Wedded bliss had mutated into conjugal hell.
One minute she and Dirk made passionate love in the library, and the next they were barely speaking. Her stomach was a mass of jumbled nerves, and for once, she appreciated the prying eyes of the ton, because they drew her mind from her troubled marriage.
“Excuse me, your ladyship.” A footman paused before her, holding a silver tray. “You have a message.”
Rebecca retrieved the envelope and navigated to the back wall. Sheltering behind a large bust, she removed the card.
Meet me in the gazebo at midnight, and come alone. If you do not obey, your husband will not live to see the morn.
A dark sense of foreboding traipsed her spine. She rolled back her shoulders and eased the ominous note down the bodice of her gown and under her chemise. Glancing from side to side, she joined the Brethren.
Dirk was nowhere to be found.
She scanned the dance floor, hoping to spot him as he passed, but there was no sign of her husband.
In an instant, she panicked.
Had the villain taken Dirk? Was he held prisoner, only to be released after she cooperated? And what was it the traitor sought? She had nothing to give them because her hasty departure from France afforded her no opportunity to pack.
“Blake, have you seen Dirk?”
“Well, last I--”
“What is wrong, my lady wife?”
Rebecca nearly jumped out of her skin. Facing what she considered her decidedly better half, she fought the urge to crawl into his arms. “Where have you been? I looked everywhere for you.”
“Since you find my presence suffocating, I thought to safeguard you from afar.” Dirk frowned and cupped her chin with his hand. “What is the matter? You are as white as a sheet.”
How could she tell him what she felt without undermining her position and instigating another argument? No doubt his answer to all her concerns would follow the same tired diatribe--quit the Corps. As if it were that simple. At that moment, her needs were basic. She needed the warmth and security of his body surrounding her. She needed his strength and support. She needed him.
“Dance with me, please?”
“As you wish.” Cold and distant, he offered his escort but no solace as he steered her to the crowded expanse. But when he turned and pulled her close, fire ignited beneath her flesh, which settled into a slow, ever-constant flame, soothing her frazzled nerves and calming her fears. As they waltzed, she pressed her breasts to his chest and her hips to his. In mere seconds, she relaxed.
“What are you doing?”
The tension returned with a vengeance.
“I thought it rather obvious.” She sighed. “We are sharing a dance.”
“That is not what I mean, and you know it.” He arched a brow. “You are practically throwing yourself at me. What game are you playing?”
“My lord--” Rebecca choked on a sob, and tears welled in her eyes.
She wanted to divulge the news of her midnight rendezvous, wanted to warn him of impending danger. But if she alerted Dirk, she could jeopardize him further. When he cursed under his breath and led her from the dance floor, she had not protested. At the back wall, they slipped between a pair of velvet drapes to a small private balcony overlooking the gardens, where darkness enshrouded them.
“All right.” Dirk stood tall, hands on hips. “What are you about?”
“This is difficult for me.” Burrowing her face in his coat, she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight.
“Rebecca.” In an instant, he enveloped her in a warm embrace. “You are trembling. What has upset you?”
“I hate when we are at odds. I have always worked alone, except for Colin. But he was a member of the Corps and could take care of himself, or so I thought. In the end, he was killed, and I was powerless to stop it.” She nuzzled closer. “I will not lose you.”
“You are worried about me?” Surprise rang clear in his voice. “I assure you, madam wife, I can take care of myself and you.”
Rebecca reached up, wound her fingers in his hair, and brought his lips to hers. She sashayed her mouth over his, thrust her tongue, flagrantly inciting him. She held him to her, clung to him in raw desperation.
Finally, after several reckless, wild, incredibly intense minutes, whereupon anyone could have walked in on them, Rebecca broke their kiss and buried her face in the crook of his neck.
“Dirk.”
“What?”
Should she tell him he had been threatened? Should she tell him he was in peril?
“Hold me.”
#
Ever since their tryst on the balcony, Dirk had been concerned for his wife. The urgency with which Rebecca had come at him gnawed at his instincts, and he hadn’t liked it. Despite attempts to convince himself otherwise, he would swear he had tasted a lamentable farewell in her kiss. Almost as if she believed it would be their last, and that troubled him.
Because Rebecca was afraid of nothing.
But she was definitely frightened of something. He wondered what had brought about the change. As he completed another turn on the dance floor with Alex, he craned his neck to keep his wife in sight.
At the terrace doors, she paused to survey the ballroom before crossing the threshold. Seconds later, Sir Ross followed in her wake.
Dirk came to an abrupt halt, and Alex to crashed into his side. Grasping her forearms, he kept her from falling.
“Sorry, Alex. I need to check on Rebecca. Can we continue our dance another time?”
The younger Seymour smiled and patted his cheek. “Of course we can.”
Where the Brethren gathered, Alex joined the ladies, while Dirk caught Blake’s stare. In a flash, the Nautionnier Knights came alert.
“What is it,” Damian inquired.
“There are games afoot.”
#
Moonlight filtered through the trees, and dark shadows danced an eerie kaleidoscope on the walkway, as pebbles crunched beneath her slippered feet. A gentle breeze teased the curls of her hair and ruffled her skirts.
