“Your reputation?” She snorted. “It was I who was warned away from you, Angelstone.”
He stilled, the hand against her back releasing its pressure. “Who warned you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She set a hand against his firm chest. Muscles moved beneath her fingertips.
“Who was it?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she repeated. She shook her head, hoping to erase the hardened expression in his eyes. But the heat that had been building between them had chilled.
“It might.” His legs untangled themselves from hers. The circle of his arms still sheltered her, but questions had once again come between them. It was inevitable, she supposed. They were not just a man and a woman. Espionage and assassination could put a damper on sex.
“Jason Hawthorne.” She sighed. This was not the conversation she’d wanted to have early in the morning. Angel was so close she could see the deep brown flecks ringing the outside of his tawny irises. “He believes you are a rake who will break my heart and warned me your reputation is not spotless.”
“Jason Hawthorne seems to spend an inordinate amount of time warning you against me.” He shifted and his arm slid from beneath her neck. In one smooth movement, he rolled over to sit on the edge of the bed.
Irritated, she did the same so that they were sitting back-to-back on the bed, naked. An ocean of sheet stretched between them.
“He cares for me—and it’s not as though you have a stellar reputation, Angel,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“It’s not so bad that you need to be warned off. I’m still considered eligible.”
She turned to study his back as she sat on the edge of the bed. Broad. Gold. Strong. An arrogant toss of his head sent his hair rippling over his shoulders. He stood and strode across the room to retrieve his clothing. The sight of the long, lean muscles in his legs sent her insides quivering.
All he needed were wings to be the fallen angel she once thought him.
“Perhaps your reputation isn’t as bad as some,” she allowed. Generously, she thought. “Still, Hawthorne is concerned for me. He was Jeremy’s best friend and a godsend during those first days after Jeremy’s death.” Sliding from the bed, Lilias reached for her chemise and wriggled into it. When she turned, Angel was regarding her with an arrested expression.
And, sadly, he was wearing breeches.
“He was your husband’s best friend.”
“Yes.” She slid her arms into the stays, settling it over her chemise. “Will you?” she asked, presenting her back to him.
He complied, working on the tabs and laces with quick and experienced fingers. But he was silent, and she felt the need to break it.
“You make more than a passable lady’s maid. Have you had much practice?”
“A gentleman never tells.” There was no teasing note in his voice, though the words themselves hinted at a jest. But they were beyond the easy companionship of the night. It was nearly daylight and the comfort of the dark was gone. Life did intrude, didn’t it?
“There, you’re finished,” he said. “Was Hawthorne at Waterloo?”
“He marched with the regiment.” Stays complete, she moved away to find her gown. She shook out the frilly silk confection with a quick snap to release the wrinkles. “They were quite close and nearly always together. Closer than brothers. Sometimes I think Hawthorne knew Jeremy better than I did.” She looked up at Angel.
He only stood there. Waiting. Watching.
Her heart thumped once. The gown slid to the floor from boneless fingers.
“Oh no. Impossible.” She shook her head frantically. “Hawthorne is not one of them.”
“How can you be certain?”
Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t.
“You said it yourself, Lilias. They were nearly always together.”
She wished he didn’t sound so patient. “But, if they were both Death Adders, they wouldn’t have been so open about the connection, would they?” She couldn’t bear to lose Hawthorne, too. Desperately, she clutched at hope. “Being so close would draw suspicion on them.”
“There’s no better place to hide than in plain sight.”
“I can’t believe it of Hawthorne.” But she had not believed it of Jeremy, either, until it was true. She picked up the gown with numb fingers.
“You don’t want to believe it.” Sympathy shone from Angel’s eyes.
She would not look at him. The ribbon running across the bodice of her gown, now that was interesting. That she could look at without aching inside. She was not prepared for sympathy.
“I will investigate Jason Hawthorne,” he said. “I must determine if he is involved.”
“I need my slippers.” She clutched her silk stockings in fisted hands. She could not think of Hawthorne. She only wanted to escape. To regroup. “They are still in your training room.”
—
LILIAS WOVE THROUGH the crowd in the ballroom. In, out, around. She avoided the muslin skirts of the debutante. The cane of the octogenarian. The huge brass buttons of a dandy. She barely saw any of them.
Jason Hawthorne was the sole focus of her attention.
She circled the ballroom. Watching. She’d known him for nearly a decade. Six years of her marriage to Jeremy, two years of widowhood. And there was that exhilarating year before her marriage when she and Jeremy had moved from infatuation to lust to love. Hawthorne had always been there.
Had she ever noticed the sharp edge to his jaw when he clenched his teeth? He was doing so now as a marriage-minded mama tried to entice him to dance with her daughter. He did dance, of course. A gentleman always did. But he was stiff as he led the girl across the floor. The poor chit ducked her head and blushed, then pulled her shawl close around her shoulders.
Lilias stopped her prowl around the room. Sliding behind a potted orange tree, she hid herself with the green leaves and watched the floor. Hawthorne and the girl separated as the country dance began. Couples moved across the floor, met, parted.
