own glass, the earl set it on the table. “Do you want my advice?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do not attempt to comprehend the incomprehensible.” He straightened his lapels and then slapped Dirk on the back. “Thank whatever benevolent fate placed Rebecca in your jungle, and enjoy the hunt.”

  Dirk grinned as Trevor and Caroline settled in the far corner. He stifled a hearty guffaw when his fellow knight of the Brethren doused a nearby candle, whispered something in his bride’s ear, and she giggled. The dinner bell sounded, and Dirk was positive the host and hostess, their heads together in quiet conversation, would be the last to enter the dining room.

  “My lord, shall we go in?”

  He gazed at Rebecca and sighed inwardly as his body reacted to her presence. But in light of his discussion with Trevor, he looked on his lady as would a predator assess a much desired prey. With a new attitude, he adjusted his cravat. Perhaps it was time to prowl.

  “Dirk, are you not hungry?” she asked with cherubic innocence.

  “Oh, yes.”

  But not for food.

  #

  The dining room of the elegant Mayfair mansion of Lord and Lady Lockwood echoed with good-natured banter and unrestrained laughter. Bedecked in blue damask and a cream runner, the table boasted fine silver and elegant Sèvres chinaware, which shimmered in the glow of the ornate chandelier.

  As the host and hostess argued over the place cards, Rebecca laughed. It seemed someone had moved the lovely countess from the chair at the far end of the table to a seat at her husband’s immediate right.

  “Blake does not mind sitting there.” Trevor ushered his bride to her new position. “I want you next to me.”

  Caroline folded her arms. “But, it is not proper.”

  “Darling, this is family.” Despite her protests, the earl settled his wife at his side. “And nothing about our family is proper.”

  “Bloody hell, are we ever going to eat?” The younger Douglas stomped a foot. “I am so hungry I could eat my gloves.”

  “Don’t be so impertinent, Sabrina.” Cara compressed her lips. “Mind your manners.”

  Rebecca studied the Douglas sisters, Cara and Sabrina. They were diametrical opposites, as were Dirk and his spirited, profusely charming brother, Dalton. Blake Elliott, Caroline’s older sibling, appeared to share her fiery temperament, whereas Damian and Alexandra Seymour possessed an air of refined sophistication. And the Prescotts, Lance and his quiet cousin and ward, Elaine, seemed painfully shy and reserved. Other than the viscountess Wainsbrough, the elders in the group consisted of Sarah, the duchess of Rylan, and Admiral Mark and Lady Amanda Douglas.

  After the decadent five-course meal, Trevor offered a toast in honor of his wife and their impending arrival. Rebecca studied each face and gathered mental notations regarding the various personalities, an inescapable habit of her occupation. The expectant mother was radiant, the father-to-be unabashedly proud. But what struck her most was the abiding intimacy and passionate puissance of their familial ties.

  Once her brother Lucien had departed for Eton, which marked his transition into manhood, she had fabricated imaginary playmates to keep her company. The invisible companions shared her grief when Frederique, her beloved nanny, passed. They comforted her when her monthly courses first flowed, and they bolstered her confidence and determination as she faced danger and death as a member of the Corps. How marvelous it must have been to grow up amid such a large circle of friends. Never would she have been lonely. They were so candid, honest, and welcoming. Yet Rebecca belonged not in their esteemed presence.

  Because she was a liar.

  While they imparted personal reflections, she repaid their kindness with deception, and the ruse weighed heavily on her heart and mind. The men had been fed a bit of fiction, and the women, with the exception of the viscountess, welcomed her in complet
e ignorance. She was a spy, not a debutante or an interpreter for Wellington. For the first time in her tenure as an agent for the Crown, guilt gnawed at her conscience.

  “You are woolgathering, my lady.”

  She gazed at Dirk and mustered a smile. “Your family is impressive and quite unique.”

  “Indeed, they are.” He leaned close and said, “But you will not hold that against them?”

  “Of course not.” Rebecca claimed the last morsel of a strawberry tart. “I adore them.”

  “And what of me?” her partner inquired with a devilish grin.

  So he was already fishing for compliments? “I have not decided what to think about you.”

  “Did you get my declaration?”

  “You know I did.” The simple pattern on the napkin provided a suitable diversion from his penetrating stare. “But I am a tad confused. Why the formality?”

  “Because polite decorum demands it.”

  She traced the curves embroidered on the linen. “And you always do what polite decorum demands?”

  “Indubitably.” He shifted in his chair. “I am nothing if not honorable.”

  Across the table, Dalton repeatedly flipped a coin. Just then, he looked at Rebecca and winked.

  “Your brother reminds me of Colin.”

  “He has no shame,” Dirk stated in a disapproving tone.

  “Perhaps, but he is charming and possesses the gift of spontaneity, which some women find appealing.”

  “I can be spontaneous.”

  Good heavens, the man was too easy. “Really?”

  “Well, I can when my busy schedule accommodates such unplanned moments.”

  “I see.” Laughter danced on the tip of her tongue, and she searched for an alternate topic for discussion. “Tell me about your relatives. Are you truly connected by blood?”

  “Not exactly, but it is a long story.”

  “Out with it, Dirk.” Sabrina snorted. “After all, Rebecca is one of us now.”

  Suddenly, she found herself in the spotlight.

  “Sabrina, do not insert yourself into other people’s conversations.” Admiral Douglas lowered his chin. “Mind your manners.”