Rebecca moved slowly, listening for any hint of the traitor. Mid-stride, she halted. Standing perfectly still, she detected the telltale thud of footfalls on the grass, over the muted strains of music from the ballroom.
Someone stalked her.
I know you are there.
Gooseflesh covered her arms, and nervous anticipation settled in her chest. Rebecca closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Focusing on her pounding heartbeat, she found comfort in the repetitive rhythm and rolled her shoulders, easing the tension investing her frame.
Clearing her mind, she erased Dirk from her thoughts and recalled her training. After a few minutes, she unclenched her fists and twittered her fingers. Cool night air penetrated her gloves, bestowing an icy kiss to her damp palms. Fear loomed as a taunting apparition of impending doom, and, as she always had, she saluted the imaginary but nonetheless potent wraith and set it aside.
The spy within emerged.
L’araignee smiled, opened her eyes, and methodically scanned the area before her. Assessing every possible advantage, she plotted her course, knew the tack she would take. Like a reveler in search of a brief respite from the noisy gala, she strolled toward the gazebo, setting a relaxed pace, thereby luring her prey. The pursuer had resumed their pursuit.
Stepping onto the flagged surface of the summerhouse, she extended her arms, feeling for obstacles she couldn’t see in the dark.
The villain was there.
She could sense his presence as a storm cloud on the horizon. With grim resolution, she waited for the traitor to make his move.
“Viscountess.” An unforgiving vise encircled her waist, and the cold blade of a knife pressed to her throat.
With the instinct of an assassin, L’araignee raised her hands but suppressed the urge to resist. For the blackguard to be of any use, she had to capture him alive.
“Please, do not hurt me. I will not fight you.” Had she
sounded appropriately traumatized? “Take my jewelry. I will not tell a soul, I promise.”
“Is that what you think?” Her anonymous attacker chuckled in a rich baritone that seemed vaguely familiar. “Once again, you make the same mistake.”
“What else could you want?” She gasped with feigned ignorance.
The traitor trailed his fingers from her waist to her breast. “You are a very attractive woman.”
“No, please. Not that,” L’araignee implored. “I am newly wed.”
“What difference does it make to a whore such as yourself?”
Though she was certain her assailant had been altering his tone to disguise his true voice, it was obvious he let his emotions get the best of him. For a second, L’araignee was certain the mask had slipped. She seized the opportunity, replaying his words in her mind. “I am at a loss--”
“Do you have it?” He tightened his grip, crushing her tender flesh.
“You are hurting me,” she cried in pain.
“Stop stalling. When last we met, I told you to expect another visit. Did you find what I seek?”
“No.” With the blade he cut her skin, and it burned as a firebrand on her throat.
“I am losing patience.”
“You may as well kill me,” she said with resignation. “I know not what you require. I was Colin’s mistress, and he told me nothing.”
“You lie.”
“He did not confide in me, I swear.” L’araignee tilted her head back, as far as possible. If the turncoat would relent just an inch, she might be able to take him into custody, but he pressed the weapon close. “Can you give me a hint or a clue, as I know not what to look for?”
The blackguard sighed, and she knew, without doubt, they shared an acquaintance. She needed to keep him talking.
“Should I search for clothing? Jewelry?” No response. “A painting or document?” He tensed, a subtle flinch, when she mentioned the last item, and she committed that vital tip to memory.
Finally, after what seemed an interminable silence, he spoke. “It may be several papers--or a small journal. It will be written in French. If you want to live, do not attempt to read it.”
L’araignee closed her eyes as he dug the knife into her flesh.
“How am I to contact you?” A trickle of blood trailed her chest.
“I will find you.”
“What if I am unable to locate the item?”
“Then your husband will die.”
#
Dirk had searched high and low, and there was no sign of Rebecca or Sir Ross. Standing on the gravel path, he was just about to return to the main house when voices caught his attention. It was a heated conversation, not the soft murmur of lovers.
He focused, trained his ear, and let the quarrel guide him. A small walkway veered from the main path, and he missed it on first inspection. He glanced left and then right, before navigating the sandy course. The dispute grew louder the further he ventured. At last, amid the tall hedges, a gazebo emerged. Inside, he could barely make out a silhouette, which he thought odd, because he distinctly heard two voices--that of a man and a woman.
Something was wrong.
He crept closer, hunkering down when the argument commenced, and his blood chilled.
An anonymous aggressor held Rebecca captive. Thinking only of her safety, Dirk stepped forward and cursed when a twig snapped beneath his foot.
“Who goes there?”
“It is Viscount Wainsbrough,” he called out. “I am looking for my wife. Have you seen her?”
“She is here, and I believe she is ill. Perhaps you should help her?”
Dirk retrieved a pistol from the waist of his trousers. Palming it, he walked inside the garden structure.
A shadowy figure all but launched Rebecca at him.
He caught her and turned, shielding her with his body. The mysterious man fled, and they gave chase.
“This way.” Rebecca hiked her skirts. “He took to his heels in this direction.”
In a clearing, the path widened to reveal a maze.
“You must be joking.” Dirk halted, but a rustling in the bushes spurred him into action. “Over there,” he whispered.
