In Bed with a Spy

by Alyssa Alexander

“It could happen anywhere. A public venue. A ballroom crush.” His fingers tightened around hers. “A knife through the ribs. A drop of poison in your glass. They are common methods and let the assassin disappear into a crowd with no one the wiser.”

  “I will be careful.” But she was not stupid. She could never be careful enough.

  “We’ll be watching.”

  When his lips touched hers they were surprisingly soft. The kiss was sweet enough to have her heart flutter. He dropped her hand to grip her upper arms, transferring that delicious scrape of calluses from her palm to her arm. She opened her mouth beneath his, desperate for heat and comfort from him. For the indefinable thread that bound her to someone. She’d lost that thread when the assassin had told her of Waterloo. The losing had nearly consumed her.

  And then there was Angel. A great rock in the center of a vortex of crashing waves. She gripped his biceps, anchored herself to him. And simply fell into his kiss. Into the scent of man, the heat of him, the slight rasp of his jaw that needed shaving. He was, for the moment, all that was solid and real and safe.

  With a final pressing kiss, he pulled away. She nearly slid her hand against his neck to pull him back so she wasn’t alone.

  “You must return to Fairchild House soon, before the explanations become too complicated.” He murmured the words against her cheek, then pressed a kiss there. “Agents are already stationed. I’ll take the first morning watch. Jones will be taking a turn as well, and you will be able to visit me here, where we can protect you.” He kissed her again. Quick and thorough. “The Adders won’t know one of their number is missing until morning at the earliest. Midday by the latest. You’ll be safe until then.”

  After that . . .

  The words hung in the air. Unspoken, but there.

  She was still a target.

  Chapter 30

  JONES DROVE THE carriage to the front door of Fairchild House as they’d prearranged. It was likely Catherine and Grant would be aware of the coachman’s injuries and know the carriage was missing—with her in it. There was no use attempting to sneak into the house.

  She was right in her assessment. Every window was blazing with light.

  Jones called out. Quiet, sure words that scattered beneath the beat of hooves. The horses slowed with a jingle of harness. The carriage rocked to a halt.

  Grant threw open the front door and jumped down the steps. He was in his shirtsleeves, his brown hair mussed.

  Running to him seemed the best option. She could leap from the carriage and those arms would catch her. But she couldn’t tell him the truth, and that stung.

  All thought vanished as Grant swung a pistol up and aimed it at Jones.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” Lilias groaned, scrambling to push open the door.

  “Down from the carriage! Now!” Grant shouted.

  With one fast leap, she covered the distance between carriage and street usually bridged by the steps.

  “Don’t! Grant, don’t!” Throwing herself at him, she forced him to drop his weapon hand and take her into his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder and gripped his shirt. Female and helpless—and conniving. “He’s a friend. He’s not the man you’re after.”

  His arms came around her, Jones already forgotten. The scent of cologne enveloped her. “You’re well? You’re fine?”

  She nodded into his shoulder. It felt horribly wrong to scare him so, and be unable to tell him what had happened. She turned her face so her cheek rested on his coat. On the coach, Jones stood on the seat, his broad shoulders outlined against lighted windows. His arms were raised, palms out. The wind caught his coat and sent it flapping.

  Behind her, Catherine rushed down the steps. Various servants spilled out of the door behind her. A cacophony of voices and boots and skirts filled the air.

  “Darling! What happened?” Catherine’s eyes were round as tea saucers beneath her nightcap and the fringe of white curls bobbing over her brow. “We received news the carriage was stolen.”

  “An abduction perhaps, for ransom.” The predetermined story tripped from her tongue as though it were the truth. Odd, given she hadn’t even practiced it. She drew back and gestured toward Jones. “This man happened to see. He followed and fought the criminal.”

  “How brave!” Catherine clasped her hands together and peered up at Jones. His arms were still raised, and his gaze rested on Grant’s pistol. A spy always remembered the important bits of a scene.

  Lilias shuddered delicately to embellish her part and bring the focus back to her. “The criminal is dead. He’s been killed.”

