by Alyson Chase
John glared. “Why would we want to do that?”
“Because we’ve arrived.” He nodded to the window, and the three-story townhouse coming into view. “I don’t want the prime minister to know the sad maturity level of the men he entrusted state secrets to.”
“He already knows.” Rothchild pushed open the door. “Why do you think he dismissed the lot of us?” he muttered as he jumped down.
“I wasn’t dismissed,” Montague protested. He climbed out. “I retired.”
John squeezed past Sutton before he could exit, earning a shove to the back. “An early retirement Liverpool was only too eager to accommodate.” He glared up at the townhouse. How many times had he met with Liverpool here or at his club? How many tasks had he undertaken for no recompense, only from duty to his country?
And amusement. Being a spy was bloody fun, but Liverpool didn’t know that. He’d traded on John’s and the others’ patriotism and in return had given them the boot the first instant they’d become inconvenient.
He followed his friends up the front steps. Politicians. He huffed. They were all alike.
The butler who answered their knock asked them to wait in a small sitting room by the front entrance. John stared at the portrait of Liverpool on the far wall. The grey hair was combed neatly in the picture when it usually wasn’t in real life, but the bushy eyebrows were true enough. John’s fingers twitched, itching to pluck the blade he’d placed in his boot that morning and throw it smack dab into that pompous face.
“Gentlemen.” The man himself stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
His friends looked at John, waiting for him to take the lead.
John rested his arse on a windowsill and crossed his arms and legs. “I’ve been asked to steal a document from the Dutch embassy.”
Liverpool’s eyes went sharp. “By whom?”
“Harlow Sudworth. He’s a capitalist, with fingers in everything from trade to industry to agriculture.” His research into the man had shown a diversity of endeavors that had impressed even John. Perhaps if he had branched out from more than just steel and gunpowder, he would have been able to weather the loss of his ore mine.
“I know who he is,” Liverpool said. “A man doesn’t become as wealthy as he without us taking notice.”
“Well, he seems to think I’ll be amenable to treason in return for some property I’ve lost.” John gripped the window sill. “I, of course, let him believe there might be some truth to that.”
Liverpool raised a thick eyebrow. “Sporting of you.” He circled his desk and sat behind it. “What does he want you to steal?”
“I’m not certain,” John said. “Only that it is a document signed by King William with a map attached.”
Liverpool frowned. “Well, what do you think his game is?”
Sutton rocked back on his heels. “I’ve discovered the majority of his trading routes originate or traverse Dutch holdings. He could be trying to gain leverage over the king for plum trading agreements.”
“That doesn’t explain Raffles, though.” Montague rubbed his chin. “Although the colony he is attempting to establish in Bencoolen used to be in Dutch territory.”
“What are we doing in Bencoolen?” Sutton asked.
“The usual.” Montague shrugged. “Trying to end slavery and create an outpost to challenge Dutch hegemony in the area.”
“Raffles?” Liverpool interrupted.
Montague shot John an apologetic look.
John couldn’t blame the slip. They weren’t in the habit of keeping information from the prime minister. “The first job Sudworth had me do was add a letter to Sir Stamford Raffles’s file in the Home Office. I believe he wants it to discredit the man.”
“And you did this?” Liverpool’s voice was deceptively pleasant, but John wasn’t fooled. He knew he was treading a fine line.
“I did, but not with the letter Sudworth gave me.” John crossed his arms over his chest. “I forged a new letter so if any inquiries proceed, a close examination will show the letter to be false and no harm will come to the man’s reputation.”
Liverpool laced his fingers over his round belly and twirled his thumbs around each other. “You boys have been busy. How long has it been since Sudworth approached you?”
John forced his gaze to remain even with the prime minister’s. He wouldn’t act like a contrite school boy caught stealing a pudding. “A couple of weeks.”
His thumbs stilled. “And you’re just coming to me now?”
“We wanted to gather as much information as we could first.” Montague dropped into the chair across from the prime minister and crossed one leg over the other. “After all, that’s what we’ve been trained to do.” The smile he gave the older man was bland.
Liverpool pressed his palms to his desk and leaned forwards. “You thought you should make that decision on your own?” he asked, his voice rising.
John pushed off the sill and stood behind Montague. He placed his hand on the duke’s shoulder. “I only recently informed my friends.” Except for Sutton. Sutton had known almost since the first, but he didn’t feel it necessary to point that out. “I thought, and still do think, that I can handle Sudworth on my own. They advised me to consult with you.”
“And I thank them for it.” Liverpool’s words were clipped, his thumb beating a restless tattoo on the desk. A sure sign of his ire. “Why would you wish to go this alone?”
John brushed at a bit of dirt on his sleeve. “You’ve shown no interest in using my talents of late. Have circumstances changed? Do you now wish to employ my services once more?”
“John.” Sutton’s voice was a warning, but John didn’t care. The one thing he had enjoyed, the one thing he remained competent at, Liverpool had taken. He’d been bored and miserable, until…well, until Netta and this issue with his brother had arisen.