Angel could be right. If fact, he likely was right. It wasn’t that hard to believe if she thought about how often Jeremy and Hawthorne were together. They fought together, certainly. On the occasions they were able to relax, they did so together. They ate together, traveled together, took their leaves together.
Worse, Hawthorne had been there when Jeremy died. Hawthorne had brought the injured Jeremy back to Lilias. Just in time for him to breathe his final breath. If Jeremy were assassinated, Hawthorne would have known. He would have told her.
Or he was the assassin.
Bile rose in her throat. She turned her head, swallowed hard. Forced herself to breathe. Was the foundation of her life nothing but sand? Jeremy, her marriage, and now Hawthorne. None of them were what they seemed. Perhaps others of the men serving with Jeremy were assassins.
If she hadn’t noticed her own husband’s perfidy, how would she recognize that of others?
It was as though she’d been betrayed a second time. Only this time, there was someone she could confront.
“What are you doing hiding behind this orange tree?” said a voice at her shoulder.
“Bloody—” Lilias caught herself and swallowed the curse.
Catherine stood a step behind, feathers trembling as she shook with laughter. “Lilias, dear, you came off the floor a foot at least.” Her dark eyes laughed over her fan as she hid her smile. Not that it mattered. The snorted laughter gave her away.
“I just—I was just—I needed to rest.”
“Mm hm. Now—” Catherine slide behind the orange tree. She peered through the branches and looked every bit the woodland sprite. “Who are we spying on?”
“Catherine.” The wave overcame her, an engulfing, all-encompassing sweep of emotion. “I love you.”
“I know, dear. I love you, too.” Though her mouth still s
miled, her eyes had turned serious. Green leaves crisscrossed over her face, hiding the roundness of her cheeks. “Don’t forget that my shoulders are here to help bear your burden, whatever it is that is troubling you.”
“What do you mean, whatever is troubling me?”
“You have shadows under your eyes. You’ve barely eaten a morsel in the last week. You’ll need to take your gowns in soon as they’re getting too big. Do tell me, when you’re ready. Now”—she turned back to the ballroom—“who are we spying on?”
Lilias could think of nothing meaningful to say. It was not as though she could tell Catherine her son had been an assassin. The need to speak was a huge weight on her chest. But only some of it could be relieved.
“Jason Hawthorne.” She swallowed hard. “What do you think of him?”
“A good man.”
“You think so?”
“Dear, a woman doesn’t get to be my age without understanding men. I married one and raised one. Raised two, really, if you consider Grant, as his mother died when he was so young.” Leaves rustled as Catherine stepped away from the plant. “Why does Jason Hawthorne upset you?”
“Why do you think he upsets me? Perhaps I’ve set my cap for him.”
“If you had, you would sound much happier when you spoke of him. Besides, you’ve set your cap for the Marquess of Angelstone.” She waved her hands at Lilias when she protested. “Oh, fine. Perhaps not your cap. But your negligee at the very least.”
“Really.” Lilias closed her eyes and gave her head a little shake of denial. “How does one answer that?”
“I don’t think one does.” Catherine’s tiny fingers clutched at Lilias’s sleeve. “To be serious, I like Hawthorne. He’s a good man, I think, but he does have secrets. Everyone has secrets, but his are darker than most. That doesn’t make him better or worse than the man you see.”
“No?” Some secrets were worse than others.
“Grant has arrived.” Catherine flitted out from behind the orange tree. “If you intend to spy on Jason Hawthorne, I suggest you be more discreet. The rumors are bad enough at the moment. You don’t need to embroil a second gentleman.”
“Rumors?” Lilias swung around to face Catherine.
“Well, of course, dear.” Catherine’s eyebrows rose, to graying crescents of incredulity. “You’re beautiful, Angelstone is handsome and your mutual interest is quite marked. Angelstone doesn’t dance often so it’s of note that he dances with you. He also doesn’t have a mistress at the moment, so the gossips are abuzz with the idea he’s pursuing a woman.”
“Well, of course,” she murmured, repeating Catherine’s words. She wanted to press her fingers against her eyes. “I don’t know how you can take it in stride.”
“What else is there to do?” Catherine’s eyes danced. “I confess, it’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”
“What of my reputation? What of yours?”
“What of them?” Catherine let out a tinkling laugh. “Darling, don’t get upset. Your reputation will withstand it. Just be discreet. Widows are allowed to have liaisons. Heavens, I even have them now and again. My last was just a month ago with Lord Martin—”
“Stop!” she choked out. “Catherine, I don’t want—” Rubbing a hand over her eyes, she tried to strike the image of Catherine and Lord Martin out of her mind.
Catherine’s laugh bounced around the ballroom again. “At any rate, have a care, dear.”
As Catherine swooped across the floor to meet Grant, Lilias watched her husband’s cousin carefully. He was elegant and confident and full of diplomatic charm. He met her gaze over Catherine’s head and smiled at her. Dimples winked.
Perhaps she could tell him the truth. Not about her relationship with Angel, or her desire never to marry, but about her husband. Grant had known Jeremy as well as she. He was a strong man, with broad shoulders that already carried the weight of his diplomatic duties. He would carry the burden with her.
