A Code of Love (The Code Breakers 1)

by Jacki Delecki

  Her brother searched her face, his green eyes wide.

  “I’m sure Uncle Charles is fine and reading some obscure tome on ancient Egyptians.” She tried to sound confident.

  “He is probably looking for something on embalming. He loves mummies.”

  “You’re probably right. You and Gus head that way. I’ll go this way,” she said.

  The pair turned back toward Kendal house. She waited for them to disappear before she renewed her frantic pace.

  In Uncle Charles’ present condition, he might not fare well with his friends. The club was made up of a motley group of eccentrics who might not notice the dramatic change in her uncle. Unlike other men’s clubs, The Odd Set of Volumes required neither a title nor aristocratic connections. The requirements were a curious mind and a passion for all books. Her uncle retained both, and hopefully, would still fit in.

  She burst into the old brick building, home to the collection of odd books and the odd set of men who read them. A familiar musty scent assaulted her nose. Oblivious to the stares, she scanned the large room teeming with men and their books. No sign of her uncle. Flutters somersaulted in her stomach.

  The clerk began to move from behind his desk.

  She dodged the older man and skirted down the opposite aisle of tables. She nodded to the shocked gentlemen who looked up from their tomes to find a woman racing through their club. She headed to the rear of the library, where the oldest books were shelved.

  Turning a corner made up of tall shelves, she heard her uncle’s rambling speech. Relief surged through her whole being down to her toes. Her white-haired uncle, his waist coat teeming with his collection, chatted amiably.

  “Uncle Charles.” The high pitch and intensity of her voice reverberated in the narrow shelves of books.

  Her uncle greeted her as if they had just parted company. “Henrietta, I’m glad you’ve come. I’ve been having the most interesting conversation with this gentleman. He shares an interest in Egypt, especially hieroglyphics. I was beginning to tell him how I’ve applied the principals in my work.”

  “Uncle, I’m sure the gentleman must return to his own work.”

  An impeccably dressed gentleman in all grey, with a complicated cravat turned toward her. “Mademoiselle, I’m interested in everything from ancient Egypt, especially hieroglyphics.”

  Henrietta failed to recognize the gentleman who leaned on an ivory walking stick. His nonchalance belied the tension in the set of his shoulders and jaw. The perfect lines and planes of his face clashed with his round, sensual lips. His thick blond hair was combed back, as if the wind had blown it into disarray. The locks curled around his ears and one curl fell on his forehead.

  “Comte Lucien De Valmont, at your service.” He bowed.

  Henrietta curtsied. Their eyes locked when each straightened. His piercing gaze didn’t match his formal manner.

  “Your uncle was just beginning to explain the modern applications of hieroglyphics,” he said.

  She felt breathless, as if the room had lost all its air. Had Uncle Charles revealed anything critical about his code breaking?

  She forced herself to keep smiling. “Yes, my uncle is knowledgeable about many facets of Egyptian life. Did you also discuss your fascination with mummies, Uncle Charles?” Shifting to her uncle’s other obsession usually did the trick.

  “I’ve little knowledge of mummies. My interest has always been in hieroglyphics.” The comte turned toward her uncle, his face and smile immobile. “Lord Harcourt, as a linguist, your interest must be in ancient Egypt’s language?”

  The hairs on the back of her neck lifted with the comte’s interest in her uncle. As a renowned linguist, her uncle was often sought after to share ideas. But there was something disquieting about Lord De Valmont’s curiosity.

  “Language can never be isolated in the study of a culture. My uncle is fascinated with all aspects of Egypt, including the architecture. Don’t you find the pyramids fascinating, my lord?”

  “I’m biased by my own heritage. I find the architecture of France magnificent. Is there any more grand than the Louis XVI style?” he asked

  “I’ve never had the opportunity to travel to France,” she said.

  He leaned on his stick, closing the distance between them. “But I understood your mother was French?”

  Her stomach flittered in anxiety at this stranger’s knowledge of her family. “Do you know my French Ormond family?”

