A Code of Love (The Code Breakers 1)

by Jacki Delecki

  “Why should your behavior concern me?” Lifting her chin with the best hauteur she could muster, she turned to walk the opposite way.

  He grabbed hold of her elbow and turned her toward his carriage. “Regardless of your lack of interest in my explanations, I’ll escort you home today. I’ll not be responsible for you catching a deathly ague.”

  She tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold. The wind picked up, sending a cold chill through her body. She began to shiver.

  “Don’t fight me on this, Henrietta.”

  “I didn’t give you permission to call me Henrietta. And I never get ill. I need to get out of these wet clothes.’

  “How is it that each time we’re together you need to remove your clothes?”

  Her gasp made him laugh.

  She turned her head to find his face close to hers. A frisson of awareness passed down her body that wasn’t due to the cold. She wanted to press herself against the warmth radiating from his body.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow when you’re not soaking wet. You’re shivering.” His grip lightened as he pulled her closer to his body, guiding her into the awaiting carriage.

  Heat blasted from his body like an open fire, warming one side of her. She wanted to turn and melt into the blaze. She must have hit her head on the pavement, wanting to be held by a man who hadn’t changed at all since her first encounter with him.

  “I also hoped to speak with your Uncle Charles. I share his interest in hieroglyphics.”

  Her sensual haze evaporated, suspicions flaring in an instant. She couldn’t imagine him as an Egyptologist. How could she shield Uncle Charles from someone so intimidating?

  She never believed the rumor that he worked for the Abchurch office as a spy, not unless he had done it as a gambling wager or on a lark. There were many stories about his high life on the Continent—gambling, duels, and women—many stories about him and women.

  She lifted her eyes to catch a side glimpse of the man sitting next to her. The gloom of the day shadowed his face, giving his angles sharper edges, making him appear formidable.

  She wasn’t a young girl out of the schoolroom like when first she’d met him. With the death of her mother and the responsibilities she shouldered for her family, she possessed all the confidence to handle this powerful male.

  “I don’t recall you having any intellectual interests. Unless, of course, gambling qualifies as an intellectual challenge, since you must ponder numbers.”

  He twisted to look at her face. His blue eyes had darkened to the color of the storm clouds above them. “I’m impressed that you’re willing to voice an opinion concerning my interests. If I recollect correctly, you were never willing to take the time to countenance an acquaintance with me to further understand where my interests might lie.”

  “I didn’t need further acquaintance to comprehend your pursuits. They were quite apparent when we met three years ago. And by your behavior at Lady Wentworth’s ball, it doesn’t seem that your horizons have expanded.”

  “You’re clearly mistaken.” His tone was dispassionate. He had an air of domineering masculinity, which might be attractive to a woman who wanted to be bullied.

  She drew herself up, ready for battle. “Mistaken! I don’t think anyone at Lady Wentworth’s ball could be mistaken as to the nature of your relationship with the lady who accompanied you.”

  She revealed more than she had intended. Why did this man elicit the most overstrung reactions from her?

  “I was only commenting on your mistake regarding the length of time since our first meeting. It hasn’t been three years but four years since I had the pleasure of dancing with you. If I remember correctly, I danced with you twice at Lady Chillington’s Ball.” His gaze locked with hers and carried a distinct challenge.

  Of course, it had been four years; it had been the year her mother became ill.

  How did he do it? How could he so quickly turn the tables on her?

  She refused to be further baited and retreated into icy silence for the remainder of the carriage ride. The ten-minute journey to Kendal House seemed like ten hours.

  She had recovered her composure by the time they approached home. She had to prevent Lord Rathbourne from visiting her uncle. “I appreciate your accompanying me home. I suggest you visit my uncle on another day. He’s been suffering from a mild illness and is quite indisposed.”

  “I’ll come to Kendal House tomorrow.”

  She found herself backing into the corner of the carriage, unwilling to enter into another verbal contest. Like her appearance, her emotions were ruffled and messy.

