Beauty and the Spymaster Page 6

He huffed then leaned over to take something from the pocket of the coat he’d hung. “With a philosophy like that, you’ll get yourself killed. You should rather put up a sporting fight.” He held out a nasty-looking dagger, and her first inclination was to step away from it.

  Reluctantly she reached for it, and he pulled his hand back. “Ah. No. Always take a knife by the handle.” Gingerly she wrapped her fingers around the leather grip, probably looking as mortified as he would be if holding a squalling baby. The cool, hard metal embodied her impressions of violence, and immediately she didn’t care for it.

  “I don’t think—”

  Placing his hand over hers, he pressed her thumb atop the hilt then showed her how to angle her fingers sideways on the handle. “Tight grip, but keep your muscles limber.” He pressed a finger under her elbow the same time he hooked a foot behind her heel and pushed. “Lunge in with your jab, and be quick about it. You’ll likely only get one chance, so put your back into it, and truly mean it.”

  The momentum landed her right up against his chest, where he flattened the blade and grasped her hand over it. She wondered if he might be flirting, which would be a shock, but then his thumb guided hers to the juncture where his ribs met. “Right here. Aim upward and a bit to the left.” He pressed her hand, demonstrating the motion. “My left, your right, that is. The idea is to slice the heart, or at least the arteries connecting to it. Whatever it takes to make him stop.”

  He gave her a moment to contemplate the willful taking of a life; it was too slippery for her brain to grasp. Either the discomfiting subject was spinning her insides in knots, or being in such close contact with him was to blame. Couldn’t she have a moment to simply lean on his chest and relax without the dagger between them?

  “I know you don’t want to do it—”

  “I doubt I can.”

  “If you get scared enough and angry enough, I wager you will. How do you suppose I ever came to pull a trigger?” His thumb rubbed up and down hers, and she didn’t think it had anything to do with tutelage. “When you know you must either kill or be killed, instinct takes over. But first you must decide. Now. Or else the shock of it will stall you to your undoing.” He gave her hand a squeeze, almost painfully tight. “Keep the knife in your pocket, and practice drawing it until you can do it without thinking. Be ready.”

  She would’ve wrenched away and fled if not for his lowered voice and the compassion in his tone. Grateful he’d bound her in place, forcing her to confront the violent reality of her life, she tried to imagine being enraged and panicked enough to kill. It didn’t come easily; she’d always paired fear with sorrow, which didn’t inspire retaliation.

  “What is worth fighting for, Helena?” So easily her given name rolled with the other words, she almost didn’t notice. “What would you die for?”

  “My daughter.” She didn’t have to stop and think about it.

  She felt him nodding, his chin rubbed her temple, and again his thumb brushed hers. Saints, he was solid, and incredibly warm. Difficult not to imagine what it would be like to sleep next to him. Not soft, and hardly cozy with all his hard angles, but the sense of safety would be well worth it.

  “I wish you would fight for you,” he said so quietly she had to strain to hear.

  She was only a little bothered by the implication that she didn’t resist, that she allowed the abuse; he didn’t know her motives or all the circumstances.

  Had he pressed his face to her hair? Yes — a moment later his jaw settled at her temple and his breath fanned her skin. “I wish you were free.”

  Her heart stalled then kicked — that was likely as close to a declaration as she would ever get from Sir Julian. Badly she wanted to defend her character to him, but it was useless to explain that she’d not shared Chauncey’s bed since before Sophia was born, and the only reason she remained married was because it was impossible for her to win a divorce in the courts. If even she mustered the tens of thousands of pounds for the court fees and lawyers, no judge would agree she had just cause. Her property belonged to her husband, as well as her person, and he was well within his right to do whatever he pleased with both.

  She’d resigned herself to the life of a courtesan, to enjoy affection and comfort where she might find it. It would be dishonest if she claimed she had no motive to punish Chauncey. Flaunting the fact that other men — better men than he — had her while he couldn’t was her only vindication, however demented. Strange how she could feel completely justified with her choices for years, only to have it replaced with guilt and regret within a matter of weeks, thanks to Sir Julian.