In the expansive labyrinth at the heart of the garden, they ran in one direction, only to meet a dead end. Reversing their course, they plowed over Damian.
“Bloody hell, watch where you are going.” Damian righted his coat.
“Where is Blake?” Dirk asked.
“Right here.” Blake brought up the rear. “And I have our man.”
Rebecca gasped when Sir Ross stepped into the moonlight.
#
At Randolph House, the Brethren gathered to interrogate Sir Ross. Myriad questions swirled in her brain, as Rebecca struggled to comprehend recent events. Although she had suspected her boss might be the villain, she hadn’t truly believed the worst until Blake took the head of the Counterintelligence Corps into custody.
“You are in error.” Sir Ross scowled. “I am no turncoat.”
“Then what were you doing out there?” Dirk folded his arms.
“The same thing you were doing--protecting my asset.” Sir Ross leveled his gaze on Rebecca. “And I would like to know what led you to the gazebo, in the first place.”
Suddenly the center of attention, she stared at her hands, tightly clasped and white-knuckled. It was the moment she dreaded. “I received a summons.”
She retrieved the note from the bodice of her gown, which her husband promptly snatched from her grasp. As he read the message, he furrowed his brow, and then met her gaze. “Why did you not tell me of this?”
Searching for a plausible excuse for her behavior, one that would leave her pride and marriage intact, Rebecca failed to compose a suitable response. Never could she admit the truth; that love for her husband clouded her judgment. At last, she settled for a small measure of verity.
“I did not want you to alarm the traitor.” She struck a conciliatory tone. “I know you mean well, but we must make contact if we are to capture him.”
“You do not trust me?”
“My lord, it is not a question of trust.” She inclined her head. “Had you known of the threat, you might have clued the villain to our plan, and where would that leave us? As I am experienced in this arena, you must defer to my assessment.”
“Indeed.” Dirk shifted his weight. “I suppose that explains the scene on the balcony.”
Embarrassment burned in her cheeks as the memory of their encounter flooded her consciousness. How she had clung to him as a frightened little girl. “I am sorry that I did not confide in you. That was rather unprofessional.”
The long-case clock in the hall sounded the hour. It was three in the morning.
“Unprofessional?” Dirk smirked. “We all need comfort at some time or another. Even L’araignee.”
And there it was, the heart of their quandary. Could he not understand that, while she may desire to resign the Corps, the Corps may not allow her to resign? Would he ever acknowledge that his wife and the spy were one in the same? Her husband hadn’t known it, but he hurt just then, and she would die before she confessed it. So she sought refuge in diversion.
“Sir Ross could not have accosted me in the gazebo.”
“How can you be certain?” Blake lowered his chin. “I saw him follow you.”
“Because the blackguard was waiting for me.” She revisited the events in her mind. “And I believe I heard Sir Ross in my wake.”
“How did you know her destination?” Damian inquired, with a side-glance.
“I received a missive, as well,” Sir Ross explained. “To the rose garden.” He searched his coat pocket but came up empty. “It was right here. Must have lost it as I ran the hedges.”
“How convenient,” Dirk remarked in an icy tone that left no doubt of his suspicions.
Sir Ross shot to his feet. “Now see here, Wainsbrough--”
“Stop it, both of you.” Rebecca intervened before
the two men came to blows. “You are behaving like children.”
“We all have our shortcomings.” Dirk glared at her, and she shivered. “Are we finished?”
“Until tomorrow.” Sir Ross nodded and stood. “I believe so.”
“May I have a word in private with Sir Ross?” Biting her lip, she crossed and uncrossed her arms.
“As you wish.” With an expression hard as granite, Dirk raked a hand through his hair. “I am done for tonight.”
As the Brethren exited the study, Rebecca considered her next move. Thus far, her efforts to catch the turncoat had failed. Worse, her career represented a very real barrier between her and Dirk. She had to decide what meant more, her marriage or her mission, children or the Crown?
Could she sacrifice the prospects Dirk offered for a lonely existence in the filthy trenches of espionage?
Could she surrender her soul for service, love for duty?
The answer, when it struck her, seemed so simple. For good or ill, it was time to stand for the future she desperately desired.
“Sir Ross, I want out.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As she had since her wedding, Rebecca woke the following morning and reached for her husband. Finding herself quite alone, she frowned. Dirk had not roused her, as had become his custom and to which she looked forward with each successive sunrise. Much to her chagrin, it appeared he had chosen a ride of a different sort. Tossing the covers aside, she leapt from the bed, traversed the tiny corridor adjoining their chambers, crossed her room, and tugged hard on the bell pull.
By the time her lady’s maid appeared, Rebecca had coiffed her hair. After donning her riding habit, she headed for the dining room. Disappointed to find it empty, she breakfasted on toast and coffee, before sending for a mount. Unaccompanied and undisturbed, save the clip clop of the mare’s hooves on the cobblestone, she mulled last night’s events.
Given their heated discussion in Dirk’s study, and fearing rejection, she had not the courage to join him in his bed. Instead, she shivered beneath the covers in her suite, refusing to don a nightgown because it impaired her ability to move.
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