My Lady, The Spy

by Barbara Devlin

  At some point during the wee hours, her husband entered her room, swore under his breath, flung aside the sheets and blanket, and lifted her from the mattress. Call her a coward, but she feigned sleep. In no time, he carried her to his quarters, conveyed her to his four-poster, and eased beside her. And although they had not made love, he had held her close.

  For once, no one chased her in her dreams.

  As she approached Hyde Park, she surveyed the area and noted the sandy track was virtually deserted, save a lone rider. From atop his impressive stallion, Dirk studied the sky. She slowed the mare to a trot just as her husband spied her. Though she longed to see his brilliant smile, which never failed to set her heart pounding, she knew he was still angry. The rigid posture, clenched jaw, and hardened features betrayed him, and to her disappointment, he frowned.

  “Good morning.” She drew rein.

  He dipped his chin but made no effort to welcome her.

  While she hadn’t expected him to make things easy for her, she had not anticipated utter indifference.

  “Dirk, do not turn away from me.”

  “I beg your pardon.” He snapped to attention, and his heated gaze scorched her to the saddle. “I believe you are the expert in that arena.”

  “I have apologized, what more would you have me do?”

  “I would have your promise never to keep secrets from me again,” he said without hesitation.

  “Know that you have it.”

  With a snort of skepticism, he narrowed his stare. “Why do I not believe you?”

  “Dirk, please.” A gentle heel to the flanks of the mare brought Rebecca closer to his stallion. When she placed her palm to her husband’s thigh, his muscles flexed beneath her touch. “I swear, I will never again keep anything from you.”

  After a long, painful silence, which had her biting her tongue, he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Why does it feel as though for every step forward, we take two steps back?” he asked with a heavy sigh.

  “I get your meaning.” Rebecca winced. “And I fear it is entirely my fault. Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Becca.” He met her gaze. “The state of marriage is new to us both, and I do not claim to be a master in this realm. I just wish we could embark on our new life absent the added stress of our mission.”

  “Then we are on the same page, because last night, after you left the room, I informed Sir Ross of my intent to resign the Corps.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “I only want to be your wife.”

  With a downturned mouth, Dirk inclined his head. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “My dear, perhaps we should not be too hasty in our decision. Once the traitor is captured, we can determine how best to proceed.”

  “Have you changed your mind?” Rebecca pressed a fist to her chest and swallowed hard. “Do you want a divorce?”

  He rolled his eyes. “How many times must I tell you there will be no divorce?”

  “Then you must know that I am equally determined.” She lifted her chin. “I have no interest in any endeavor that takes me from you. I promise, I will quit the Corps once our business is finished.”

  “Can you be so sure?” he inquired softly. “Oh love, it is wrong of me to demand that you give up part of your life that has meant so much to you.”

  “My lord, do you not see, spying was important because it was all I had. It was my contribution to the war effort and means to avenge my parent’s death.” Rebecca wanted to cry. “However naïve that may sound.”

  “You are not naïve.” He cast her a boyishly sweet smile. “You are the bravest woman I know, and you have my utmost admiration, as well as my heart.”

  “Praise, indeed.” Her pulse pounded in her ears, and when he leaned forward, she met him halfway, accepting the kiss he so readily bestowed. “I missed you this morning,” she said against his lips.

  “And I you.” He nipped her flesh.

  “Then why did you not wake me?”

  He whisked a stray tendril from her face, and then caressed her cheek. “Because we cannot resolve all our problems in bed.”

  “And is this problem resolved?” In expectation of his answer, she tingled from top to toe.

  “I hope so.”

  “Then where does that leave us?”

  “Waiting for the turncoat to make his move.”

  #

  A sennight passed before Rebecca received the much-anticipated summons from the traitor. In that time, she and Dirk resumed their lives as though everything were normal, as though they had no more concerns than the usual newlywed mishaps. How she enjoyed the whimsical role of viscountess, composing menus and selecting silverware, while engaging her husband in after dinner discussions of such enthralling topics as tactical surveillance and close combat maneuvers. Just as she had adopted the comfortable routine of societal ingénue, the underworld of counterintelligence beckoned. All too soon, she and Dirk, along with the rest of the Brethren, gathered in Sir Ross Logan’s office at the Ministry of Defense.

