A Spy's Honor (25 page)

***

Claire nibbled on the tart despite a desire to devour it in four bites. Just because she was a glutton didn’t mean she needed to appear as such. John’s feeble denial of her plumpness hadn’t fooled her at all. There was no denying the obvious; she was entirely too round.

John sat on the stone beside her, knees bent, boots resting on the grass that was so green it looked painted. He had finished his tart and was watching an energetic little wren poke the ground repeatedly with its beak.

“Thank you for this,” Claire said about the food. Reflecting on his earlier words, she now realized he was right; she often did become cross when she’d gone without it for a time. So, it appeared she could be either thin or even-tempered but not both. A difficult choice.

John shifted, adjusting the tails of his coat. “You’re welcome.”

How strange, that he knew her so well. He was harder to define, always keeping his emotions sealed away, and his secretive work for the government made it clear he was in many ways impenetrable. But now that she’d got over the shock of him investigating Stephen, she saw how hard he was trying to balance his duties and his personal life.

“What did spying on the Continent entail?” she asked. He wouldn’t tell her anything about his current mission, but he had already divulged a little about his past.

He gazed at the lazily flowing water almost as if he hadn’t heard her. Claire opened her mouth to repeat her question then quickly snapped it shut. He was thinking. Planning what to tell her, deciding what was appropriate and what wasn’t. She wished he wouldn’t be so deliberative, at least not with her.

“I changed my name frequently, my appearance less so, and I infiltrated various institutions—government offices, banks, prisons. Private homes as well.”

“What were you looking for?”

“Documents, plans, records, people to bribe, prisoners to free. Always trying to stay one step ahead of
their
spies and not get caught by anyone of authority.” He did not look up from the water. “It was not as exciting as you might think.”

She leaned forward, trying to catch his eye. He blinked and hesitated before finally turning toward her.

“I wouldn’t think it exciting at all,” she said softly, holding his blue gaze. “At least, that was probably not how you felt most of the time. I think you must have been terribly lonely.”

John’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Eventually he looked away and picked up a pebble, throwing it into the stream.

Since he wouldn’t speak, Claire continued. “How could your work not be solitary? Keeping secrets, lurking about in places you shouldn’t be, stealing things.” She studied his profile. His expression was bland, but his eyes told the real truth. A wealth of pain reflected there, and she didn’t think it was all in the past.

“It’s no different here in England, is it? You aren’t any less lonely because you are amidst your family. You still have your secrets. You still can’t expose your true self to them.”

He lowered his eyelids, and it was as if the curtain had come down on a stage, blocking her view. His jaw twitched before he said, “My life wasn’t horrible. Some things, like sneaking into places I shouldn’t be, taking documents that will help the cause,
are
exciting. There’s a thrill, a feeling of being very much alive.”

“But it’s only a temporary feeling.”

His eyes, of darkest blue and yet softly vulnerable, cut to her. She wanted to reach over and sift her fingers through his coal black locks. She wanted to smooth the worry lines from his brow. She wanted him to open up, but he sat there silently staring at her.

Claire continued, intent upon digging deeper. “I imagine the more worthwhile, permanent feeling comes from knowing how much you assisted your country in the war effort.” He’d done as much as any army officer, and for absolutely none of the glory.

He shrugged, turning back toward the stream. The light from the sun-spattered water reflected off his spectacles.

Getting him to talk about his work was as difficult as uprooting a stubborn weed—but worth the effort, she decided. She knew from experience that bottling up emotions often led to unpleasant results, like lashing out in anger. If he wouldn’t talk, she would, forcing him to contradict her assessments.

“The worst part must have been…” She searched for the right word, reluctant to seemingly pass judgment on what he’d done. “It must have been difficult to…eliminate someone.”

“I was a spy, not an assassin.”

She wanted to smile at finally provoking an utterance from him but held herself in check, noting the insulted tone of his voice. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said, running a finger along a pleat in her skirt. “Obviously I have no idea of the scope of your duties.”

“I wasn’t ever given orders to…eliminate someone, but every now and then things went wrong and I had no choice.”

“How did you feel about that?”

He sighed as if persecuted. “Did I mention yet how persistent you are?”

“Yes, you have,” she replied. “And I appreciate the compliment.”

“Perhaps it is not meant as such,” he said. But she noted the contradictory twinkle in his eye and laughed.

John leaned back, bracing himself with his hands flat against the stone upon which they sat. Seeing his disfigurement, Claire harbored a fresh urge to slap Mrs. Cahill for her earlier discourtesy, but she also wondered how the injury had come to pass. He had never told her.

She tucked her skirt more tightly under her legs and turned to ask. “Will you tell me now what happened to your fingers?”

He did not admonish her for tactlessness. Instead, he closed his eyes, sighed, and raised his face to the sun as if there were nothing to be done but succumb to Claire’s intrusiveness. “My first mission went badly. I’m surprised the intelligence service didn’t ship me back to Allerton with a note that said, ‘Thanks, but no.’”