Netta. He swallowed. He would keep her safe. But the idea of gambling her like she was nothing but chattel, even if he intended a double-deal, turned his stomach.
Liverpool blew out a breath and put his joined hands behind his head. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. “You’re invested in this mission. Why?”
“Sudworth has the deed to my brother’s property with my ore mines on it. I want it back.” John clenched his hand, pressing it into his thigh. “I need it back. And along the way I’ll find out what the man’s up to.”
“A man should never let anything become so important that it becomes an obsession.” Liverpool cocked his head. “This feels too personal for you to be objective. Perhaps I should handle it myself.”
“You’ll have a hell of a lot of interference from me. I won’t sit back and do nothing.”
“Nor will I,” Montague said.
“We’re all in on this.” Rothchild opened a small wooden box on Liverpool’s desk and drifted his fingers over the cigars laying within. Liverpool snapped the lid shut, Rothchild’s fingers just escaping. He arched an eyebrow. “It would be better to work with us than have us underfoot.”
“Yes.” Liverpool’s pursed his lips. He looked John up and down and sighed. “It has been an honor working with the five of you. I do hope I won’t have to set my men against you boys. The security of England is of ultimate importance.”
His men. That phrase coming from Liverpool’s mouth used to include John. And now it was used as a warning.
He was well and truly out of the spy business. No more fooling himself that after a couple of months the prime minster would change his mind. There would be no more adventures. No more intrigues.
John’s shoulder blades eased down his back. And that knowledge wasn’t as devastating as it used to be. As his brother had so ably shown, there was trouble enough to battle without need of his country to provide diversions. And Netta—
John blinked. Netta entertained him better than any mission ever had.
He wo
uld be fine. He’d lost his career as a chemist, now as a spy, yet he still had hope life could throw interesting challenges in his path. And interesting people.
“I understand.” And he did. The prime minister’s only concern was the security of the nation. But John didn’t make compromises. He would uncover Sudworth’s plot, stop it, and recover his brother’s deed. He could have it all.
And perhaps that applied to his personal life, as well. If he and Netta were enjoying each other’s company, why limit it? They could go on as they were after this mission ended. He would attend her plays, then take her to the apartments he would set her up in and put on private plays of their own.
Yes, a diverting relationship that they would both enjoy until it ran its natural course. He’d never had a long-term mistress before. Never liked a woman well enough to give her carte blanche.
To see her eyes light up, John would give Netta anything she wanted.
Liverpool scrubbed his hand across his jowls. “All right. Let’s hear this plan of yours.”
Chapter Nineteen
John pinched his forehead between his thumb and forefinger. A low throb pulsed beneath the skin. He folded the missive and slid it into his pocket.
It had been unrealistic to think Hampson’s tests on iron and carbon would yield any results, even with the assistance of Robert. While both men had shown an aptitude in assisting in the laboratory, it hadn’t extended to conducting their own experiments. Neither man had studied chemistry to the extent John had. Hampson could manage the smelt, but he wouldn’t be developing anything to replace their current production.
He removed a small key from the top drawer of his desk and crossed his study. He unlocked the door next to the bookcase and pushed it open.
Dust motes drifted in the light which streamed from the large window. The cloth-draped lumps on the long workbench made his chest ache. How long had it been since he’d last been in this laboratory? Two years? Three? Surely it hadn’t been that long since he’d made a clouding gas for one of his missions.
He ran his finger over the small burner, knowing every inch of its shape even hidden under the linen. The small potions he made to assist him and his friends for their work were nothing but a tease. Like a small bite of food when a man was starving, it only served to increase his hunger.
Robert had assisted Hampson with the experiments, that much had been clear in his manager’s letter. His brother had faced whatever trepidations he might have had after the accident and re-entered the laboratory.
Of course, it was easier for him. He hadn’t made the mistake.
Only suffered its consequences.
He pulled the letter from his pocket and lifted it to the light. He peered at the third paragraph. Had Hampson written that they’d raised the temperature of the alloy to 1,250 or 1,280 Celsius? Even such a small difference could affect the results. Pulling his lorgnette from his waistcoat pocket, he raised them to his eyes and brought the paper closer. Perhaps if he—
“What are you reading?” Netta poked her head through the door. Her gaze swept the laboratory, and she stepped fully inside. Her lime-green gown seeming to brighten the room, or perhaps it was the woman wearing it. “And what is this place?”
He shoved the glasses back in his pocket. “A letter from the manager of my smelt. He’s informed me of the development of a new alloy he’s playing with. Or the lack of developments.” He crossed his arms. “And you’re in what is left of my laboratory.”
She wandered to a tall glass-fronted case and reached for the door. “And all these little jars—”
John leapt forwards and drew her hand back. “Highly dangerous chemicals. Don’t touch.”
She clasped her hands behind her back and strolled to his work bench. She found the one object not covered by a linen, his worn leather book of notes, and blew at the dust covering the page.
She sneezed.
A lead ball weighted his stomach. There was no experiment in progress. No open flames. Yet the image of Netta bent over his workbench filled him with unease. The scene was too reminiscent of the last person he’d seen bent over his work bench.