  “When did it arrive?” Sir Ross examined the curious missive.

  “This morning.” Rebecca clasped her hands in her lap and fought the fast rising tension investing her shoulders. “Hughes found it on the floor, in the foyer.”

  “Must have been slipped under the door.” Dirk propped his elbow on the armrest of a wingback chair. “Which troubles me, given that we made the social rounds with the expressed intent of providing the blackguard ample opportunity to make contact in public.”

  “Our villain grows desperate.” Lance frowned.

  Damian nodded once. “Then we have no time to lose.”

  “What is the plan?” Admiral Douglas inquired.

  “I have taken the liberty of collecting various communiqués seized by our agents on the Continent.” Sir Ross indicated a stack of dispatches bundled on his desk. “L’araignee helped decipher most of them, and they are authentic, which should lend credence to our ruse.”

  “How will you deliver them?” Blake asked.

  “Dirk and I are to attend this evening’s performance at Vauxhall,” Rebecca replied. “At midnight, I am to proceed to the end of Hermit’s Walk, where our turncoat will be waiting, and I shall convey the documents I have discovered as a result of my supposed search of Colin’s belongings.”

  “Were there any effects?” Damian tapped a finger to his chin. “Any hint of this mysterious item?”

  “None.” She shook her head. “As my retreat from France was rather hasty, there was no time to gather personal possessions. And the traitor clearly stated that he sought papers or, perhaps, a journal.”

  “So it is entirely plausible that the document in question was, in fact, buried with Colin.” Dalton repeatedly tossed his lucky coin. “Oh, the irony.”

  “And what do we know of this Denis character?” Admiral Douglas rested a shoulder on the sidewall and furrowed his brow. “You have not been very forthcoming on the enemy.”

  “Denis is an animal.” Sir Ross perched on the edge of his desk. “Beyond that, we know nothing, as none of our agents has survived contact with him.”

  “Have you any description of his appearance?” Trevor asked. “Are you certain he is French?”

  “No.” Sir Ross shrugged. “So I suppose we cannot, in good conscience, rule out the possibility that he is English.”

  “I can speak to his brutality.” Rebecca shivered, and Dirk took her hand in his. “A couple of years ago, Colin and I recovered the remains of one of our operatives after Denis had done his work. The poor man was unrecognizable.”

  “You are referring to Egglesfield.” Sir Ross compressed his lips and gazed at the floor. “I remember him. His body was nothing more than a twisted lump of bloody flesh and broken bones. Even his eyes were dislodged from his head.”

  The room grew silent as a tomb.

  In that moment, for the first time since she had joined the Corps, Rebecca wished she had never becom
e a spy. Given what she deemed trivial contributions to the war effort exacted at an unfairly high price, she would give anything to go back to the past and undo that hastily made decision. Then again, if she were not a secret agent, she might never have met Dirk. She studied the no-nonsense sea captain who had changed her life for the better. Finding himself the subject of her scrutiny, he offered a half-smile and winked.

  “Gentlemen, pray tell, how are we to safeguard my wife?”

  #

  The air was thick and humid, as L’araignee tiptoed Hermit’s Walk, and a gentle breeze kissed her hair and rustled the hedges on either side of her. Moonlight above cast her shadow on the graveled surface, reminding her that she was not alone, as Sir Ross and the Brethren trailed her movements from a close but discreet distance. Wrapped in the evening’s playbill, and tucked in the crook of her arm, was the cache of documents Sir Ross had prepared for her, in accordance with the turncoat’s demands. As the Pastorale from Handel’s Messiah filled her ears, she scanned the area and cursed under her breath. The music effectively shielded any telltale sounds of a stalker.

  Yet she would swear she could hear her heart beat.