  “I’ve never had the good fortune to meet your family, but I’d love to discuss your French heritage with you, mademoiselle.” The way he lilted mademoiselle in his French accent made his interest in her too intimate.

  Did the comte simply miss his homeland as many of the émigrés did and want to talk about her French connection or was there something more sinister in his curiosity?

  “Perhaps another day?” Another day without Uncle Charles taking part in the conversation. “My uncle and I’ve one stop to make before we return home.”

  “May I have the pleasure of calling on you and your uncle in the near future?”

  Her uncle put his arm on the stranger’s shoulder. “Come to Kendal house. I’d love to discuss mummies. You said you’re fascinated with mummies?”

  “Uncle, we need to leave.”

  “Please let me escort you to the door.” Comte De Valmont’s tone was gracious while he directed her out of the stacks of books. She needed to get her uncle safely back to Kendal House, away from the inquisitive Frenchman.

  * * *

  Cord sat with Ash at his massive oak desk in the inner sanctum of the espionage offices in Abchurch Lane, the den of secret-making and code-breaking. He was much better suited to being in the action than plotting the activities of others from a desk. Nothing was as he had expected since he returned to England.

  Slouched low in a leather chair, Ash held a brandy snifter and a cigar between his fingers. “What in the hell were you thinking, bringing Isabelle to Lady Wentworth’s Ball last night?”

  Cord didn’t miss the bewildered tone in Ash’s voice. “Damn it. I didn’t bring her.”

  Last night he had been stuck with Isabelle Villiers, playing a role that had been set in place in France. He tried not to vent his frustration on his friend. “Isabelle came with De Valmont. She and that snake are playing some kind of game, flaunting her position as my mistress in front of the ton.”

  His plans to pursue Lady Henrietta and to establish his respectability as the new earl had gone sideways last night. He had hoped four years on the Continent would’ve been enough time for his reprobate reputation to be forgotten.

  “While you were busy entertaining Isabelle, De Valmont was busy entertaining the very attractive Lady Henrietta,” Ash said.

  He wanted to walk into the center of the crowd of gentleman surrounding her, snatch her from the French fop and the doting dandies and claim her as his own. “I hoped to make amends last night, but instead I was trapped with Isabelle.” He was unable to remain seated at his cluttered desk. He moved toward the window. The London fog didn’t add much light to the room.

  “Does Isabelle still work for Talleyrand as well as us?” Ash asked.

  In his new role as head of the office, Cord was trying to understand all the plots and subplots he had inherited from Sir Ramston.

  Cord walked from the window toward Ash. “Isabelle would like me to believe that she has renounced her allegiance to the French foreign minister but Talleyrand saved her from the guillotine. She was doomed to the same fate as her husband, the Marquis de Lombard. In the last moment, Talleyrand rescued her from the blade. Knowing Talleyrand’s manipulations, he most likely made a deal with Isabelle. I doubt he has rescinded the agreement.”

  “Does De Valmont work for Talleyrand too?”

  Cord was slowly learning the machinations of his predecessor and kept nothing from his closest friend. “I thought De Valmont worked for Talleyrand. But this new relationship between Isabelle and De Valmont makes you wonder if T
alleyrand is suspicious of De Valmont and assigned Isabelle to learn his secrets. There is always an objective in Isabelle’s liaisons.”

  “Our newest information might be related to Isabelle and De Valmont’s affair. The rumor is Napoleon plans to distance himself from Fouché,” Ash said.

  Cord sat on the corner of his desk. “It makes sense that Napoleon would like to sever his connection with the bloody past. As minister of the police, the powerful and brutal Fouché won’t go down without a fight. He’ll try to take his arch enemy, Talleyrand, with him. It’s possible Fouché has turned to De Valmont.”

  “I can’t keep up with the twists and turns in the French political scene.” Ash shook his head. “I liked it better when we did actual espionage, not analysis.”

  “It was easier when we were actually at war with France and not bound by a signed treaty. This business of trying to predict what Napoleon will do and what role Talleyrand and Fouché will play is riskier than daily death threats in France,” Cord said.