  “Good,” Grant said firmly, arms tightening around her. His chest was warm and strong beneath her cheek. The muscles in his chest shifted when his head turned toward Jones. When she glanced up, the look in Grant’s eyes was indecipherable. “Thank you, my good man. If you’ll leave your name and direction, I’ll see you receive a suitable reward.”

  “No need, milord. ’Appy to ’elp,” Jones said in a heavy cockney accent that made Lilias blink in surprise. He climbed down from the carriage and handed the reins to a waiting footman.

  “Please allow me to see that you reach your destination safely.” Grant’s voice rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her cheek. His arms still encircled her. Comfort and torture. He still waited for her answer to his marriage proposal, and she could not say no tonight. “We can send you in the Fairchild carriage.”

  “No, thank ’ee, milord. I’m not far from me household.” Jones tipped his head in their direction, hand on the brim of his cap. “G’nite, ma’am. Good to see yer none the worse for wear.”

  “Thank you again, sir.” Lilias straightened, moving away from Grant, though he kept one arm around her waist.

  Jones strolled off into the night, whistling aimlessly.

  “I am not certain I trust that man.” Grant did not turn away from the retreating shadow. She could see his slight frown in the light from the glowing house. He was questioning Jones’s role in the night’s events, and perhaps even the story they’d concocted. She needed to distract him.

  She moaned a little and staggered. She thought it was rather well done, and when he switched his gaze from Jones to her, she knew she had him. But the deceit whittled away a part of her heart. Was it possible to live this way, always, as a spy, and still retain some decency?

  “Come, Lilias, you must be overset.” Grant’s arm tightened around her, guiding her up the steps and into the house. “Graves, see to the carriage,” he said to the butler.

  “Yes, my lord,” Graves intoned. His concerned eyes were flicking over Lilias just as Catherine’s had done, searching for injuries.

  When did one become accustomed to lying?

  When they were back inside, Grant started barking out orders for food, wine, hot water for a bath. “You’ll want to go to your room, I’m sure,” he said to Lilias as he led her to the stairs.

  His arm was still around her. Gentle and easy to lean upon. She wondered what animal was less than a garden slug. Whatever it was, she was certainly it.

  They made their way to the upper floors, Catherine climbing the steps before them. “My poor dear,” the lady said. Her disheveled curls twitched and bounced with each step. “You must have been so frightened. It was lucky that man was so kind and brave to come to your rescue.”

  “Yes, it was fortunate,” Grant agreed.

  “I wasn’t frightened, at first,” Lilias said. She had to say something. They would want to know the details. Any normal person would provide the details.

  Keep to the truth wherever possible, Angel had said. It’s easier to lie that way.

  “I didn’t understand what was happening. The villain kept the carriage to a normal pace, most likely to avoid arousing suspicion.” They had come to the second floor now. She gently shrugged out of Grant’s supporting embrace to move along the corridor. �
�I suppose it’s why that man was able to catch up to us. We weren’t moving very quickly.”

  “Where did the criminal take you?” Grant asked as he pushed open the door to her room. A fire snapped cheerfully in the hearth. A tray held tea and brandy—presumably to restore her nerves by whichever method seemed best.

  “Near the docks.” Perhaps she should shudder in disgust. Or fear. But no, if she acted too weak Grant would surely guess. He knew of Waterloo, of the marches and conditions she’d endured. She drew a deep breath as though bracing herself—though she supposed she was actually doing so. “We came to a stop and I looked out the window. I didn’t recognize the street. It was poor. Shabby. Beyond shabby, actually. I knew something was wrong. Hello, Betsey,” she said to her maid.

  “Oh, ma’am.” Betsey’s worried eyes scanned Lilias, presumably looking for injuries. “Did those brigands hurt you?”

  She smiled at Betsey as the girl pressed nervous fingers to her mouth. It was unsettling to realize how many people cared for her—and how many she was lying to. “I’m fine, truly. I’m glad to be home. At any rate, I heard the shouts outside the carriage.” Now to blend fact with lies. “The horses spooked, taking the carriage with them. I could hear the fighting going on above, but I couldn’t do anything because I was stuck inside the carriage.”

