“That can be arranged,” Damian added.
“At long last, my dear.” Dirk smiled. “Our mission is over.”
“So it seems.” Giddy with excitement, she bounced.
“Tomorrow, we journey to Lyvedon,” Dirk said with a sigh. “And not a day too soon.”
“Oh, my god.” Admiral Douglas blinked.
Rebecca stared in horror at her attacker. “It can’t be.”
“But it is.” Dirk furrowed his brow and pressed a fist to his mouth.
“Bloody hell.” Sir Ross sat back on his heels, the mask in his grasp. “It is Clarkson.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Looming over his personal secretary, Sir Ross shook his head in astonishment. “How could I not have known?”
“You cannot blame yourself.” Rebecca massaged her sore neck. “We were all deceived.”
“I am the head of the bloody Corps.” His jaw muscles flexed as he gritted his teeth. “Yet I allowed a turncoat to run my office.” He stood, righted his coat, and motioned to Trevor and Dalton. “Get him out of here. I want him in interview as soon as I return to the Ministry.”
“Of course.” Trevor grasped Clarkson under his arms and to Dalton said, “Take his feet.”
“I do not like this.” Sir Ross grimaced and glanced at Rebecca. “The man was my secretary. He had the intelligence of a gnat, which is why I hired him. Not for minute do I believe him capable of masterminding a coup of this magnitude.”
“Do you suspect someone else is involved?” Dirk asked.
“I know there is.” Rebecca crossed her arms.
“How can you be sure?” Dirk raked a hand through his hair.
“His speech was off,” she explained. “The man who approached me at the Netherton’s had a much deeper voice, and he disguised it better.” She tapped a finger to her chin and shook her head. “No. I am certain it was not Clarkson. In fact, I would stake my life on it.”
Sir Ross narrowed his gaze. “You are that sure?”
“I am positive.” She nodded once.
“Then perhaps you should join me in interrogation.” Sir Ross offered her his escort.
“Agreed.” Rebecca took a single step in his direction.
“Wait just a moment.” Dirk caught her by the elbow and swung her to face him. “You cannot let Clarkson know you are a member of the Corps. It is too dangerous. What if he alerts his accomplice?”
“It is a risk I will have to take as--”
“You mean it is a risk we must take,” Dirk asserted. “As you are my wife, our collective fate is inextricably intertwined. Your actions affect us both. As such, we need to discuss our next move.”
“I beg your pardon, Viscount Wainsbrough.” Sir Ross sketched a curt bow, and then addressed Rebecca. “I will have my carriage brought to the front gate. Should you choose to participate in Clarkson’s interview, and continue the investigation, I will give you ten minutes.”
Caught in between two powerful men, each with their own agenda, Rebecca could only stand there and ponder her predicament. At her left, Sir Ross represented the ugly past, rife with deception and death. To her right, Dirk stood as a physical manifestation of the promise and possibility of the future she desperately desired--but that future relied on her ability to break free from the bowels of counterintelligence.
“My lord, I am well aware of our connection, but I have a mission to complete, and what I do as an agent of the Crown is my affair.” She wrenched from his grasp. “I will not walk away simply because you command it.”
“Wrong on both counts. Your work is concluded, and the traitor is in custody.” Stretching to full height, he arched a brow. “You vowed to leave the Corps--a vow to which I hold you. As my viscountess, you must obey me.”
“Dirk, please, be reasonable. In obeisance of your terms, I have tendered my resignation, contingent upon the turncoat’s capture.” Rebecca splayed both arms in supplication. “Can you not see that our assignment remains incomplete? As I once told you, victory in war requires more than one person acting in concert with another, as does conspiracy. There must be more persons involved in this treasonous plan. There must be a top-level schemer, a predator every bit as dangerous, if not more so, than Clarkson, and he must be caught, else we will never be safe.”
“Let Sir Ross and his men round up the others. I want you with me.” He pressed a fist to his chest and compressed his lips. “Come to Lyvedon, our ancestral home, where we can start our new life apart from this nasty business and leave the past behind.”
The desperate plea in his voice broke her heart, but Rebecca resisted the urge to surrender her cause. She had to be strong, even if it killed her, and it might.
“Would that the answer were that uncomplicated.” With a heavy sigh, she shuffled her feet. “We have to uncover those with whom Clarkson was in league. And I would wager our villain knows of my involvement, though he may not be aware of the extent to which I am connected with the Corps. In all honesty, you have to admit we cannot move forward until we truly finish the task at hand, as we would forever be looking over our shoulders, and that is no way to live.”
“Neither is this.” Dirk inclined his head. “Will you always make excuses? Will you always invent reasons to delay your resignation? Do you ever truly intend to leave the Corps?”
“Of course, I do.” Conscious of the minutes ticking down, Rebecca retreated. “For now, Sir Ross is waiting, so I must go. I know you are angry, but this is neither the time nor the place for that discussion. We can talk it over when I come home. Will you wait up for me?”
“No.”
“Then we will discuss it tomorrow.”
“That will not be possible.” He flicked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve. “I journey to Lyvedon.”
She stiffened. “You would go without me?”