  “But you’ve a far more interesting and enticing challenge in London than our French exploits.” Ash waggled his eyebrows.

  Cord couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Henrietta as a challenge, a challenge he planned to win. And what pleasure they would have in her surrender.

  “It could be worse. Your Aunt Euphemia and sister could’ve been at the Wentworth ball. I don’t think Aunt Euphemia would believe you were working for His Majesty.” Ash laughed.

  “Aunt Euphemia arrived yesterday, and, trust me, the old bloodhound will know every detail by teatime. I’d certainly like to dine out tonight and avoid her. I promised the old girl that I’d play the role of the respectable brother and escort Gwyneth this season. When she hears about the Wentworth ball, there will be hell to pay.” He’d have to make amends to Aunt Euphemia, but he wasn’t sure what approach he should take.

  Cord sat in the chair behind his desk. “Join us for dinner. Aunt Euphemia will have to temper her comments in your presence. And Gwyneth will be thrilled to see you.”

  “Truly, you can’t believe that I can actually calm your Aunt Euphemia? I can already hear the piercing voice: “Lord Ashworth, why is it that you’re always in the vicinity when Cordelier is taking the path of a reprobate?” Ash did a perfect imitation of his aunt’s imperious tone.

  Cord laughed with his friend, enjoying the shared memories of their roguish past. On his return to England, he had resolved never again to be a disappointment to the grand lady. His thoughts turned to another woman he planned never to disappoint again. He’d a lot to explain to Henrietta after the Wentworth Ball, but how could he deny a relationship with Isabelle without explaining his secret work

  “It’s only the expectation of seeing Gwyneth after four years that keeps me from making every excuse.” Ash leaned forward in his chair. “Your aunt will forgive you as she always does, but Lady Henrietta will not be as easy.”

  Every muscle in Cord’s body tightened in aggravation. He would be repentant. Hell, he would beg if it would work. He was trapped in a twisted coil. He couldn’t disclose his relationship with Isabelle without disclosing his position concerning her uncle and brother.

  “Have you heard a word I’ve been saying?” Ash waved his cigar in the air. “Speaking of the Harcourts, have you heard anything from France? Sending a scholar instead of one of us was a mistake. I know the situation called for a linguist, but what experience does Kendal have in judging dangerous situations?”

  “Sir Ramston did the best he could with the choices he had. Brinsley was sent to protect Kendal and I expect to hear from Brinsley any day,” Cord said.

  “Brinsley is watching Kendal?’ Ash waved his cigar in the air, his voice laced with disbelief. “It’s hard to imagine that Sir Ramston trusted Brinsley after the scandal with his brother’s fiancée.”

  “Sir Ramston seems to have chosen quite a few of us to make amends in our lives by serving His Majesty on the Continent.” Sir Ramston had saved Cord from a self-destructive path after the accidental death of his older brother. The former head had created a network of talented young men in France who, for various reasons, needed to take a break from their lives in England.

  “Last night you didn’t look like you were making amends. You looked like you’d picked up right where you’d left off.”

  In his isolation as a spy, he believed his fantasies of the indomitable Henrietta Harcourt had been magnified. Last night reconfirmed every yearning. There was one brief moment when his eyes had locked with Henrietta. He felt the same forceful connection, until Henrietta saw Isabelle pressing her breast against his arm and whispering into his ear. Henrietta turned away and never made eye contact for the rest of the evening.

  He risked his life every day in France yet last night he felt trepidation at attempting to please one virtuous woman.

  Chapter Five

  “They call themselves gentleman, pshaw.” Henrietta plunked her boot into a muddy hole on the sidewalk outside the Abchurch offices. Cold water seeped through to her toes. “Arrogant, self-righteous….” The unpleasant feel of wet stockings only served to fuel her anger at the clerk and all the men in the Abchurch office, the bastion of male superiority.

  Her body shook from the insult and her soaked clothes. The clerk, who had refused her admittance to speak with Sir Ramston, had implied she was a spinster worried for naught about her brother. She bowed her head into the driving rain, glaring down at her sodden black boots. Her dark mood festered like the foul weather plaguing London this last week of April.

