Beauty and the Spymaster Read online

  He narrowed one eye and shook his head. “And I know a damsel in distress when I see one.” The arm behind her shoulders came gently, but the one that tapped the back of her knees was a surprise; she found herself tucked against his chest. Before she could protest, he was halfway down the stairs.

  His chivalry would need work if they were to spend time together.

  At some point between the rookery and the kitchen, where he produced clean if not pretty ceramic plates then fruit with hard-boiled eggs, most of the heat evaporated off her indignation. Shame on her — she rested her head against a most uncushion-like shoulder and listened to his slow, steady heartbeat.

  By agreeing to help him she might be walking headlong into a terrible slave smuggling scheme, or perhaps he was a raving lunatic and she’d been right about him bombing Westminster. She’d spend the rest of her days in a dank cell with a mate named Helga who kept pet rats… but she didn’t think so.

  The sixth sense that had told her to go find Sophia that night — to run and not walk — was the same internal alarm that woke her the past evening when Chauncey had indeed been only minutes behind in pursuit; it was silent now.

  She wanted to trust Sir Julian, but then, she’d never made a good decision out of desperation.

  Chapter Four

  Once she’d bathed and changed into clean clothes, Julian finally understood what the big to-do about Helena Duncombe was all about. Even a sideways glance from her sent the impact of a fist into his gut, and a direct look from her slanted black eyes — devastating. He’d never met such a powerful woman in all his life. Confident and regal, she practically radiated authority, even tucked against the headrest of his ridiculous armchair by the fire.

  She had much to thank nature for, and he had trial enough keeping his eyes where they belonged. He wished he’d dare ask her age; she could pass for a woman in her thirties, but he knew she had a grown daughter. And he’d never seen such flawless skin, almost porcelain with hardly a spot or wrinkle. How did one manage that? She made him notice her bell-like voice, the curve of her neck, the way she used her arms, and he’d started trying to discern the nuances in her expression. It was as though a wild tiger had wandered into his house, and he was both wary and fascinated.

  Exotic looks notwithstanding, it was her carriage and manner of speaking that made her so attractive. She avoided off-putting female behavior; no dull conversations on shallow topics, no demands, and no chattering to fill the silence. Not a word of complaint passed her lips, even though he was certain she’d suffered cracked ribs on the left side, an ankle sprain, and injured tendons on her right arm. The bruises and scratches covering most of her visible skin made him want to break something. Specifically, her worthless coward of a husband.

  At first he’d taken her way for granted, but then he’d started noticing her methods. She wasn’t so much trying to manipulate him, he figured, but it was her habit to behave in a manner that men would find mysterious and stimulating. Her comments were designed to pique or soothe, and always she turned the conversation back on him so as to make him feel important and clever. It was certainly working, even knowing it was artifice.

  She’d adjusted her approach, her tone, even her manners to suit his, and so subtly he’d hardly noticed. If he gave her enough time to dig her hooks in, no doubt she would discern his deepest-hidden fantasies and fulfill them all but one, then take her leave while he still wanted her. Indeed she was the master of vanity and vice — of wielding it but not being trapped in it herself — and already he could feel the silvery silk threads looping a band around his chest.

  A dangerous game, which he had to be glad of. If she could work as swiftly and be half so convincing with their adversary, then victory was certain.

  “Lord Bradbury… Vicomte de Turenne.” She squinted at the list then held it farther away. “And the Albanian ambassador — how does one even say his name?”

  He’d given her the guest list to the Comte d’Anjou’s house party celebrating his gallery unveiling, and Julian wanted to know who among the seventy-five distinguished international guests she didn’t know. Three. Three persons, that was all. Royalty, celebrities, aristocracy — all her friends and acquaintances. Serendipitous timing had landed her on his doorstep the very moment he needed intelligence on society’s most elite event of the Season.

  “Very well.” He took the list back and circled the names. “I shall send for information on those three for you to study.”

  “I’m tempted to ask why, but I expect it would be against your smuggler’s code.”

