How… startling. He was entirely truthful for the first time since they’d met. She grinned and shook his hand. Tingling warmth raced up her arm to her elbow. “I am Sophia, youngest daughter of a wastrel, gambler and drunkard. My future has been squandered and my life isn’t currently my own.”
A muscle worked in his cheek, and for a breathless second she feared he’d grow sullen again, but he matched her grin. The perfect line of his bottom teeth was marred by a slightly crooked canine. It made him approachable… and human, almost endearing. “Good thing we misfits are knocking about together, destined for musty old libraries and churches looking for ancient relics. Otherwise we might have to be part of boring, stodgy society who refuses to understand us and wishes for us to be something we are not.” Finally, he released her hand, and she mourned the loss of his touch.
For precious, fleeting seconds, she’d felt almost as if she wasn’t alone. “This is true.” On more than one level, and it sobered her.
“Can this be taken as a tentative peace then?” He leaned into the squabs and once more pulled his greatcoat around him.
She sat back and contemplated him as he focused his attention out the window. Though she wished for a respectable life with a devoted man, who was to say she couldn’t enjoy what this rake would offer in the meantime? “I suppose, though you are the more antagonistic one.”
I’ll have stories to tell if I’m lucky enough to have children.
That pulled a laugh from him. She gawked, so unexpected was the sound. “You are not entirely blameless in that either.”
“No, I’m not.” Hope for the remainder of the journey flowed through her. “When this untenable coach trip is finished, where are we staying?”
“Rathesborne has arranged for me to stay with a retired agent and his Spanish wife. Though they were only expecting me, we have a couple of days to invent and rehearse a plausible story to explain your presence.” He flashed a grin before turning his attention again to the window. “Welcome to your first clandestine adventure, Sophia. I do not expect problems in locating Basselton. No doubt he’s lost himself in ancient texts. The weeks will pass without incident and we’ll be back on England’s shore before you know it.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “We will be free of each other in good time.”
“Indeed.” And her life could finally begin after being held hostage for so long.
Chapter Seven
February 9, 1822
Madrid, Spain
Jonathan shoveled food into his mouth without thought to manners. The simple fare of a flaky fish done with briny capers, olives, and tomatoes fairly melted in his mouth and was the best thing he’d eaten since leaving England. Other courses of meats and cheeses, fruity green olive oil on warm bread, and a spicy shrimp had been just as wonderful. As was the rich and bold red wine to wash it all down.
Across the table from him sat Rathesborne’s contact. An older man with a head of graying brown hair, he regaled Sophia—who sat at Jonathan’s right—with tales from his agent days. Beside him, his wife nodded and smiled. Jeweled combs lay in her thick, black hair and they sparkled in the soft candlelight. Occasionally, she’d offer tidbits into the conversation that either made the older agent laugh or blush.
And through it all, Jonathan had steadily eaten his fill.
Sophia’s laughter echoed in his ears, and he turned his head to look at her. She’d changed from the travel-stained lavender frock to the one other gown she’d carried with her. The rose-colored silk brought vibrancy to her face and skin, and the lady’s maid on hand had twisted her wheat blonde locks into an intricate coif. She laid a hand on his forearm and with sparkling eyes said, “Do you plan to contribute to the conversation, Jonathan?”
That slight pressure warmed him through. “When they talk of something interesting.”
Laughter circled about the table, and the retired agent, Philip Stanton, grinned as he lifted his glass in salute. “I appreciate a man who engages in plain speaking.”
He lifted his own glass before taking a sip. “How has Spain treated you since retirement?” Vaguely familiar with the man’s history, they’d worked separate teams and hadn’t crossed paths much.
“Very well, I should say.” Philip shot a dazzling grin at his wife. “Once I relinquished my duty to England and I was well out of danger, I married the woman of my dreams. Life has been perfect ever since.”
