August 1813
HE COULDN’T SPEAK, couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
In front of him, the spymaster’s lips moved, but the sound issuing from them was tinny and thin. He struggled to focus on the words.
The man couldn’t have said retire. Impossible. Spies did not die as old men in soft beds. Death took them in the field. A knife to the throat. A bullet. Even poison was preferable to this.
“With respect, sir, I cannot retire.”
Julian Travers, Earl of Langford, uncurled clenched fists. Blood roared in his ears. He was being asked to retire. As though the request did not decimate the life he had carefully rebuilt. As though ten years of atonement meant nothing.
“There are no other options.” Sir Charles Flint’s voice was brisk. If the spymaster was disappointed to be losing an agent, he didn’t show it by a flicker of an eyelash. “The French know you are the Shadow.”
Julian’s hands jerked reflexively. “Sir—”
“The traitor gave your identity to the French. You and two other agents have been compromised.” The lines around Sir Charles’s mouth deepened. He pushed aside a stack of documents and leaned over his worn oak desktop. “If we send you to the Continent and the French capture you, they’ll use every method of torture in their arsenal to extract information from you. You must retire.”
The words punched into Julian’s belly. He pushed to his feet to pace the cramped government office. “Austria has officially declared war on France. I could travel to—”
“No. You’re the best agent I have, but I can’t send you on a mission abroad.” Finality rang in Sir Charles’s tone. “It’s time for the Wandering Earl to return home.”
Julian ignored the moniker. He much preferred the Shadow, his alias among the other spies, to the ton’s pet name for him. Still, the Wandering Earl’s bored and spoiled persona served as a useful cover for his frequent trips to the Continent.
“The other compromised agents are also being forced into retirement,” Sir Charles continued. “The threat to our network of spies in France and on the Continent is simply too great to allow any of you to continue.”
“I still have a job to do, sir.” Julian stopped pacing to stand in front of the room’s only window. He gripped the smooth wooden windowsill and stared down at the cobblestones of Crown Street.
“Langford, you’re an unofficial agent. Assignment to an official position is not possible. Unless you want to work within this building, behind a desk—”
“That would be worse than rusticating in the country or haunting the drawing rooms of the ton, which are my other choices.” Julian suppressed a disgusted snort. His gaze fell to his knuckles, the flesh white where his fingers gripped the windowsill.
“The Shadow served king and country for ten years.” Cloth rustled against leather. The chair beneath Sir Charles creaked. “During those ten years, the Earl of Langford turned his back on his title and his heritage.”
“I never wanted the title,” Julian said flatly. Beyond the window, gray fog drifted around carriages and buildings. Diplomats and clerks and secretaries scurried to and from their offices. They went about their business, blithely unaware that only a few feet away, the earth was shifting beneath Julian.
“Nevertheless, you are an earl. You belong in the London drawing rooms. Your duty is to marry and create heirs. It’s the way of things.”
Julian’s gut turned to ice. The world did not need another Travers. Therefore, Julian needed no heir. The logic was inescapable. He couldn’t change the past, but he could ensure the Travers legacy did not continue.
He forced his fingers to release the windowsill. The war continued. Napoleon was a threat. He could prove to Sir Charles he was still useful and return to active duty. All he needed was the right leverage. The right mission. He thanked whatever fate had sent him to the filthy pubs lining the docks of France on his return home.
“I have information that may lead us to the traitor, sir.” Julian faced his commander. He knew how to give a report. Straight shoulders. Steady gaze. No emotion. Only the facts mattered. “I may have found one of his contacts.”
Sir Charles let out a resigned sigh. “How did you receive this information, Langford?” Impatient fingers tapped the scarred surface of the desk.
“From another British agent. Our paths crossed in Cherbourg.” He stared steadily down at the spymaster. The desk seemed like an ocean of oak between them.
“Sit down, Langford.” Sir Charles rubbed the back of his neck and sent Julian a baleful look. “My neck is beginning to ache from looking up at you.”