With casual indifference that has not fooled her for a second, Dirk folded his arms in front of him. “If must needs.”
“Then I, too, will do what must needs.” Rebecca turned on her heels and departed his company without so much as a backward glance.
#
The following evening, as the sun sank below the yardarm, Dirk stared at his sleeping wife. After spending the night at the Ministry of Defense, presumably questioning Clarkson, she had arrived home in the late morning hours, exhausted and starved. Leashing his temper, they barely exchanged two words. Instead, he placed her welfare before his pride, ordered a light repast, of which she made quick work, and tucked her in his bed.
Despondent over their situation, he could not decide whether to throttle her or kiss her silly, as he had indulged her occupation to the point of madness. Worse, he suspected that, if he said nothing and remained complaisant, she would birth his heir in some back alleyway, while spying on a French general. So he needed to do something, had to make a stand.
Careful not to make a sound, he crossed the room. With one last agonizing look at her motionless form, he grasped the knob and opened the door. In mere minutes he gained his curricle and sped through Mayfair, fueled by a wave of anger and frustration.
Despite his intent to depart London, he made it as far as White’s, where he found Trevor and Everett.
“May I join you?”
Trevor glanced at Everett and then arched a brow. “Be my guest.”
Settling himself in a comfortable chair, Dirk leaned forward, but just as fast, changed his tack and reclined. After a few seconds, he crossed his legs. Then he uncrossed his legs. A second later, he folded his arms in front of him, before reversing course and resting an elbow on the armrest.
“Something troubling you, friend?” With a half-smile, Trevor signaled for an additional round of drinks.
“No, no.” Dirk tugged at his coat sleeve, cleared his throat, and shifted his weight. “Everything is fine.” An uncomfortable silence twisted the knot in his stomach even tighter. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem a tad out of sorts.” Trevor handed Dirk a glass of brandy.
“Oh, I say. You are in bad shape.” Everett slapped his thigh. “Such a sad sight.” To Trevor, he said, “Reminds me of the night you showed up at my doorstep, when you discovered Caroline had attended--”
“I fail to see how I figure into the equation.” Trevor scowled. “And if memory serves, you promised to be the soul of discretion.”
“Now do not get snippy with me.” Everett rolled his eyes. “Was it my fault that you jumped to unsupported conclusions weaved from whole cloth and landed yourself in the proverbial doghouse?”
“No.” Trevor grimaced. “But you can blame no one but yourself when I break your nose.”
Misery truly did love company, Dirk realized, as he found comfort in the revelation that Trevor also struggled with a willful wife, and he sighed. “Gentlemen, is there a purpose to this conversation?”
“May I offer a bit of unsolicited advice?” Everett peered at Trevor and then Dirk. “Mind you, I speak as the veteran of a heated campaign. Have your staff stow your most treasured valuables.”
“Lord Markham, while some may indulge in uncontrollable outbursts, I can assure you that I am immune to such behavior.” Dirk fortified himself with a healthy gulp of liquid courage. “Trust me, it is not in my nature.”
“Glass is of particular concern,” Everett stated flatly and then gazed at the ceiling. “Someone reduced my entire collection of erotic Oriental figurines to rubble after a wicked row with his bride.”
A telling flush crept across Trevor’s cheeks. “I apologized for that.”
In that instant, Dirk wished he were somewhere--anywhere, else. “I have never surrendered to unrestrained fits of rage.”
“I would extend the warning to include fragile items,” Trevor added. “You do not want anything near that can be broken.”
Exasperated, Dirk revisited the argument with Rebecca. She had valid reasons for remaining in London, just as he had valid reasons for quitting the field. Although he understood her perspective and admired her devotion to duty, she had to accept that his chief concern was her welfare. He had to defend his family. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself.
“Have you told her you love her?” Trevor queried in a low voice.
“Are you out of your mind?” Everett hissed. “You don’t ask a man if he is in love, especially with his wife. Do you want to get us both killed?”
Trevor arched a brow. “And just what do you know of love?”
“Bloody hell.” Everett winced. “I still shudder when I recollect your reaction to the same question posed quite innocently by me.”
“Oh, well we know just how experienced you are with that delicate brand of warfare polite society more commonly refers to as marriage.”
“Did I or did I not get you to the altar, Jolly Roger intact?”
Reason and logic were cornerstones of Dirk’s existence, yet there was nothing reasonable or logical about Rebecca’s occupation. And she resisted his authority. Could his predicament get any more humiliating? He huffed a breath and drained his glass. “Once again, gentlemen, I ask you, what is your point?”
“Apologies, brother.” In an instant, Trevor sobered. “If I may be so bold as to suggest that you consider a few relevant facts.”
At the end of his tether, he acquiesced. “I am listening.”
With a finger, Trevor gestured in emphasis. “First, I admit that Caroline is my life.”
Dirk dipped his chin. “As Rebecca is mine.”
“Second, my chief concern is her safety.”
“And Rebecca’s is mine.”
“All right.” Trevor glanced at Everett, as if choosing his words carefully, because his friend was not privy to their mission, and then met Dirk’s gaze. “Given your current situation, and the observation that you are, at present, here. Who guards your wife?”