He took her elbow and drew her out of the room, locking it behind them. “The letter is further evidence that I need my chromite mines returned. It is time for you to meet our mark.” He tossed the letter on his desk and dropped into the chair. If all went well, he could kill two birds with one stone. Tonight was the perfect opportunity to infiltrate the Dutch embassy, and, he hoped, flaunt Netta in front of Sudworth at the same time.
Netta leaned against his side. She combed her fingers through his hair, and the fine muscles in his face went slack. “Are you certain there is nothing of promise in the letter?” she asked. “Perhaps if you read it more closely with your spectacles on.”
He removed her lovely, petting hand and glared up at her. “I do not wear spectacles.”
Her gaze dropped to his waistcoat pocket and she arched a dark eyebrow.
John sniffed. “Those are purely for affectation.” Until now. Bloody thirty-five-year-old eyes. “No matter. What are you up to today? Another visit to May’s club?”
“I hadn’t planned on it.” She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and gave him a look he couldn’t interpret. “But if you’d like to accompany me, I think a visit to The Minerva would be time well spent.”
“Me? At a women’s club?” He patted her hip. “A bit like inviting the fox into the henhouse. I don’t think Auntie May would approve.” He pushed the edge of the letter with his finger. Perhaps if Hampson heated the furnace even further the alloy would—
No. He’d learned his lesson. His time of fiddling about with corrosive chemicals was over.
His head jerked forward. “What?!” He rubbed the small sting on his scalp and scowled. “Did you just slap the back of my head?”
“You weren’t listening to me.” Netta turned and leaned back against his desk, facing him. She crossed her arms. “I don’t like being ignored.”
John stared at the ceiling, fighting his grin. It wouldn’t do to encourage such behavior. But she was irrepressible. “You now have my undivided attention.”
“And now I don’t want it. I don’t think you’re ready for what I had to say in any case.” She tugged the letter from under her arse and scanned its contents. “This laboratory up at your estate, it is much larger than the one here, I suppose?”
“Yes. At least five times its size.” It was a lovely space. One he’d designed himself. He was glad Hampson was finding some use for it, even if his experiments came to naught. He tangled his fingers in Netta’s skirts and pulled her between his spread legs. He rested his cheek against her bosom as he lazily traced a circle on her lower back.
This was nice. Having someone he could talk to about his day. Someone sweet and understanding.
“And is that laboratory similarly abandoned?”
John’s hand stilled. Depending on the direction of her next words, he might have relaxed too soon. “Well, Hampson putters about in it from time to time.”
“But you don’t?” Her bosom heaved with her sigh. “Why did you stop working in science?”
And there it was. He set her away from him. The question he didn’t want to hear. “The ‘why’ isn’t important. That part of my life is over.”
She moved back into his space. Raising her skirts, she swung her leg over his thighs and settled on his lap, lacing her hands behind his neck. “Because of what happened with your brother?”
His muscles tensed. “What do you know of it?”
“Only what you’ve told me.” She planted her nose against his, her enchanting eyes filling his field of vision. The violet at the edge of her irises seemed to glow, a bright lure that drew him deeper into her thrall. “And that is nothing. But I saw his scars. I see the guilt you bear. I am not without powers of discernment.”
He wanted to be irritated. Wanted to gather his guilt about him and wallow in a self-
loathing silence. He didn’t speak of the accident with his friends. Not even with his brother. It hung over them like a pall.
But Netta was warm on his lap with no judgment in her gaze. It wasn’t as hard as he thought to open his mouth and tell her the story.
“I set up my first laboratory in an outbuilding at Marcus’s townhouse in London. I stayed with him during breaks from Cambridge.” He dug his fingers into her hips. “I didn’t have much of a home to return to.”
She nodded. “You have good friends.”
“That I do.” He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding. “I had minor successes developing a more stable gunpowder and built a larger workshop at Stonesworth House. The discoveries came faster, small improvements on smelting techniques that improved the durability of metals. My confidence grew along with the Summerset coffers. Then I began working with chromium to create a new formula for steel.”
The back of his throat burned. There was no way to convey the thrill he’d experienced at that discovery. The feeling that he could touch the moon, set it spinning, if he put his mind to it.
Cupping his face, she ran her thumb along his cheekbone. For once, his opinionated Netta remained quiet. A silent support.
He rubbed his cheek against her palm and sighed. “By then, I was earl. I’d expanded the laboratory to make work spaces for my brothers, although Kevin was still too young to assist. But Robert did. He had no interest in science, but he was eager to help.”
Too eager. A small part of John wondered if that had led Robert to be impatient, to become careless mixing the chemicals.
John pressed his lips tight. Which was the coward’s way out, to try to shift blame to his brother. He wouldn’t hide behind that excuse.
Arranging his features into its familiar insouciant mask, he finished the story. “I became over-confident. Thought the formula was simple enough to duplicate and told my brother to run the next experiment and note the results. I gave him the materials. Told him the proportion of the chemicals to use.” He shrugged. “I must have made a mistake in my calculations. There was an explosion, leaving him as he is now.”