“Yes, sir.” Julian settled himself into the armchair facing the desk and resisted the urge to stretch out his long legs.
“Now give me your report.”
“The agent overheard a conversation in a tavern while waiting for his vessel to sail. Two men were arguing about secret documents and whether they should be delivered to Cherbourg.”
Sir Charles’s brows rose. “What type of documents?”
“I don’t have specific information. The agent was unable to pursue the men without compromising his own mission. However, he did overhear that the documents contained military information and the two men would talk to a Miss Gracie about the documents.”
“Miss Gracie? Is that an alias?”
“With a few inquiries, the agent discovered Miss Gracie is Miss Grace Hannah. She lives in Devon with her uncle, Lord Thaddeus Cannon. They live near Beer.” Julian paused. “She is definitely not an innocent. Miss Hannah has strong ties to Jack Blackbourn.”
“Blackbourn? I thought he had retired from smuggling.”
“He has, sir. For now, at any rate. He’s running a public house.”
“I can’t believe Blackbourn would abandon smuggling to be a publican.” Sir Charles frowned, brows drawing together over cool brown eyes.
“I was surprised myself.”
“Still, it would be easy enough to transfer military information to France through the smuggling channels,” Sir Charles mused, absently reaching for his quill and tapping it against the desktop.
“If the documents were smuggled out of Devon by Grace Hannah, then someone in the War Office or Foreign Office gave her that information. There must be a channel of communication between them.” Julian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I believe we can flush out the traitor in London by pressuring the smugglers in Devon.”
“A reasonable strategy.” Sir Charles pursed his lips as he considered the feathers of the quill. Then, with a frustrated grunt, he tossed the quill down. “My best agents are all on the Continent. With so many agents compromised to the French, I don’t have anyone I can send.” He broke off, eyes narrowed as they focused on Julian. “Which you are perfectly aware of.”
“Sir.” He didn’t shy away from the commander’s gaze. Lying would be useless.
“Your family seat is in Devon.”
“Yes.” Childhood memories crowded Julian’s mind. He gritted his teeth and willed the images away.
“Damn if I don’t have a final assignment for you, Langford.” Sir Charles steepled his fingers and regarded Julian over their tips. “I can’t send you to France, but I can send you to Devon.”
“Sir.” His muscles tightened. Anticipation snaked through him. He had the opportunity he needed to prove himself. To avoid a slow and meaningless death by boredom. To prove he wasn’t like his father. The mission hung before him, plump and ripe and as easy to pluck as any red apple.
Coiled muscles twitched at the perfunctory knock on the office door. Julian’s head jerked toward the sound. He stared at the young man peering around the doorframe. Fashionably tousled brown curls topped a handsome face dominated by long-lashed brown eyes. The face, however, held a decidedly apprehensive expression.
“Sir?” Miles Butler’s voice cracked on the word. �
�A dispatch has arrived for you from the foreign secretary.”
“Thank you.” Sir Charles held out his hand without looking at Mr. Butler. When the clerk did nothing, he glanced up. “The dispatch?”
“Oh, of course.” The young man hastily crossed the room and laid the folded letter in Sir Charles’s hand.
“Excuse me, Langford. I must read this before we continue,” Sir Charles said distractedly as he broke the wax seal and perused the communication. Then he reached for his quill, dipped it in ink and began to scratch out a reply. He glanced at Julian as the quill bobbed across the page. “The circumstances in Devon require further inquiry. I expect you to conduct an expeditious investigation of Miss Hannah.” Sir Charles ended the note with a flourish and blotted the ink.
“Yes, sir.” Julian struggled to keep his voice calm. Success. He could taste it. If he found the traitor, Sir Charles would reinstate him. He knew it.
“Mr. Butler,” Sir Charles said as he folded the note and sealed it. “See that my answer is delivered to the foreign secretary. Also, I’m sending the Shadow on a mission in Devon. I need you to inform him of the channels of communication for that area before he departs.”
“I will, sir,” Mr. Butler said, beaming. “Is there anything else I can assist you with? Any correspondence I can answer, sir?”