  The carriage stopped. She jumped forward, clearly communicating her need to remove herself from his presence.

  “Good day,” she said.

  “Let me accompany you to your door.”

  “It isn’t necessary. Brompton already has the door open.

  * * *

  Henrietta was gone without a backward glance. Cord wanted the laughing woman he had just glimpsed, the passionate woman with her green eyes flaming as she set him down for his rakish behavior.

  He couldn’t believe he had argued about the number of years since he had danced with her. Why did he feel that he needed to win when he was with her? His need wasn’t just to win. It was to possess Henrietta Harcourt.

  Four years ago, he had asked her to dance at Lady Chillington’s ball because she was the only woman he didn’t recognize as one of his Aunt Euphemia’s potential matches. The sparks had immediately flown between them.

  She wasn’t pleased, like all the other debutantes he asked to dance. She couldn’t mask her disdain. In frustration and in an attempt to assert his control, he pulled her too close, breaking all rules of propriety. She wasn’t in any way intimidated by him, actually just the opposite. She was amused.

  “Is this your only method—to bully those who won’t dance to your tune?” She had laughed then, the most incredibly joyful sound. That sound had moved into every cell of his body, invigorating and calming him all at the same time.

  “I didn’t intend a pun, but I do like it,” she’d said, continuing to smile and clearly enjoying her witticism. She had been oblivious to his mounting awareness of her body pressed against him.

  That had been the moment he’d decided she was a lady worth pursuing. Unfortunately, soon after Henrietta retired to the country to take care of her ill mother and he received his assignment in France.

  Today, when she was lying under him in the mud, he had never wanted a woman more. His uncontrolled response was more than lust. He enjoyed the battle with her, the tug and pull between them. The challenge invigorated him, bringing back a youthful enthusiasm he believed he’d never regain after his brother’s death.

  Isabelle’s appearance at the Wentworth ball had made it difficult for him to prove his serious intentions. And Henrietta wouldn’t be pleased about the position he held over her uncle and her brother, especially since she considered him a rake of the first order.

  Sir Ramston should never have sent Kendal into the lair of Le Chiffre. Kendal didn’t have the experience to handle the intrigue. He needed to bring the young pup home before anything happened to him. He was ready to admit that his nagging worry for Kendal was because of his quick-tempered sister.

  Chapter Six

  Lord Brinsley shivered and cursed as the icy rain soaked into his embroidered footman livery. This was Paris as Sir Ramston had promised, but he had no time to indulge in watching the exotic dancers or drinking in the outside cafes. Instead, he was concealed behind a tree, watching the Saint Germain residency of the Earl of Kendal. Sir Ramston had been succinct with his assignment. “Keep Kendal safe.”

  Two months ago, Brinsley had believed the life of a spy to be romantic. Now he knew better. It was tedious at best. His days were spent as the watchful footman in Le Chiffre’s home, where Kendal spent his days studying Greek. At night, he played guardian shadow to Kendal. His expectation of protecting a brilliant linguist in Paris cla
shed with the reality of the job. None of his manly skills, well-honed after years of carousing, had been challenged.

  He turned to the sound of pounding feet. A dark figure resembling Kendal raced toward Kendal’s house. No more than twenty yards behind, a second figure appeared. A tall man in a long black cape chased the first man. The caped pursuer paused when the first man reached the front entrance of the mansion. The pursuer raised his arm to take aim.

  Brinsley made a mad dash. The report echoed when the door opened. He was too late. A wounded Kendal fell forward into the arms of the butler then the door slammed shut.

  Brinsley’s heart cantered against his chest. How in the hell had Kendal left his house?

  The caped assailant calmly lowered his arm and turned away from the scene.

  Brinsley ran to catch the assailant who sauntered down the street as if on an evening stroll. His natural response was to tackle the man first and then figure out what game he was playing. Sir Ramston’s instructions flashed through his mind. Undercover and discreet. Spying was a cat-and-mouse game and he needed to act like a cat, not the bulldog that he was. Acting the part of a cat didn’t sit well. He slowed his pace to a rapid walk.