Maria, his wife, chuckled, the sound rich and throaty. “Philip”—she pronounced the name as phil-leep— “is prone to exaggeration. We met during his last year in the field. I was an operative for Spain, and he—”
“—thought you were a traitor,” Sophia finished for her. “How romantic!”
Jonathan stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the last second. “Or rather foolish. They could have both been killed.”
“So you say, yet here you are,” Philip rejoined and gestured between him and Sophia. “On a case and with a woman to boot.” His dark eyes twinkled. “What is the story?”
Heat crept up the back of Jonathan’s neck and into his ears. It was only a matter of time. He glanced at his companion, who smiled at him with expectation in her expression. The minx. They’d decided it would be best to stick as close to the truth as possible. “Sophia and I are engaged.” His new friends didn’t need to know the arrangement was a sham. “But for the purposes of this mission, she is my assistant and I am a visiting professor.”
“Is that all there is to your tale, Viscount Trewellain?” Amusement hung on Philip’s question.
“It is all I wish to share at the moment.”
The man nodded. “You do not look like a professor, but I wish you luck all the same.”
“You English are so afraid to show emotion,” Maria said with a grin. “It is not a failing for men to demonstrate their caring.”
“The emotion Jonathan shows is how grouchy everything makes him.” Sophia again patted his arm. “He is much like the snarling, angry lion with a thorn in its paw.”
Bloody hell. She didn’t know what his life consisted of. “Be that as it may, she decided to accompany me on this trip, and I couldn’t very well let her wander about without a companion, so here we are.” His tone invited no argument or further prying.
But these folk weren’t cowable English. Maria laughed. “And makes for convenient trysting, eh, Lord Trewellain?” When a swath of heat moved up his neck and he tugged at his cravat, she grinned wide. “There is no judgment here. People are people, and desire is a part of life. You will find that Spain is not as strict or as easily scandalized as English society.”
“Regardless,” he nearly growled out the word. “Sophia and I are comfortable not overtly allowing affection of any kind to slip out for public consumption.”
That set his dinner companions laughing again, and Jonathan stood. He threw his napkin onto his empty plate. “Thank you for your hospitality while we are in the area, but if you don’t mind, I shall turn in. I have an early morning tomorrow.”
Philip sobered. “Where are you headed?”
“The National Library of Spain. A missing lord was last seen there.”
The other man huffed. “Tomorrow is Sunday, my lord. The day of rest and reflection. The library is closed. You will need to wait.”
“Damnation.” Jonathan sat down hard in his chair. The day of the week had completely escaped him. He focused on Philip. “What now then?”
The other man poured another glass of wine. “Explore the city. There are many romantic gardens. Attend a church service. Enjoy good food and company.” He shrugged and reached for his wife’s hand. “There are times, Lord Trewellain, when a man must slow down and fully enjoy what fate has given him lest he miss it in the chaotic business of actually living.”
“I shall endeavor to remember that,” he finally muttered.
“Excellent!” Maria clapped her hands and a female servant came into the dining room to clear away the dishes. “Now we shall indulge in dessert.” Her eyes shone. “In
honor of having you and your fiancée as company, my cook has made Crema Catalana. It is the Catalan version of the French crème brulée.”
“That sounds marvelous,” Sophia murmured as she nodded her thanks at the servant.
“Oh, it is quite a treat,” Philip agreed. “It is traditionally prepared on March 19th for St. Joseph’s Feast Day, but we thought it fitting that we celebrate your presence instead.”
“Indeed.” Yet Jonathan’s gut tightened. St. Joseph was the patron saint of a happy death. That didn’t bode well for the future of his mission. He blew out a frustrated breath. This was another angle he failed at, this doing the pretty and acting sociable. Had Miles been with him, he would have taken the lead and charmed everyone at the table, thereby removing the pressure. But his friend wasn’t here. He hoped to hell that Archewyne fared better, wherever he was.
He spent Sunday touring the sights of Madrid in an open carriage with Sophia and their hosts. While she appeared to enjoy herself and asked intelligent questions, Jonathan sat beside her on the bench, hunched into his greatcoat and wishing himself well away from the gay chatter and happy laughter.