  The traitor had chosen an excellent night and location for a rendezvous, given the thousands of revelers in attendance of the al fresco entertainment at Vauxhall Gardens. It was a brilliant strategy, as a sea of innocents afforded ample opportunities for cover and concealment. And therein lay his mistake, as the crowd could also impede any attempted escape.

  I know you are there.

  As always, the taunting specter of fear danced a merry jig, and she dipped her chin in insouciant salute, setting aside her trepidation in order to perform her duty. Against all logic, rhyme, and reason, and drawing on years of experience, she put one foot in front of the other, ever encroaching on the kill zone of espionage, where she would capture the villain.

  Indeed, once she had the traitor in her sights, she would not yield. Her mission would end right there on that very night, because L’araignee was determined to resign the Corps. No more would she pleasure French generals in exchange for bits of information. Dirk was the only man she had any interest in touching--or having touch her. Never again would she lurk in back alleys, with the rats and refuse of humanity for companions, in search of her prey, or gaze on the lifeless remains of war combatants, friend or foe. If she met her fate in her sleep while abed, after a long, uneventful, and peaceful existence, she would be happy.

  At last nearing the end of the dark and deserted walk, she noted its namesake transparency in the hermitage and prepared for the impending assault. Nerves tingled and muscles clenched, as she surmised the turncoat would approach from the rear in an attempt to intimidate her, and L’araignee primed for battle.

  When the first thunderous roar of the fireworks display reverberated, she flinched in earnest. In that instant, an unknown attacker covered her mouth with his hand and encircled her waist with his arm. Swallowing the urge to resist, she relaxed her body as he dragged her behind the hedge.

  “Have you found what I seek?” His breath was hot against her neck. Focusing on his voice, she scrutinized his dialect and immediately realized that something was amiss. He released her with a warning: “Stay where you are, or I shall be forced to shoot you.”

  “I brought what met your requirements from when last we spoke.” She held up the packet of papers. “There was nothing else.”

  “Excellent.” The blackguard snatched the documents from her grasp, and L’araignee was surprised and furious to discover that he wore the familiar black cloak of the Corps.

  How could one of their members betray Colin? Given their oath of office, their history of distinguished service to the Crown, and the inherent sacrifice demanded of their trade, she vowed he would face justice for his treachery. The urge to strike settled as a bitter pill in her throat, and she swallowed hard, lest she foul the plan and lose her quarry.

  Somewhere in the vicinity, Sir Ross and the Brethren stood alert and waited for the ideal moment to pounce. She need only do as told, distract the scoundrel, and keep him talking.

  Papers fluttered as the traitor reviewed the decoys.

  “These are worthless,” he snapped. “Where is the item we seek? What have you done with it?”

  “I do not know what you mean.” The unforgiving end of a pistol gouged her back, and she fought the fast rising panic. “I have given you what I found, I swear.”

  “Liar.” The assailant grabbed her throat and pressed the barrel to her temple. “I should kill you.”

  “The shot would frighten the crowd.” The only thing standing between L’araignee and death was the simple flex of a finger on the trigger. “Do you want to sound the alarm?”

  “Shut up.” He laughed. “You think that the only means at my disposal?”

  As if to prove his point, he tightened his hand at her neck, and she choked. Frantically, she scratched at his wrist and kicked his shins, and his fingernails dug into her flesh. Desperate for air, her lungs seized and violent paroxysms rocked her from top to toe. She reached for his head and wrenched his hair, but he relented not. Aching for precious oxygen, her chest burned, and the rush of a waterfall echoed in her ears. Twisting and turning to no avail, she tried but failed to scream, and her knees weakened.

  “You there, hold hard!” Admiral Douglas shouted above another volley of fireworks.

  Dare she hope?

  “Stay back, or I shall kill her.” The villain jerked and let go her neck, but he kept her firmly anchored in his grip. “I mean what I say.”

  Holding to consciousness by mere tenterhooks, L’araignee sucked in a deep breath, and then another. In a matter of seconds, her vision cleared. Gathering her wits, she reassessed her position and adapted her strategy.

