A Code of Love (The Code Breakers 1) (7 page)

“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 clashed 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.

“Lady Henrietta Harcourt has a dashing Frenchman trailing her. Rumor has it he’s smitten with her,” Aunt Euphemia said.

He had trouble swallowing his bite of mutton. Henrietta couldn’t be serious about the cad. Surely she could see his hypocrisy. Isabelle was De Valmont’s mistress.

“Wasn’t it expected that Lady Henrietta would marry the Duke of Wycliffe several seasons ago?”

He had never liked Wycliffe, just as now he disliked De Valmont.

“Cordelier, do you remember rumors around Lady Henrietta and the duke?” With her usual prescience, Aunt Euphemia perceived his interest in Henrietta.

“There were rumors that Lady Henrietta was to become betrothed to him. But her mother became ill, requiring Lady Henrietta to return to the country,” he said.

Henrietta had left London before he could further his acquaintance with her, as if fate was always against him. But not any longer.

“Rumors about Henrietta? I wouldn’t believe it for a minute. She is the kindest woman, and witty,” Gwyneth said.

“When did you meet Henrietta?” He couldn’t hide the edge in his voice.

“Henrietta?” Gwyneth raised her eyebrows. “I met her at Madame du Puis’ when I went for my first fitting. She asked me to call her Henrietta.” His sister’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Did she give you permission, too?”