And then she saw Hawthorne at the door to the ballroom. Her heart thumped when he threw a glance over his shoulder. One hard look before he slipped between the double doors.
A secret, Catherine had said. Well, she was going to find out what it was.
Guests faded away. Her gaze arrowed to the doors closing behind Hawthorne. She hurried through the press of people, crossing the ballroom. The door handle was smooth beneath her palm, the door heavy as it swung open, then closed again.
There were others in the hall. A pair of young women coming from the ladies’ retiring room. An older gentleman who nodded as he passed her. She barely noticed. Her eyes were focused on the light blue expanse of a soldier’s coat.
Hawthorne stood at the top of the steps going down to the ground floor. The footman standing next to him bowed before scurrying down the stairs. Hawthorne adjusted his evening gloves and followed more slowly.
Lilias hissed at the thought of losing sight of him and picked up her skirts. Her slippers were silent on the ornate rug running the center of the hallway. Quick steps, the swish of skirts, and she was poised at the top of the stairs.
She saw his profile as the butler handed Hawthorne his hat, his greatcoat and the walking stick she knew hid a sword. From the side, his face seemed sharp and rough and much less civilized.
The front door opened. Rain pinged on the walkway outside. She darted down the remaining interior steps and leapt for the door.
“Just a moment. I need to speak with Hawthorne.” She swept past the butler as though she were engaging in perfectly common behavior. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
The rain was light, but it would still ruin her dress and hair. Setting one hand uselessly above her head she scanned the street. Carriages lined each side, as it was the height of the ball and few guests would be leaving this early.
Hawthorne was near the end of the line. One hand rested on the carriage door handle, his head was bent as he spoke with someone. The carriage lamp above them threw shadows beneath the brim of Hawthorne’s hat. More shadows ranged beneath the stranger’s cap so she could not see his face. Ill-fitting clothes covered the stranger’s body. Not a peer, not a servant, but a commoner. Or someone disguised as a commoner.
Metal glinted in the lamplights. A pistol. She could not tell who carried it, but—wait. Hawthorne. It was in Hawthorne’s hand. Her stomach pitched, rolled. She scrubbed the back of her hand over her mouth.
She could not look away. Hawthorne and the stranger bent over the pistol, shoulders hunched. It was impossible to know what they were doing. Then the stranger slunk around the side of the carriage and disappeared into the dark.
She surged forward, not certain if she meant to stop the stranger or confront Hawthorne. Either. Both. But uncertainty dragged at her feet. It could be an innocent exchange. It was possible.
Hawthorne stood alone, water sluicing the brim of his hat. The pistol hung from his fingers. Not tightly, not loosely. Comfortably. Easily. Then he leapt into his carriage. The driver didn’t even wait for the door to close before the carriage began moving through the rain and mud.
She’d hesitated too long. She’d faltered, and he was gone. He was disappearing into the night. He could be doing anything.
A raindrop slid between her breasts. A cold finger of suspicion. Hawthorne was the man most often in Jeremy’s company. His confidant. If anyone knew what Jeremy was, it would be Hawthorne.
If he did, then she’d been betrayed again.
Anger burgeoned in her. More lies. More betrayal. It would be as easy for Hawthorne as Jeremy to hide the truth from her. After all, she never questioned Jeremy. Why would she question Hawthorne?
She looked past the rain as the hot fury growing in her fought against the frigid drops pelting her face. Hawthorne’s carriage was an indistinguishable shadow in the night.
Secrets. She would discover Hawthorne’s. And then Jeremy’s.
Without hesitation. She would not falter when it mattered most.
Chapter 20
“CHRIST, LILIAS, IT’S barely dawn.” Hawthorne slammed the hackney door shut and threw himself into the seat opposite her. Shadows formed circles beneath his eyes and the stubble on his chin told her he’d yet to shave.
“I need to speak with you,” she said. “It’s urgent.”
“So urgent you must arrive before the sun?” The words bulleted at her, rife with irritation.
“It’s nearly nine. Hardly dawn.” Temper shortened the words. She was still riding on a wave of fury. Had he, too, lied to her? She might not be able to confront Jeremy, but Hawthorne was here.
The carriage jerked, then began to roll. The sound of wheels on cobblestone accompanied the clop of hooves.
Hawthorne sat up straight. “Where are we going?”
His coat was buttoned crooked. He must not have been dressed yet when she sent the hired boy to the door with her note. She always thought him handsome but at the moment, she could not recall why.
“The coachman will drive up and down the nearby streets while we talk.” Her fingers twitched on the object hidden in the folds of her skirt. In her mind she saw Hawthorne and the stranger, standing in the rain the night before. The glint of metal. The surreptitious glance around the street.
Perhaps he was innocent. Perhaps he was an assassin. She was determined to find out—whatever the consequences. Because death was better than betrayal and ignorance. Slowly, she raised the pistol she had been hiding beneath her soft, innocent skirts. No trembling. No hesitation. If he came at her, she would have the upper hand. She cocked the gun and looked down the barrel into Hawthorne’s shocked eyes.
Not just shock, but fear. Her heart constricted, a painful reminder that this man had helped her through the darkest of days.
But she would not hesitate again.
In Bed with a Spy Page 14