  “Please, do not hurt me,” she cried in an attempt to confuse the situation. If she could draw the turncoat’s attention, she might afford Admiral Douglas the opportunity to act, but she had to be careful.

  The traitor still held a gun to her head.

  “I am a married woman.” Again she inhaled. “My husband will pay a handsome reward for my safe return.”

  “Shut up,” he barked. “Else I will silence you for good.”

  “Calm yourself, man. I am unarmed.” Admiral Douglas splayed both palms for inspection. “Let the lady go. I am sure this has been an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  Retreating further into the gardens, her assailant hauled her with him, and L’araignee dug in her heels to slow his escape. Ignoring her instincts and desire to fight, she slackened her muscles, burdening the turncoat with her full weight.

  “Come now.” Admiral Douglas kept pace, measure for measure. “One bit o’ fluff is not unlike the other.”

  “Do you take me for a fool? Do you think me an idiot? No doubt Sir Ross hugs the shadows, and, at this very moment, I am surrounded.”

  The blackguard knew of their plan.

  Had he discerned the extent of her involvement? Had he discovered her identity? Had he known that she was L’araignee? If so, everyone she cared about could be at risk. Dirk and Lucien would be in grave peril.

  “Who is Sir Ross?” Admiral Douglas neared. “Let us settle this dispute as gentlemen. The woman is of no use.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ. She is my ticket to freedom.” The traitor licked her cheek. “Where I go, so too goes she.”

  Riding a wave of nerves and nausea, her stomach heaved.

  “What is wrong, dove?” He groped her breast, squeezing cruelly until she cried in pain. “Do you not fancy my touch? Perhaps I should keep you for my enjoyment.”

  The vocal mask slipped, and she recognized the voice in an instant. Searching her mind, she tried to envision his face. Slowly, she peered left and glimpsed his profile from the nose down, as a mask and hood shrouded the rest. The angular lines of his jaw and the firm set of his chin teased her memory.

  “Surely you do not believe you can evade notice, with a hostage in tow.” Admiral Douglas s
quared his shoulders. “Release her, and all is forgotten.”

  “Like bloody hell, I will--”

  Suddenly, the villain dropped the pistol and fell limp.

  In a flash, L’araignee bent, hiked her skirts, retrieved the tiny dagger from the sheath strapped to her thigh, and prepared to lunge. Whirling about, she halted in her tracks.

  There, standing before her, was Dirk.

  Wearing a coat of impeccable Bath superfine, a pristine white cravat tied in a precise mathematical, fawn-colored breeches, and glossy Hessians, he cut the perfect picture of a refined English nobleman, if not for the weapon clutched in one hand and the unconscious double-dealer in the other. “Are you hurt, my lady wife?”

  Incapable of coherent speech, Rebecca shook her head.

  As if from nowhere, Sir Ross appeared with the remaining Brethren, took custody of the traitor, and conveyed him to the ground.

  “I struck him with force sufficient to render him harmless.” Though Dirk addressed Sir Ross, his impenetrable stare never left hers. “He is not grievously injured.”

  When Dirk spread his arms wide in welcome, she ran into his embrace.

  “Have you any idea how hard it was to let you depart our supper box without so much as a kiss goodbye?” he asked softly.

  “Have you any idea how hard it was to depart our supper box without so much as a kiss goodbye?” she responded in kind.

  At his prompt, she lifted her chin in invitation, which he readily accepted. As he set his lips to hers, she closed her eyes and savored the taste of her gallant knight. The adrenaline surging in her veins found a convenient outlet in the passion of that elementary but potent affirmation of their union.

  “While I hate to break up this heartfelt reunion, we have work to do.” Sir Ross cleared his throat. “Our charge must be remanded for interrogation.”

  “Who is our snake in the grass?” Lance knelt beside Sir Ross.

  “Oh, I say, pull back the hood.” Blake squatted. “Let us have a look at the enemy.”

  “The bastard ought to be keelhauled.” Dalton flipped his lucky coin. “Heads. Perhaps the guillotine is more appropriate.”