Sir Charles waved him away. “I’ll notify you when I have another task for you.”
Miles Butler backed out of the room. His shoulders had wilted, poor sod. Julian sent him an encouraging smile. He’d been just as young and earnest once. A lifetime ago.
“I expect to be informed of your progress in Devon at regular intervals,” Sir Charles said after the door closed. “Use your discretion regarding what information should be relayed in person and what can be sent in writing. If we discover any new information in London, I will send word. In fact”—Sir Charles glanced at the door to the hall—“if anything new arises I’ll send Mr. Butler to Devon as my emissary. You’ll keep an eye on him and see he doesn’t get into trouble, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” And he would send Mr. Butler back to London as quickly as he could.
“This is your final mission, Langford.” Holding Julian’s gaze steadily, Sir Charles leaned back in his chair. “When the investigation is complete, you may consider your service to His Majesty concluded and attend to your estates.”
An angry protest rose in his throat, but he swallowed it. He’d bought a reprieve. “Understood, sir.” He pushed himself out of the armchair to stand in front of Sir Charles’s desk, waiting for dismissal.
Within minutes, Julian was flicking the reins to spur the matched bays harnessed to his high-perch phaeton. Instinct navigated him through the busy streets of London, but his mind was on treason.
Innocent soldiers fighting for England had died because of this traitor. The country was at risk, and the bastard had betrayed Julian. Fury lanced through him, hot and sharp. Retirement was simply not tolerable. Retribution, he thought. Redemption. He would pursue Miss Hannah, find the traitor and turn him over to Sir Charles. Or kill the bastard.
Sir Charles would reinstate him if he found the traitor. He had to.
There was no alternative to spying.
Chapter 2
“MOST UNFORTUNATE, MY lord.” The valet’s nasal tones cut through summer birdsong. He poked his head out of the open carriage door as the vehicle rolled to a stop in front of the Traverses’ ancestral home.
“What is unfortunate, Roberts?” Julian shifted in the saddle as he reined in his mount. Beneath him, the horse’s hooves danced over gravel, then stilled. Dust puffed up to hang in the humid air. “The heat or the dust?”
“Neither, my lord.” Roberts squinted up at Julian’s mount. “If I may say, the dust would not be such a difficulty if you traveled inside the carriage instead of on that ill-tempered beast.”
“I’d rather be covered in dust than baking in that stifling carriage.” Julian studied his valet and fought back a grin. The man’s heat-flushed face resembled a bright red posy on the skinny stalk of his neck. Roberts stubbornly insisted on traveling inside the carriage, but that same stubbornness made him the perfect loyal assistant for a spy. “Besides, this ill-tempered beast carried me through enemy lines and back again. Come to think of it, Roberts, this beast saved your hide a time or two.”
“True enough, my lord.” Roberts sniffed and stepped gingerly onto the carriage step.
“In fact, I recall an escape from a jealous husband in Italy.”
“My lord, I—she—” Roberts sputtered. “She had information necessary to the mission—”
“Oh, cheese it.” Julian laughed. “You’re an easy mark.”
“Well.” Roberts’s lips twitched into a smile before he could hide it. He brushed a speck of nonexistent dust from his sleeve. “To return to our initial subject of unfortunate happenings, I was referring to our location. It’s quite unfortunate your mission brought us to the wilds of Devon.”
“Devon isn’t wild, Roberts. A Parisian salon is considerably wilder these days.” Julian dismounted to stand beside the valet. A groom jumped down from the carriage to take the reins.
“Perhaps,” Roberts conceded. “Still, Devon isn’t London or Brussels or Lisbon.”
“Indeed not, but my informant tells me the traitor isn’t in London or Brussels or Lisbon. The traitor is in Devon.” He narrowed his eyes at the Jacobean architecture of his ancestral estate. He had intended to go the whole of his life without ever seeing it again. “She has much to answer for,” he added softly.