  He’d changed her from the inside out, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. How had he managed to make every man before him a hollow imitation? He’d made her want something real and wholesome, and only knowing it was out of reach had spared her from melancholy. But now he’d opened this Pandora’s Box… She nearly groaned out loud but turned it into a sigh instead.

  It went against everything she knew about the male ego to say nothing after he’d taken a risk in admitting desire for her, but the only outcome she saw was more guilt and regret. Pulling her hand free was far more difficult than it should’ve been, and backing away from the lovely comfort of his chest made her feel like a lead weight. Like an oversized chess piece — on to the next move, be it war, subterfuge, or sacrifice.

  She should walk away without looking back and let him think he’d offended her, but she couldn’t do it. Once she reached the doorway, putting a safe distance between them, she turned and gave him a regretful smile — an indulgence, but she did want him to know she wished she were free, too.

  The residual heat of his hand on hers and the echo of his voice in her ear made packing for Paris a less joyful experience than it should’ve been.

  Chapter Seven

  Once more he’d underestimated Helena Duncombe. Specifically, he’d not taken into account the effect she’d have on the distinguished guests of the gala; the bigger their ego, the harder they fell for her charm.

  After lunch he and Helena had been shown to a guest room — just one, heaven help him — and before dinner was served, she’d already prompted Ambassador Gjonbalaj to blabber on about how he’d come by way of a stop in Prague, complete with details on his hotel and itinerary. Helena had known the ambassador was one on a short list of suspects, and so naturally she’d handed Julian the information he needed on a silver platter.

  All he had to do was lounge about looking decadent, hoping everyone believed he was mysterious and virile enough to be Lady Chauncey’s escort and not connect his name with the rectory. It would be difficult, though not impossible, to explain why a country vicar was companion to Europe’s most infamous courtesan. So far his surly demeanor had saved him from much conversation.

  He planned to slip away just after the guests retired to bed and send a bird from the rendezvous point the council had set up in one of the outbuildings as a makeshift rookery. At the rate Helena gleaned information from the suspects, he’d need a giant eagle to deliver the bundle of intelligence.

  One of the guests was a traitor, and Julian intended to find out who. If only it was as simple as catching the Guy Fawkes imitator who had presented himself at a gentleman’s club smelling strongly of gunpowder. The rat leaking information from a legislative committee wouldn’t stink, but he could be caught in the act.

  Julian had divulged to Helena that the subject would have connections to Parliament, and she’d complained, “Well, that will include every man there and his mistress.”

  “True, but only three of them know when the Treasury is about to mint gold and sterling, and benefit from tipping off foreign investors, who then inflate the commodities so England buys at a higher price. It’s quite illegal. Treason, in fact.”

  “Oh.” He remembered her crestfallen expression. “I thought we were after a bandit, or at least uncovering an assassination plot.”

  He’d chuckled and answered, “I’ve handled plenty of those, and I�
��ve had my fill of danger. These days, I’m relegated to some dull sleuthing. That and plenty of bird droppings.”

  “That is not exciting.”

  “We’re following orders.” And then he’d noticed how he’d slipped into the plural we as though after two short months, they were a team. “And besides, the cloak-and-dagger operations involve real daggers.”

  She’d said, “Humph,” then something to the effect that excitement was overrated.

  At dinner he was seated next to Ambassador Gjonbalaj, whose enormous mustache made quite the distraction. Julian spent most of his brain function trying not to stare. Good night — he’d waxed the ends into curlicues that bobbed up and down with his head. Since Helena had already interviewed the ambassador, hopefully Julian wasn’t missing any important details.

  And he couldn’t stop stealing glances at Helena. She’d not protested the rustic way of life at Millbrook Abbey, but seeing her sparkling and laughing and in her element made him aware that he’d essentially clipped her wings there. And that thought proved he’d quit seeing her as a courtesan; she was simply a woman who had done her best in tragic circumstances. He himself had been a soldier before he’d become a vicar, and he had his own host of sins to atone for.