#
As the Wainsbrough town carriage rocked gently to and fro, Rebecca yawned and rubbed her weary eyes. It had been a long day, and nothing had gone right, as Dirk held true to his word and departed for the country before she woke.
How could he abandon her?
Whether or not he agreed with her stance, he could have stayed and talked to her. They should have discussed the situation, as they were partners. Was he not the same man who had followed her to the Ministry and decreed, in front of Sir Ross no less, that when their opinions conflicted they should conduct a calm and rational examination? Apparently, such edict only applied to her.
Well, for good or ill, she kept her word.
Before leaving the Ministry of Defense, she tendered her resignation from the Counterintelligence Corps. Her career in espionage was terminated, and, much to her surprise, it was a chapter of her life she found remarkably easy to close. Sir Ross accepted her decision with a distinct air of fatalism, assuring her there would always be a place for L’araignee should she decide to return, but that was no longer an option.
Tomorrow presented a new beginning, in more ways than one.
Of course, it was all for naught if she could not mend fences with her husband. The carriage halted and she roused from her reverie. With infinite gratitude, she accepted assistance from the footman.
Hughes opened the door as she reached the entrance. “Good evening, your ladyship.”
“Hughes.” She dipped her chin and tugged off her gloves. “Would you have a tray sent to my sitting room?”
“I shall see to it at once, your ladyship.”
As though weighted with iron shackles, her legs shook as she ascended the grand staircase. Gaining the peaceful solitude of her bedchamber, she dismissed her maid and undressed herself. If she could not be with Dirk, she preferred to be alone. Staring at the dour image in the mirror of her vanity, she pulled pins from her long brown hair, and the locks cascaded over her shoulders. Her heart was heavy in her chest, and her mood as black as the night sky.
Resting her head in her hands, she sighed. “Tell me it is not too late.”
With a mournful groan, she pushed away from the vanity and strode to the armoire. Donning an ebony silk robe that practically swallowed her, because it was a man’s garment, not to mention Dirk’s favorite, she cinched the belt at her waist. She took a step and froze. A hint of sandalwood teased her nose, aroused her senses, and an image of Dirk materialized in a flash. How she missed her stubborn husband.
For the umpteenth time, tears welled, and she sniffed. Well, at least now she understood her wayward emotions of late. But how would he react to her news? Would he be happy? Would he be sad?
She hoped for the former but feared the latter.
Never had he tempered his fierce dislike of her occupation. When discussing what he desired in a wife, Dirk had been open and honest, and above all consistent, from the beginning. And she had told him she wanted the same.
Had she lied?
After entering the sitting room, she closed the door behind her and leaned against the oak panels. For a moment, she rubbed her temples and stared at the carpet beneath her feet. With a sigh, she crossed the room and stood at the table bearing her dinner. Lifting the silver cover, she inspected the fare and wrinkled her nose.
Although she was not hungry, it was important that she ate something. So she sat herself down and polished off the roasted chicken, green peas, and carrots. With a pleasantly full belly, she walked to the window and stared at the starry sky. If Dirk were outside, he would have glimpsed the same view. The thought was comforting.
“Ho-hum.” She yawned.
Once again in her room, Rebecca peered at her bed and frowned. Then she stared at the portal that connected her suite with Dirk’s. So he was not in residence. Had that meant she could not sleep in his bed? She navigated the tiny corridor before she realized she had moved. At the end of the hall, a sliver of golden light emanating from beneath the door gave her pause.
> Why was the fireplace lit in his chamber?
Quick as a wink, she turned the knob and tiptoed into his room.
Bare-chested, beautiful, and no doubt still angry, Dirk sat in bed, with the sheets pulled to his waist, as he read a book. Aching to touch him, her fingertips tingled, and her heart raced.
“You are home,” was all she could say as her knees weakened, and she feared she might swoon. Perhaps she should simply fling herself atop him and take refuge in his warm embrace.
He glanced up. “As you see.” He stared at her and arched a brow. “Is that my robe?”
She gulped and clutched the silk folds to her chest. “It is.” Her voice wavered, and she cursed herself.
He closed the book and set it on the bedside table. “Have you misplaced your night apparel?”
She lifted her chin. “I have not.”
Clasping his hands in his lap, he opened his mouth and then closed it. “You look tired.”
“I am.” Projecting a placid demeanor, which was nothing more than pure deception, she walked to the fireplace, gazed into the flames, and rubbed her forearms. “It has been a trying day.”
“How are things progressing with the case?” he inquired with an acid tongue that had not escaped her notice. “Has Clarkson divulged the names of his partners in crime?”
“He was found dead in his cell this morning.” But despite the double-dealing clerk’s demise, Rebecca feared she might never be free of her past as a spy. “So he will not be telling anyone anything, ever again.”
“Suicide?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows?”
“How did he die?”
“We suspect poison, but it will be at least a week before the autopsy report is complete.” Nerves got the best of her, and a wave of nausea had her leaning against the mantel for support. “He foamed at the mouth, and the surgeon believes it was arsenic.”
“What will you do now?” Dirk asked.
It was now or never. “Nothing.”
“I beg your pardon?”
My Lady, The Spy Page 23