Why couldn’t he just complete his mission, see Sophia home, void their betrothal and be done with the whole thing so he could go back to his townhouse? And what? Sulk? Drink himself into oblivion? A reluctant grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he did sulk contrary to what he’d told Sophia, but nothing on this mission utilized his best qualities, and he certainly refused to participate in playing the doting gentleman to the animated woman next to him.
Why? Because none of it was true. A waste of time, really.
They came home to a large midday meal and then, wonder of wonders, everyone in the household indulged in a long nap. After sundown, they rose again to partake of small plates—tapas—of various savory foods as well as more wine and the finest sherry he’d ever tasted.
If his hosts questioned why he didn’t show affection toward Sophia during their stay, they said nothing of it.
After an evening of Maria attempting to teach Sophia how to perform a couple of popular local dances, they retired: his hosts to one bedroom, he and Sophia to another, due to keeping with their engagement ruse.
“Your friends are wonderful, Jonathan,” she murmured as she slipped out of her simple gown and stood before him in her petticoat, short corset and shift. “This has been the best holiday I’ve ever had.”
He rolled his eyes as he removed his jacket and waistcoat. “How novel, but for me, it is a mission, and one that is dragging its feet.” When he sat on the edge of the bed, he sighed and tugged off his shirt. Though his leg ached, he refused to take off the prosthetic in her presence, which meant he’d worn his boots and the leg to bed every night since meeting her. And it grew deuced tiring.
“Jonathan?” Her voice sounded small as she climbed beneath the sheet and colorful quilt.
“What?” At the end of his patience, he couldn’t summon enough strength to be civil. Perhaps he didn’t want to.
“Why do you never remove your boots even when you sleep? It must be awkward and uncomfortable. Do you have a scar you don’t wish for me to see?”
His whole body jerked upright and his spine went straight. Could the dratted woman now read his mind? “It is none of your concern, Miss Wickham.” No way did he wish to see pity in her eyes when she viewed him as less than a full man. He may not like her, but for the foreseeable future, she was his responsibility. This secret he would keep.
Heavy silence reigned while she extinguished the candle at the bedside. “Well, whatever it is you struggle with, remember that you are not what happened to you. You are defined by what you do with yourself following the adversity.”
He remained quiet, and then with a sound much like a growl, he grabbed a pillow from the bed and a folded blanket that rested at the foot, made himself a pallet on the floor as he done the night before, and laid down.
Sleep didn’t come easy or quick, for his mind dwelled on past mistakes and failings.
The next day, he finally gained the National Library of Madrid with Sophia in tow. She’d been outfitted by Maria—with a few last minute alterations—and he was surprised that the dress, trimmed with black lace and in a bright pink satin with black embroidery, suited her. A black lace shawl covered her top half and hid her ample charms from view. Her bosom strained the limits of the dress since she was slightly more voluptuous than Maria. The taptap of her heeled, satin shoes kept time with his footfalls as they trod the marble halls, through a rotunda lined with curved bookshelves and then into a long corridor.
“Where are we going?” she whispered, the sound of her voice echoing off the austere walls that were decorated by oil paintings set in heavy gilt frames.
“To the gallery most closely connected to the treasures of the royal family.” He guessed. Where the hell else should he begin an investigation like this? Again, he was well-aware he wasn’t suited for such work. This was Archewyne’s area of expertise, not his.
“Makes sense.”
The tension in his shoulders relaxed slightly. At the entrance to a gallery on the second floor, two clerks sat behind an imposing counter. “The game is afoot, Miss Wickham,” he whispered to her. Seconds later they stood before the male clerks, both of whom peered down their noses at him.
She nodded and adjusted her grip on the leather bag she held—an accessory from his traveling trunk that lent more credence to their pre-arranged story. With her hair scraped back into a severe bun and secured with pins and with a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles—regular glass in place of lenses—perched on the bridge of her nose she looked every inch the part of a studious assistant.