  Nothing for it; he wanted her. More specifically, he didn’t want her to go. They had a mission to complete, but in three days’ time, could he leave her in Paris and walk away? It wasn’t as though he could bring her home. Providing refuge was one matter, but taking a mistress was entirely another. That scenario never played through in his head to satisfaction, always ending in shame and scandal. Whatever it was that he felt for her, it would shrivel and die under the influence of such ugliness.

  So, yes, he would send her off and not look back.

  The pinch in his chest could be the spicy fish sauce, or it could be regret, yet it weakened his resolve not at all. He chuckled to mirror Gjonbalaj then asked. “And what is your opinion on that?” Julian had no idea what he was talking about, but the ambassador dove into yet more incomprehensible rhetoric in a thick accent.

  Julian stole another glance — Helena was trying to catch his eye, wearing an emphatic expression that begged him to intervene. What was he supposed to do, leap out of his chair and draw a weapon?

  Her fan blew her glittering ruby earbobs as it waved, and finally he noticed she was trying to gesture with it. Lord Bradbury, the guest seated at her right, was on their short list of suspects. Ah, his hand. She was trying to get Julian to notice Bradbury’s signet.

  Difficult to see, but could that be Michael the Archangel slaying the dragon on the ring’s design? Julian’s eyes focused, and he recognized the Latin inscription around the rim. The ribbing made it unmistakably some sort of coin. The angel sovereign coins dated back to Queen Elizabeth, valuable collector’s items. Who would solder it into a ring and wear it?

  Drat, he’d attracted Gjonbalaj’s attention. “Isn’t she a vision?” Julian bluffed.

  Gjonbalaj agreed then went on to scold him for being smitten, and in the next breath said, “And aren’t you a greedy fellow, taking her all for yourself? Isn’t there enough to go around?” He chuckled again, but that time Julian couldn’t join in.

  He didn’t like the way Gjonbalaj leered at her as though he had every right. As though she was a prize mare for sale and not a person. Would it be too conspicuous to box the Albanian ambassador in the jaw?

  A change of subject soothed his violent ambitions. Then he had room in his brain to wonder why Helena thought Lord Bradbury’s coin ring was suspicious. The more Julian spoke with the ambassador, the less he could imagine Gjonbalaj carrying out clandestine meetings. Unless his vanity and bluster was an act to mask a more sinister nature, Julian would do well to focus on Lord Bradbury and Vicomte de Turenne, the latter who had yet to make an appearance. All intelligence suggested the traitor intended to sell his information at the party, so if de Turenne failed to arrive, he wasn’t the man doing business with a disloyal MP.

  Once the women retired to the drawing room, the men all lit cheroots and poured brandy and cognac. Julian kept his ears open and pretended to sip from a snifter; now was the time a fool was likely to brag about an exploit.

  Eyes watering from all the smoke, Julian rose and crossed to the mantel, where a collection of Egyptian artifacts were displayed on small easels. He eavesdropped on the dialog behind him and heard chatter about the Jockey Club, the weather, and Parliament. The conversations in French he tuned out.

  “Do you think d’Anjou knows a canopic jar sits atop his mantel?” came a pompous voice over his shoulder. Lord Bradbury.

  Julian took another fake swallow and twirled the glass. “I confess I don’t quite know what that is,” he lied. The more Bradbury spoke and Julian listened, the more he’d glean.

  Bradbury set his snifter on the mantel and tapped the ancient jar with the same finger holding a cheroot. “A canopic jar, my good friend, is for holding the internal organs during mummification.”

  “Huh. At least it’s not a latrine.” Bradbury didn’t even crack a smile, the stiff sod. “And what is that?” Julian nodded toward a wooden carved bird. “Rudimentary-looking, if I do say so. Rather out of place in a grand room.”

  Bradbury tsked, a scolding, condescending sound, and Julian hoped he was the culprit on account of not liking him on sight. “Why, no. It’s a Saqqara, the ceremonial god Horus. Likely a toy for a royal child.”

  Julian hummed again, hopefully sounding mildly interested. “Have you been to the tombs for a dig, then? You seem to know a great deal about artifacts.”