  The impact was sudden. She stumbled backward, her arms swung in an outward arc. The slippery mud grabbed at her boots.

  The man thrust his hands into the mud, trying to stop the impact of his large body driving her farther down on the wet ground.

  The shock of the fall left her immobile and speechless. She was flat on her back in the middle of a main London thoroughfare with Lord Rathbourne’s hard body pressing against her. The huge man loomed over her, grinning with all the nerve of a blatant libertine. Looking up into his chiseled face, she noticed the small lines surrounding his bright eyes, laughing back at her.

  He had no discomfiture in his posture and took longer than necessary to right himself. He stood above her, so large, so confident and so male. “Lady Henrietta, are you injured? Allow me to help you up.”

  She heard amusement in his tone. Her whole body quivered with outrage, as did her voice. “I’m perfectly capable of getting up myself.”

  She refused the large hand beckoning to her. She tried to stand, but she was unable to gain any traction in the mud. She pushed against her wet heavy skirt, teetered a few inches from the ground and flopped. Attempting to regain some poise while lying flat on her back, she straightened her crumpled, dirty skirt, pushing it back down to cover her ankles.

  Lord Rathbourne bent, grabbed her by the waist and heaved her upward.

  Her body was thrust against his solid thighs and his expansive chest. Like a flash of lightning, his body heat burned into her, penetrating her soaked clothes. She felt hot, breathless, and furious. She pushed against his chest with her muddied gloves, leaving brown streaks down his impeccably cut, black waistcoat.

  “Of all the rude, thoughtless behaviors. What were you thinking, plowing down the street like a bull on a rampage?”

  The man had the nerve to laugh. His voice was low, gravelly. He started with a small chuckle but moved into a deep belly laugh. His giant body shook, sending waves of sensation against her.

  She pursed her lips, trying hard not to smile. The absurdity of the situation overcame her. She laughed aloud. She brought her muddied glove to her lips to cover her mouth. The smell of horse manure wafted to her nose.

  “Let me help you.” He smiled at her in a way that felt new and heady. He had mud smeared on his cheek. He slipped his dirty glove off and brushed the dirt away from her mouth, his thumb lingered on her lower lip.

  Her heart galloped against her chest.

&nb
sp; He bent to remove her reticule from the mud. “It appears that your reticule is ruined.”

  Her new dress, trimmed with damask roses, worn for her meeting with Sir Ramston, was covered with mud and other unmentionable brown substances.

  “It’s not just my reticule that is ruined.”

  His eyebrows lifted slightly as if to ask a question, implying that she was ruined.

  The idea that a woman’s reputation could be soiled as easily as a dress was an antiquated, ridiculous concept for all free-thinking women. A man who had brought his mistress to a ball had the nerve to raise his eyebrow.

  “I bid you good day.”

  “Allow me to escort you home.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want any further misfortunes to befall you. Besides I was on my way to Kendal House.”

  He had been considerate after her dunking in the Serpentine, visiting her with flowers. But what reason would he have to visit Kendal House today?

  Taking a firm hold of her elbow, he guided her down the street toward his carriage. “I’m sure we can forsake proprieties under the circumstances. You’re completely soaked through.” The timbre in his voice darkened with his close inspection of her wet dress and pelisse that clung uncomfortably to her body.

  Recognition of his deepening voice and the male appreciation in his eyes raised her body temperature, despite the iciness of her wet clothes.

  She continued walking, the water sloshing in her boots. Her wet hair hung down her neck. She didn’t want to think about what was sticking to her hair or her clothes. “You were on your way to Kendal House?”

  “I was planning to call on you. I hoped I might take you to Hyde Park, if this rain ever lets up.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Her response was rude after his timely rescue of her and Edward. But her uncontrolled attraction to a man who was arm-in arm with his mistress at the Wentworth Ball made her surly.

  “I had hoped….” He appeared to be at a loss for words. “I hoped to explain my behavior at the Wentworth ball.”