  She was trying to prod him into divulging the details of the operation. “Yes. All the other pirates at the ball would give me grief.”

  She tsked in mock concern. “We can’t have you strung up now, can we? At least tell me how long I have to memorize three family trees?”

  “Approximately two months.”

  A half-smile was all he got in response. “I can’t help but notice your list of persons sounds quite a lot like a guest list.” She paused to let him confess, but he only winked. “An international, distinguished crowd. Such as one might expect to see at… oh, say, the Comte d’Anjou’s gallery debut gala this fall?”

  He couldn’t help it, he chuckled.

  “You know, I was on my way to Paris before I was waylaid here.” She smoothed the corner of the paper, drawing his gaze to slender, elegant fingers with perfectly manicured nails. “And you wouldn’t believe what lay among the correspondence I’d stored in my traveling trunk.”

  Julian decided to play along. “And what correspondence might that be?”

  “Well, heaven only knows what happened to it in the wreckage, but I did have an invitation to d’Anjou’s gala.”

  He blinked, probably looking stupid. “You’re not on the guest list.”

  “I didn’t accept the invitation. In fact, I had half a mind to decline it, but I confess my intentions to stall awhile longer in hopes that a better offer would come along.”

  She had the means for them to walk right through the door as invited guests? “Accept it. And respond for two.”

  This time she blinked, uncertain. “And who shall I say is my escort?”

  “Sir Julian Grey the Third.”

  “You?”

  He tried not to care that the idea seemed radical to her. She nodded and averted her eyes, no doubt wondering how on earth she would convince the beau monde he was her latest protector when they were accustomed to seeing her on the arm of princes, dukes, and sheiks.

  “I don’t suppose that will overly tax your skill, my lady?”

  He liked her sideways smile, reminiscent of the Mona Lisa. “Certainly not.”

  If he knew women — which was minimally — there was more to it. “Is it my pedigree or my appearance that presents the greater challenge?”

  She appraised him as though noticing him for the first time. “I believe both can be presented satisfactorily.” Without the little smile, she’d have come across as indifferent. “It would be to your advantage to wield your professional honors. Whatever gallant deed you did to be appointed Companion of the Garter, the rumor of it should be revived at once. If everyone is already buzzing about it before we arrive, then half the work is done for you. The rest depends on acting a part. And perhaps you might allow me some liberties with a pair of shears. Not that your… ah, rustic style of hair and beard aren’t very intrepid looking.”

  Rumors? Buzzing? If the other guests noticed when he came and went, it would be considerably more difficult to break into their rooms. “I don’t want to attract unwarranted attention.”

  She put a hand to her collar and laughed, a musical pealing sound. Youthful and pretty but not dainty. Distracting, to say the least, and a bit irritating, since he wasn’t trying to amuse.

  She sighed then said, “Sir Julian, if you appear at d’Anjou’s party with me, there will be a great deal of attention directed our way. And all of it warranted.” Another sigh, then she straightened in the
chair. “Whatever it is you’re plotting, subtlety will not play into it.”

  Of course it went without saying that she was quite famous — or perhaps infamous was the right word — but he hadn’t taken into account the scrutiny he would be under by association. That did change his plan. Perhaps not adversely. “There might be a bout of severe indigestion afflicting the guests. Or perhaps others might be suddenly called away on urgent business. At any rate, you must behave as though you are entirely surprised to find the company so stricken.”

  “What on earth…”

  “And you must be prepared to report that I am indisposed, or be generally quick with excuses. If we can’t be subtle, then at the least we must avoid suspicion.”

  She blew out a breath and rested back in the chair. “If you’re trying to kill me with curiosity, it’s working.”

  “Never fear. As it turns, I shall do most of the work, and you have only to do what you do best.”

  She cocked a brow, and he comprehended his poor choice of words. “I’m not certain what you mean by that. But if you expect me to waltz out the door with the Kohinoor Diamond hidden in my skirts, you’ve recruited the wrong person for your illicit scheme.”