“Quite.” Roberts straightened his waistcoat, sent his thin nose into the air and turned to the carriage. “I shall see to the trunks, my lord.”
“Good. I was beginning to wonder if the coachman would be required to hold the horses here indefinitely.” He set his hand on Roberts’s shoulder to take the sting from the words.
While Roberts grunted and muttered behind him, Julian stepped back to study the façade of the home he hadn’t seen in twenty-three years.
Thistledown spread its wings across acres of green lawns and gardens brimming with bright summer blooms. Towers speared toward the vivid blue sky, long fingers reaching for the clouds. Mullioned windows caught the August sunlight and reflected it in a thousand tiny rays.
He hated the very sight of it.
It was unfortunate that Thistledown was only a few miles away from Grace Hannah. The traitor had sent him to the one place he’d vowed never to return to.
Wheels crunched over gravel as the carriage trundled toward the stables. Julian glanced at the wide front steps of Thistledown and sucked in a breath as memory flashed, as clear and focused as though it had happened yesterday. His father dragging him by the collar down those steps, kicking and screaming. Being tossed into the carriage and held down.
It was the last day either one of them had been there.
The day of his mother’s funeral.
Anger stabbed through him. He did not have the choice to turn away. He could not climb onto his horse and ignore the memories.
He forced himself to take the front steps two at a time. Pushing open the heavy paneled front door, he stepped into the dark, cool interior and breathed deep. It smelled of home. Grief rose in him, bittersweet and raw. The clean scents of linseed oil and beeswax mingled with aged wood and dust. But the sweet scent of fresh flowers he remembered from his childhood was missing.
Julian let the door fall closed. Brooding silence surrounded him. He wasn’t surprised at the lack of life. There were no residents at Thistledown aside from the butler and housekeeper, Mr. and Mrs. Starkweather. The other servants came only to do the necessary tasks to keep the house from falling into neglect and left again.
He poked his head into nearby rooms in search of the caretakers. Silence rang in the empty chambers. Fireplaces were bare and curtains were drawn. Furniture an
d paintings were draped in wraithlike dust covers, as though life had stopped and only ghosts remained.
As he turned away from the great hall, he heard laughter echoing. Finally, Julian thought. Signs of life. He followed the sound through the halls toward the upper kitchens. The air here carried the delicious scent of roasting meat. Savory herbs mingled with it and set his mouth watering.
Cautiously, Julian pushed open the door to the kitchen and paused on the threshold to scan the room. Mr. Starkweather, older and plumper around the midsection than Julian remembered, sat in his shirtsleeves at the kitchen table, a cup of tea and an empty plate before him. His feet were propped on an adjacent chair and he was gazing fixedly at the roasting oven.
Rather, he was gazing at what was in front of the roasting oven.
Two derrieres bobbed side by side. One was wide with ample hips that shook as its owner made a movement inside the oven. The second, however, had slimmer hips with a bottom that was lush and rounded, and clad in a light wool riding habit that pulled tantalizingly against the curves it covered. A pair of serviceable leather ankle boots extended from the long skirts.
Yes, a fascinating view, thought Julian, eyeing the shapely bottom. And not bad as far as homecomings went.
“I think it could use a touch more rosemary. What do you think?”
Julian assumed the voice belonged to Mrs. Starkweather, the caretaker’s wife.
“I agree. Perhaps basil might be added as well?” The second voice was younger, smoother, with the clear, modulated tones of an aristocrat. He could just make out a shining coronet of white-blond hair floating above the lady’s shoulders.
“You know, basil might be just the trick,” the older woman agreed. “Mr. Starkweather? Your preference?”
“I think your roast is superb, dear. But you should add whatever you think best.”
“A diplomatic answer.” The young woman’s laugh bounced through the kitchen like a beam of silvered light on the air. “Clearly, you are the wisest of husbands, Mr. Starkweather.”
Julian glimpsed a full, smiling mouth and delicate features as the young woman swung to face the butler. Her smile died when her gaze lit on Julian. To his regret, the pretty features blanked.
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