“Excuse me,” Jonathan began as he addressed the older—ancient really—of the two gentlemen. “I am L…” At the last second, he remembered his cover. “Professor Henry Banshire.” Best to stick as close to the truth as possible. No reason not to use his middle and surnames. “This is my assistant Miss Wickham. I’m wondering if you remember someone who visited this establishment a few weeks ago.”
The older man stopped scribbling on a document. “Señor, many people visit this facility. It is impossible to remember.”
Jonathan suppressed the urge to jump over the counter and punch him. “I understand that, but the man is a colleague of mine. He is English.” He wracked his brain to recall what Basselton looked like. “About my height, graying dark hair, extremely interested in ancient Spanish relics. Goes by the title of Lord Basselton.”
“No. I am sorry, professor.” The man shook his head.
“Thank you anyway.” Jonathan moved past the counter and into the wing. Countless shelves greeted him, containing thousands of books he shuddered at the thought of having to sift through. To Sophia, he muttered, “Arrogant prick.”
Her giggle rang as out of place in such a stodgy place. “Keep trying.” She trotted to keep up with his longer strides.
The smart thud of heels echoed behind them. “Señor, a moment!”
He paused and turned as the younger clerk raced up to him. “Something you forgot?”
“I remember Señor Basselton.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “I can show you the section of books he was interested in.”
“That would be most hopeful. Thank you.” Jonathan exchanged a surprised glance with Sophia, who shrugged. They followed the clerk through a veritable maze of shelving units.
At a table near a window, the clerk stopped. “He spent many days here.” The young man pointed to the table. His face lit. “Look. The books he read are still there.”
Jonathan snorted. “Obviously, the other clerks didn’t care to reshelf the books in this out of the way location.” Yet it was suspicious. Or worse, convenient. Or perhaps he’d been wary of too many people over the course of his king’s agent stint.
The young man nodded. “Señor Basselton said no one was to touch his books until he said so.” A gleam appeared in his blue eyes. “He gave me much coin to make sure
this is so.”
“Good.” He dug out a few coins of his own and handed them to the man. “This is to make certain my assistant and I are not disturbed.”
“Very well.” The clerk pocketed the bribe. “Do you wish to know anything else, professor?”
Greedy bastard. “Where did Lord Basselton go after he was finished here?”
“I do not know.”
“Was he a talkative fellow while he was here?”
The clerk rolled his eyes. “He was a braggart, Professor Banshire.”
Interesting. “How so?”
“He said he was coming into a fortune soon and wouldn’t need to concern himself with such things as libraries anymore or arrogant pricks who dictated his life.”
Sophia set her leather case on the table. “Did he mention other plans he had while in Madrid?”
A frown furrowed the clerk’s brow. “I remember him saying he needed to meet with someone at a ball later this week.”
“A ball?” Jonathan asked. He crossed his arms at his chest.
“Yes, it is a big event in Madrid. Hosted by the Conde and Condesa of Mayorga. Many peoples come. Large casa adosada.”
Jonathan glanced at Sophia. “Town house.” Thank God he’d learned Spanish during his brief stint in Spain. To the clerk, he said, “I see.
The younger man nodded with enthusiasm. “Señor Basselton said the man he is meeting is to confirm the last part of his mission.” He spread his hands before him. “That is all I know.”
What the devil? As far as Jonathan knew, Basselton wasn’t a king’s agent. But he nodded. “Your information has been most enlightening. Thank you.” He handed over another few coins. “We are not to be disturbed, remember.”
“Agreed, professor.” The man loped off with a wide grin on his face.
Jonathan heaved a sigh as he turned to Sophia. “Well, that wasn’t as rewarding as I’d hoped.” He cast a glance at the stacks of thick books that decorated the table. “Best dive in.” He threw himself onto a chair and pulled a heavy tome toward him. “Bloody hell, this is going to take forever.”
What the Stubborn Viscount Desires Page 8