  “It’s not a scheme.” He changed his mind twice before adding, “I deal in information. And I already promised not to offend your patriotic sensibilities—”

  A boom sounded outside, its echo rattled the walls. Lady Chauncey startled and grasped the edge of the table. His instincts drove him to snatch the rifle over the mantle and take cover, then his brain jogged into gear and suggested he should investigate the source before letting his finger get too close to the trigger.

  He took the stairs to the north tower three at a time then slowly opened the shutter to peer over the valley and past the road and saw nothing out of place. Then he looked closer, over the property. At first he didn’t believe his eyes: two men lighting the fuse over a wheeled cannon, the bore aimed at his gates. He did recognize them — Chauncey’s seconds. They’d loitered outside the gates after Chauncey had climbed over.

  What, did they think to lay siege on an abbey? It was so bizarre, he almost forgot about the lit fuse. The cannon went off. The percussion shook dust off the stones and made an unholy din, but as before, there was no actual impact. If the house had been hit, there would be no mistake about it. The men were shooting blanks. Whatever the hell why?

  They rolled the gun back to its place in the ruts and primed the fuse again, and Julian went back down the stairs. He placed the rifle on the table, and Lady Chauncey regarded it with wide eyes.

  “What’s happening?” Another shot sent dust floating down from the chandelier to the paperwork on the table, and she cringed.

  “Can you think of a reason why Lord Chauncey would send his henchmen to shoot blanks from a cannon?”

  “What?” She put her forehead in her hand and slumped a bit. “Oh, no.”

  “It’s a rather clear statement, not to mention bizarre.”

  She shook her head and stood then sat back down. “It’s his way. The dramatics, I mean. And he’s very angry.”

  “Chauncey strikes me as a perpetually angry sort.” Again he’d oversimplified Helena Duncombe. The previous night he’d been cleaning his rifle by light of the fire when he’d heard sounds of a struggle and rushed outside to see a large, drunken man beating a defenseless woman, and so he’d intervened. He’d had no choice, since it had taken place on his front lawn. It hadn’t occurred to him there would be more to it. “Last night Chauncey seemed inclined to leave you be. What is it that he wants now?”

  She shuddered as another cannon blow echoed bass tones along the rafters. With shaky hands she smoothed her already neat hair. Each shot seemed to make her more and more fragile, and he feared she’d shatter. “It’s a complicated situation.”

  “You’d better give me the layman’s version.” He resisted asking what on earth he’d landed himself in the middle of by giving her refuge. Now was not the time to tangle himself in a private war.

  The cannon went off and she let a little scream, shrinking in her chair and looking for all the world like she wanted to hide under the table. It distracted him from his other thoughts and heated his temper from the bottom up until all he could think about was her transformation from a laughing, confident woman into the frightened, frail creature he pitied.

  Then it occurred to him that the purpose of the cannon was solely to terrorize her, and Chauncey had known it would work. Which again begged the question of what he wanted from her. Julian couldn’t rule out the possibility that Chauncey was stark raving mad.

  “The removal of the East India Trading Company…” She shook her head. “I’m certain he overextended his credit, and now they’re coming, all the way from Bombay—” She stretched her hands, and when the next blast rattled her so badly he feared she’d burst into tears, he’d had enough.

  Julian grasped his Dreyse needle rifle then the ceramic mug filled with cartridges on the shelf. He hiked the stairs and didn’t care about opening the shutter with stealth this time. Kneeling to rest the stock of the rifle on the window ledge, he chambered the action and took aim.

  Just as one man reached to light the fuse, Julian fired a round into the dirt just in front of his foot. The man shouted in surprise and leaped away, dropping the torch on the ground. The other man looked around, scowling. He gripped the wheel spoke. Julian reloaded then aimed just below the hand. The shot hit a bit low but shattered the wood, sending a spray of splinters the man blocked with his arms.