  “Ho, no. Never set foot south of a good hotel. But I do have a fancy for the ancient.” Bradbury lifted his cheroot for a drag — the same hand with the ring — giving Julian the perfect opportunity to ask about it.

  “What about that?” he gestured with a nod. “It looks ancient.” Up close Julian noticed marks on the surface indicating the coin had been cast instead of pressed — a counterfeit. Not to mention the metal had a slightly whiter hue to the gold instead of the bright yellow an Elizabethan coin should have, indicating a modern alloy.

  Bradbury did a poor show of pretending to be slow to realize Julian meant the ring, as though he thought, What, this thing? “Oh. Yes. This is quite rare, a 1582 angel. At my great aunt Mildred’s passing, I inherited a very old house on Whitechapel High Street.” His face colored a bit, and he glanced at the Egyptian artifacts. “I sorted through the attic, and wouldn’t you know — I found a rusted old chest buried under some broken furniture. And wouldn’t you know…”

  Blushing, fidgeting, repeating phrases; Bradbury was the worst liar Julian had ever met. “Well, go on,” he said, trying to seem eager.

  Bradbury licked his lips then averted his gaze again. He’d started to crush his cheroot. “I broke open the lock and beheld a sea of gold. These.” He tapped his counterfeit ring. “Genuine angel sovereigns, minted in 1582, and new as the day they were made. Can you believe it?”

  “No, not at all,” Julian said, forcing incredulity into his tone. “How many?”

  “Dozens. Perhaps hundreds of them. I figured they must be worth a fortune, but I haven’t taken them to a collector for appraisal yet.”

  Julian knew he was supposed to ask, “What are you going to do with all that gold?”

  Bradbury nodded, looking at his ring. “Well, as much as I’d like to take my time, circumstances are such that I’ve been offering the coins in a private sale. But only to the select few who will truly appreciate them. I know I’m practically giving them away for fifty pounds apiece, but that’s the way of it when you need blunt, right?”

  Oh, hell’s bells. What was he supposed to say to the most idiotic fable he’d ever heard? After reminding himself to play the part, he said, “You don’t suppose I could have a look? I have a fancy not so much for collecting old things, but I’ve been told I have a sense for a good investment.”

  “Oh, yes. I can see you have uncanny judgment. And while I don’
t know you well, I must say that any friend of Helena Duncombe is a friend of mine. Consider yourself among the inner circle.” He rambled on about payment and a meeting time, and Julian tried not to look skyward.

  A poorly executed scheme if he ever saw one, and going so far as to claim close acquaintance with Lady Chauncey when she’d picked him out of the list because she didn’t know him.

  Julian was only half relieved when the ballroom opened. Nothing made him more uncomfortable than dancing. He couldn’t even claim to be out of practice; he’d never learned well and probably looked like a colt on stilts. He avoided all the complicated French-sounding dances then asked a quiet-looking woman for a waltz when it was apparent he’d appear a cad for sitting out when there was a shortage of gentlemen.

  Finally he got his turn with Helena. She felt like heaven in his arms… until the music started and he was obliged to sketch out a stodgy waltz. Twenty seconds into it, and her smile turned into a chuckle.

  “You’re quite terrible,” she half-whispered. “I should’ve worn wooden shoes.”

  Thankfully he hadn’t stepped on her toes yet, but it was imminent. He steered her toward the terrace and out the door where he could speak to her in private. Outside, the air seemed humid at first but dried as they went farther from the fountains.

  A stone bench beneath a vine-covered arbor was as good a place as any; he shrugged out of his coat and laid it over the bench so she could sit without chilling her skin. She sighed and stretched her feet, and he realized she was probably tired and sore. That also reminded him that in less than an hour, the guests would all go upstairs to bed, and he’d have to decide what to do. Of course he’d sleep on a sofa if he could find one long enough to fit his frame, but merely sleeping in the same room presented a problem.

  Without his mother as chaperone, behind closed doors he was liable to do something he regretted. Abstaining from the drinks that evening wouldn’t even save his muddled brain from a mistake he couldn’t undo in the morning.