  Turning away, she handed her reticule to the maid. It was easy to allow her fingers to tremble. They trembled again when she fumbled with the clasp of her cape. Catherine, who had been perched on the end of a chair, popped up.

  “Let me do that for you, dear.”

  “No, I have it. Thank you.” Lilias gave Catherine a grateful smile and swallowed hard. She couldn’t understand why the lady’s offer of assistance made her want to cry when she had yet to shed a tear over the assassin’s information on Jeremy. “To finish, by the time the horses were under control and I was able to leave the carriage, the criminal was already dead.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. The man who saved me found someone to dispose of the body.” Lies twisted with truth. “There really isn’t more to tell, I’m afraid. Once the body was removed, the man brought me home.”

  “You were gone for a long time.” Grant watched her steadily, gray eyes probing.

  “It must have taken longer than I’d thought for the entire episode to be over.”

  “Well, it’s over now.” Catherine rubbed a hand on Lilias’s shoulder. “Have a cup of hot tea to settle your nerves. The maid will help you get ready for bed.” Catherine took Lilias’s hand and led her to a chair. “You’re cold, I’m sure, so we’ll have the fire built up, perhaps even a hot bath—”

  “In a moment, Aunt,” Grant interjected. “Can you allow us some time alone?”

  “In her bedroom? Certainly not. It’s improper enough as it is that you’re here at all, Grant.” Catherine pressed her lips into a single disapproving line.

  “I promise not to ravish her, Aunt.” Grant’s mouth twitched. But he crossed his arms, a sign that he would not budge in his position. “I only want a word. It will take less than five minutes.”

  “It’s quite all right, Catherine.” Lilias kept her words even and measured, but it was difficult not to give way to the wild thump of her heart. Perhaps he guessed that she lied. Perhaps he saw through all of the partial truths. She didn’t know what to tell him if he suspected she was lying. She couldn’t tell him the truth.

  “I suppose these are extenuating circumstances.” Catherine’s eyes flicked between the two of them. “Very well. Five minutes. Betsey, do come along.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The maid quit the room amidst a rustle of skirts.

  When the door shut behind Catherine, the room echoed with silence and the crackle of flames.

  “What is it, Grant?” Lilias asked, breaking the silence.

  “I must ask, and there is no delicate way to do so.”

  “Then don’t be delicate, Grant. As we both know, I haven’t a delicate bone in my body. Ask me your question.”

  Grant walked toward her, his broad shoulders looking strong and masculine in the lawn shirt. He stopped in front of her and his gray eyes searched her face. She was breathless for a moment under that intense scrutiny. What would she be required to lie about now?

  His arm came up, fingers reaching for her but not touching. “You weren’t . . . hurt, were you?”

  Ah. That was it. “No.” She didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. “I was not hurt. Only frightened.”

  She saw his muscles relax. His arms lost their rigidity. Breath whistled out. He cared so much for her. It made her heart ache, because she couldn’t love him in return. Worse, she was lying to him.

  “Grant.” She sighed. She should love this man. She should. But she could not. “Thank you for your—”

  The door to the room whipped open. “Your time is up,” Catherine said from the hall. “I sent Graves to check on John Coachman. Lilias, Betsey is bringing up food. Something hot and strengthening.”

  “Thank you, Aunt.” Grant let his hand fall, but his eyes stayed on hers. “Sleep well, Lilias. I am glad that you are safe.”

  He strode toward the door and hustled Catherine into the hall before him. With one final look in her direction, he pulled the door shut and left her alone.

  Her breath whooshed out. She had been holding it and had not noticed before. She had been too busy deceiving the people she loved most.

  Angel lived this life every day, she thought. He lied to his mother, his sisters-in-law. No one revealed all their secrets, of course. But Angel lived two separate lives.

  Which one was the lie?