  At the first corner, the assailant paused, and then glanced back over his shoulder. He anticipated the move, ducking behind one of the thick oaks lining the street.

  The caped man entered the main boulevard and slowed his pace. The street was empty and there was no place to hide. The dark night afforded little cover since lanterns lit the way.

  He waited, watching the man move further away. His heart raced against his chest. Every muscle tightened and strained to give chase. When the assailant turned the corner, he sprinted after him. Holding his breath, he hugged the building and edged around the corner. The man had disappeared.

  He squinted hard, trying to make the man reappear on the small side street lined only with darkened houses. He swore under his breath and moved down the street. In the middle of the block, tucked between two houses, a narrow alleyway appeared. He bolted down into the smelly darkness to investigate. The slimy cobblestones were as slippery as his adversary. The alley was a dead end.

  Frantic and frustrated, he retraced his steps. He returned to the street, walking back and forth in front of the alley looking for a clue to the man’s disappearance. He was hot, hot from the effort but mainly hot from the fury that seethed under his skin as he admitted the painful truth—he had just blown his first spy mission. His gut twisted in knots with the idea that Kendal might be mortally wounded because of incompetence.

  He strode down the boulevard toward Kendal’s house, trying to figure out a way to determine Kendal’s injury without breaking his cover. Sir Ramston had directed him to keep Kendal ignorant of the intrigue that swirled around him. Sir Ramston believed that Kendal’s naïveté would keep the French from becoming suspicious, but with this evening’s events, all strategies were in the wind.

  Kendal’s house was fully illuminated and a carriage sat outside. Presumably, the doctor was in attendance and when his patient was stabilized, the doctor would depart. When the doctor got into his carriage, Brinsley would have the perfect opportunity to discover the extent of Kendal’s injury.

  Brinsley returned to his post under the tree in the park and waited for the doctor. Rain beat on his head and dripped into his collar during the half hour he waited.

  With his bag in hand, the doctor walked toward his carriage with his head down.

  Brinsley left his position and reached the doctor before he entered his carriage. “Sir, how is my good friend Kendal? I just heard the news and came as fast as I could.”

  The doctor shook his head. “Your friend is very lucky. A few more inches and…” The doctor raised his hand in Gallic fashion. “Unless he develops an infection, your friend will recover but he will be laid up for months.”

  “I’m grateful to hear my dear friend is in good hands.” If the doctor only knew the extent of his gratitude for Kendal’s survival.

  “It would be best to wait to visit until tomorrow. I’ve given him a large dose of laudanum.” The doctor climbed into his carriage. “I bid you good night.”

  “Good night, Sir.” Brinsley exhaled a slow breath of relief as the doctor drove away. But the relaxed feeling didn’t last long. Guilt and self-loathing swelled into his body over his botched job of guarding Kendal and for allowing the assassin to escape.

  How did it come to pass that Kendal was chased down in front of his house by a professional assassin in the middle of the night? Was Le Chiffre behind the shooting? There had been no obvious changes in Kendal’s routines or the household of Le Chiffre. What had he missed?

  He headed back to his rooms, where he would compose a message to Lord Rathbourne. He had no explanation for Kendal’s shooting or information about the assailant to offer his new superior. The new head of espionage was known for his reckless and dangerous escapades in the spy circles. Brinsley hoped the earl would be as tolerant of his lackey’s blunders.

  * * *

  Brinsley walked to the Tuileries at early dawn to send his message. A coded message wasn’t an exposition that allowed room for excuses or explanations. The winter light gave the morning sky a pinkish hue, but the beauty was lost on him. He felt isolated and out of his depth.

  He scanned the park before he moved to the tree assigned for his message. With a spade, he dug to expose the bottle from its hole under the tree. He paused repeatedly to look around the park to make sure no one observed him, then loosened the dirt around the rope and pulled up a green glass bottle from the hole. He inserted the folded message. Placing the bottle back into the ground he covered it with dirt.