  Taking advantage of the commotion by reloading, Julian leaned against the wall, waving away the noxious smoke wafting from the open chamber of the rifle and trying to cool his temper. He was liable to lose control and start aiming poorly. Or was it aiming too well? Either way, he knew the same red-eyed demon that had possessed his father was alive and well in him, and he knew what ugliness resulted when he gave in to bloodlust.

  Heaving for breath, he chanted to himself that he only wanted to make the men retreat, that there was no call for their deaths. His fingers automatically knew the drill for reloading — insert cartridge, close bolt, lower hammer — he closed his eyes and banished the sight of Helena Duncombe, frightened and bruised. He wasn’t her champion. This wasn’t his fight.

  By the time he repositioned himself at the window, the men had drawn their pistols and taken cover behind the cannon as best they could, which might have been an amusing sight under different circumstances. One at a time he aimed for the frames of their pistols; two shots and the guns lay on the ground in pieces while the men shook their hands and slunk down behind the cannon.

  They still hadn’t retreated, so Julian blew through a half dozen rounds that ricocheted off the top and sides of the cannon. After clearing the vapor, he plugged a few into the dirt under their boots, forcing them to move out into the open. “Had enough?” he bellowed from the window. “Take your toys and go home. And tell Chauncey that if I see his ugly mug again, or yours, I won’t miss.” He counted ten seconds then shouted. “Or to the count of ten. Eight! Six! Three—”

  The men scrambled, holding their hats and tugging on the broken spokes of the wheels. The cannon stuck in the ruts.

  Julian yelled, “Two!” and chambered the rifle outside the window where they could hear it.

  The wheel finally rolled over the rim of the rut, and they pushed it down the lane, a clumsy affair with the gun on unstable mounts.

  He watched until they disappeared from view then went back downstairs. Julian wiped the gunpowder from his face and hands, turning the rag black, and trying not to feel so satisfied. Unbecoming for a man of the cloth to derive a thrill from firing a gun, and more specifically, from an armed conflict.

  Setting the rifle back on its hooks above the mantle, he emptied the leftover cartridges into the mug then dropped into the chair opposite Lady Chauncey. She seemed much better, collected, and her gaze held his evenly.

  “Best start from the beginning,” he sa
id.

  “No need. The middle will do just fine. The simplest explanation is that he needs our daughter, Anne-Sophia, to marry and produce an heir, who will break the entailment on the Eastleigh estate so that he’ll have access to the funds. Anne-Sophia has run away, and he is desperate. You know the rest.”

  A violent man desperate for money? The situation would likely get worse before it improved. And indeed he’d landed himself in the middle of it. While he wasn’t without the resources to help Lady Chauncey, he was short on time. “Not to worry, you are safe here,” he heard himself say. “Allow me to investigate what can be done. There is help to be had.”

  She gave him a weak smile that made her eyes look paradoxically sad and sparkling, and he almost didn’t mind that he’d just made a promise he wasn’t certain he could keep.

  Chapter Five

  She’d known he was a vicar, but the sight of Sir Julian Grey preaching from a pulpit on a Sunday morning still came as a shock. Or perhaps setting foot inside a church was more disturbing. Mrs. Grey sat beside her, which Helena thought was brave, seeing how the odds of the roof falling in over their heads or of fatal lightning strikes had increased a hundredfold with her scandalous self in attendance.

  To the credit of the good people of Chichester, not many looked her way, even as Sir Julian recited from the Bible, “Woe to them that devise iniquity, and work evil upon their beds! When morning is light, they practice it, because it is in the power of their hand…” It didn’t matter that the rest of the passage condemned warlords and slavers. The harlot in the room had been outed, and she couldn’t have felt more conspicuous.

  Oddly enough she enjoyed the rest of his sermon — once her face quit burning so she could pay attention — something about “speaking peace” and miracles and being a good neighbor. When he wasn’t angry, Sir Julian had a pleasant voice, the way a drop of vinegar in savory sauce was gratifying, or perhaps like the bite of cold air on the face when everything else was toasty warm under a blanket.