  Chapter 31

  “I DON’T THINK ATTENDING tea with the dowager marchioness is a good idea.” Lilias tapped the prettily written invitation against the palm of one hand. She had been brooding over the invitation for days, and now the afternoon of the tea had arrived.

  “Nonsense. She inquired about your health after the incident, and has invited you to tea. It would be unpardonably rude not to attend. And Angelstone himself may appear.” Catherine’s eyes twinkled as she pulled a gown out of Lilias’s wardrobe. “You must wear the blue muslin, dear. It suits you.”

  Lilias sighed and accepted the muslin. Catherine was correct. It would be rude. But that did not make her feel any less awkward about the visit. Having tea with her lover’s mother was beyond the bounds of propriety. But she dared not argue.

  And so Lilias found herself greeted by the Angelstone butler, her pelisse was spirited away and she was sitting in the drawing room with a delicate teacup pressed into her hands and three Whitmore women eyeing her over the rims of their own teacups.

  She smiled politely at them and calculated how long she would have to stay.

  “I was so glad you could join us at the opera, but I was shocked to hear about the abduction.” The dowager marchioness’s thin features sharpened as she pressed her lips together. “Shocked! I couldn’t believe something like this could happen right in Drury Lane.”

  “Was it terribly frightening?” Mrs. Whitmore asked, gentle eyes bright with concern. “I’m sure I would have been a bundle of nerves and hysteria.”

  “I don’t think Mrs. Fairchild is afraid of very many things.” Elise, Lady Angelstone, laughed. “You strike me as quite full of fortitude.”

  “I’m as fortitudinous as the next woman.” Lilias quirked her lips. “I promise you, when one’s life is in danger, it is amazing how much courage one can dredge up.”

  The door to the drawing room burst open on a shout. “Mama! I’ve learned my sums! It was ever so hard until Uncle Angel helped me.” A little girl tumbled in, all knobbly elbows and flying braids. Dirt edged the hem of her pretty dress and a streak was smeared across her flushed cheek.

  “Maggie,” he mother said sharply. “We have a guest. You will kindly make your curtsy and
then go wash.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The girl’s face sobered into a polite little mask. But her eyes danced with mirth and mischief. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. . . .” Her voice trailed off. “What is your name?”

  “Maggie!” Her mother hissed as she started to push up from her chair.

  “I’m Mrs. Fairchild,” Lilias interrupted, amused. “And you must be Margaret Whitmore. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. Your uncle has told me about you.”

  “Oh.” A vertical line formed between her brows. “Are you trying to warm his bed, too? Grandmamma says—”

  “Oh, dear God.” Mrs. Whitmore rushed toward the door, scooping up her young daughter along the way. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fairchild. Forgive us.” She started to push the girl out the door, embarrassed color flushing her cheeks.

  Lilias slid her gaze toward the dowager, who didn’t appear the least bit repentant. The older woman continued to sip her tea, a brow raised as she waited for Lilias to react.

  She could only laugh. Despite the fact that the dowager was sitting beside her and Lilias had, indeed, warmed Angel’s bed, she could only laugh at the awkward tableau and the truth of a child’s tongue.

  “Mrs. Whitmore, do not think a moment about it. Your daughter is truly delightful. Maggie,” Lilias said, setting her cup down on the table. “Tell me all about how your Uncle Angel taught you your sums.”

  The girl scooted around her mother and half ran to the settee. She leaned against the arm and grinned. The streak of dirt beside her mouth curved up.

  “Uncle Angel took me to the park. He brought my soldiers with us—he knows all about formations, he used to be a soldier—and lined them up.” She walked her fingers across the cushion. “Like so.”

  “Yes, I can see how that would be helpful.” Lilias nodded, as though she, too, could see the soldiers. “What did he do then?”

  “He showed me that if you have soldiers in the right flank, and you move them over to the left flank, you have added them together. Two soldiers plus two soldiers makes four soldiers. Do you see?” She lifted shining eyes. “It was ever so hard, as I said. But Uncle Angel knows everything.”