  Shaking the dirt from his gloves, he searched the area, wondering if the Spanish or Russians used similar methods to send their secret messages home.

  On his way home, he stopped at the Café Verlet and had an aperitif, the signal that there was a message in the park. In the spy business, there was some subterfuge.

  Chapter Seven

  Arriving home late, Cord threw his coat on the marble table in the foyer, ignoring the footman’s arm. The rumor of an attempt to assassinate Henry Addington, the prime minister, had set off a flurry of activity, keeping him at the office late tonight. Approaching the dining room, a growing sense of insecurity sat in his stomach. Aunt Euphemia had that effect on grown men.

  She was going to have a bee in her turban about his mistress’s attendance at the Wentworth Ball. He had compounded his sins by not being home when she and his sister arrived in London. Now, he was late for dinner. He’d gone into enemy territory with less trepidation. He entered the grandiose dining room, feigning an air of confidence, reminding himself that he was an earl.

  His aunt, seated at the head of the formal dining table, was decked out in an outrageously bright green gown and matching turban. He bent down to place a kiss on her powdered cheek. “Aunt Euphemia, it’s a pleasure to have you back at Rathbourne house.” His nervousness disappeared at the look of fondness on the grand lady’s face.

  Aunt Euphemia patted his cheek affectionately. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  Her sharp eyes were focused on his face, assessing him, searching for clues of how he fared. It had been his aunt’s support that had saved him from himself after his brother’s untimely death. “You look well, my boy.”

  “As do you, Aunt Euphemia. You don’t age. If I didn’t know it was to be Gwyneth’s season, I’d believe that you’re the debutante,” he said.

  “Cord, don’t try to work the Rathbourne charm on me.” Her eyes warmed with the compliment. The peacock feather on her turban swayed with her head movement.

  Gwyneth jumped from her seat to greet him.

  He turned and swung his younger sister off her feet. Then he put his hand on his back, pretending to be in pain.

  Gwyneth punched him in his arm and laughed. “I haven’t gained an ounce. I think your years are starting to show. Shall I help you to your seat?” Her dark
eyes were filled with the same childhood mischief he remembered.

  “Gwyn, you’re the one who has aged. You’ve become quite a beauty. Ash, what do you say about the little girl who tortured us as a child?”

  Ash, seated next to his aunt, stared at Gwyneth. “She definitely has grown.”

  “Oh, don’t let the gown and hair fool you. She’s still the hoyden we knew growing up.”

  Cord guided Gwyneth back to her chair across from Ash.

  Gwyneth wrapped her shawl around her bare arms, lowering her head coyly. “How am I going to achieve the effect of a lady in town for the season if you make such pronouncements to the gentlemen I meet?”

  “First of all, Ash isn’t a gentleman. Second, he has known you since you were a child in curls, always pestering us with your endless questions. Isn’t that so, Ash?”

  His friend was regarding Gwyneth with a bewildered expression on his face, as if he didn’t recognize the stunning woman who sat across from him. Gwyneth resembled their mother with her black hair and slanted eyes, but the liveliness and enthusiasm was clearly Gwyneth.

  “Isn’t that so, Ash?” Cord repeated.

  “I can’t think of either you or Ash as gentlemen after all I know about your exploits. Remember when you were both courting Widow Smithton?” Gwyneth asked.

  Aware of Aunt Euphemia’s raised eyebrows, Cord promptly changed the direction of Gwyneth’s remarks. “How was your journey, Aunt Euphemia? Did the Black Swan’s accommodations meet your needs?”

  “The journey was fine. Let’s hear about the London season. I’m ready to launch Gwyneth and hope that your most recent indiscretions won’t have any effect on her reputation.”

  Ash stared intently down on his plate.

  Cord didn’t respond to his aunt’s comments about his newest indiscretion. The less said, the better. As he had predicted, Aunt Euphemia was aware of all the gossip in the ton. He let most of the conversation wash over him, until the mention of Henrietta.