Pushing himself upright, he reached over and plucked a lady’s smock from its stem. As he pulled off one pale pink petal he continued, “I was taken captive, a huge blunder. They wanted information about the location of Major-General Pakenham and his troops.” He yanked off another petal. “I was scared, but I had left England, left you, to make myself into a better man. I vowed then and there that I wasn’t ever going to be so weak again. I refused to talk, so they cut off first one finger and then the next. Before they got to the third, I had formulated a plan to escape. And I did.”

It was practically the longest speech she’d ever heard out of John, and as he lapsed into silence Claire’s only response was to whisper his name. The sheer horror of what he’d said, what he’d
endured
, left her speechless.

He ducked his head and ripped off another petal. “I am sorry for speaking of such things. I shouldn’t—”

“Yes, you should.” She reached over and squeezed his arm. “I’m glad you survived.”

“I learned two things that night.” His lips turned up in a mocking smile. “I learned a person always pays for his mistakes, and I learned that I never wanted to hurt people. Not even for the benefit of my country.”

Claire said nothing, silently hoping he
had
made a mistake in suspecting Kensworth.

For once, he spoke into the lull. “Unfortunately, I do sometimes make mistakes, and I have occasionally had to hurt people. But I always try to make certain I’m correct, and I’ve become adept at finding alternative solutions to violence, perhaps convincing the person to come over to our side or making arrangements so they cease what they’re doing.”

“I am relieved to know you won’t be aiming a pistol at Kensworth,” she said lightly.

Her teasing tone had no effect, and John’s next words were deadly serious. “If Kensworth is guilty, I will have no choice but to uphold the law. This is not about some petty crime but a treasonable matter.”

“I know what your duties are in that regard, which is why I am grateful Kensworth is innocent.” Seeing they were headed back to their endless argument, Claire smiled and added, “I am grateful, too, that you won’t have to arrest your friend.”

“He’s not my—”

“He will be,” she declared. “After this nonsense is over and you’ve found the real culprit, Kensworth and you will be friends. Real friends.” She smiled again, hoping he would do likewise. He was never so handsome and youthful-looking as when he smiled.

He looked grave as ever. “I will be returning to the Continent once I am finished here.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

The words had slipped out, more reflective of her heart than her mind, and his eyes darkened and her pulse beat faster. She’d never wanted anyone as she’d always wanted John. Her skin became gooseflesh at the promise in his hot gaze.

Suddenly he levered himself up, and Claire’s mouth went dry at the sight of his muscled thigh flexing in front of her. It took her a moment to realize he held out his hand, but she let him pull her up and planted her feet on the flat stone instead of the ground, thus bringing her that much closer to his lips. Without releasing his left hand, she snaked her other hand up around his shoulder and pulled him toward her.

His lips, so warm, so smooth, tasted of apples and cinnamon. She let herself fall against his chest, eager to touch him everywhere, eager to have his arms around her. Emily was right about the heightened effect of initiating these things.

He grasped her shoulders and pushed away, breaking the kiss. After steadying her on the rock, he stepped back, stopping to pick up the napkin that had wrapped the tarts.

“We should return now,” he said, his voice firm, almost admonishing, as if she were a child who had misbehaved.

It probably made no difference in her appearance, but the passionate flush of her cheeks gave way to the heat of embarrassment. She nodded stiffly and shuffled toward her mare. Could she not have waited one more day, until she had broken off with Stephen? But, no. She loved John. Always had, always would. She could fight it no longer.

Claire turned to find him right behind her, ready to assist in mounting her horse. She had no choice but to let him, and his touch branded her skin. Soon settled in the saddle but completely unsettled, she fumbled about for something to say. Anything. What had they just spoken of? Stephen. Parliament…

“Kensworth is always looking for allies in the House of Commons. I know he would help you, if you wish it.” The words stumbled out of her mouth, one right after the other. He must think her not only vulgarly forward but also idiotic. But she was so completely undone she could barely breathe let alone think. “Your mother and Allerton would love for you to stay.”

He stared at her horse’s hindquarters, his jaw tight, his eyes unseeing. “No.”

Her heart seized at the certainty with which he imbued that one syllable. He’d closed the window into his soul once again, so was he really determined to keep spying, unwilling to settle down? She raised her chin and stared out at the budding trees. Tears stung the corner of her eyes.

“I never fit into Society,” he said, “and that hasn’t changed. There is still work to be done on the Continent. Just because there is no war does not mean England lacks enemies. I—” He cut himself off, but Claire refused to look at him. His next words forced her attention, however. “Kensworth told me he would be locked in his study with his estate manager all morning.”

She turned her horse to see where John looked. Far across the clearing, beyond the next stand of trees, a rider on a dun horse ambled in the general direction of the house. Though almost a quarter mile away, the man certainly looked like Stephen and there was no doubting the dun was his.

She knew what John was thinking: Stephen was up to no good, plotting against the government or something equally traitorous. Could he be? Could Stephen harbor such ugly, ruinous thoughts without her knowledge?

“Perhaps the estate manager wanted to show him something,” she replied, completely ignoring that her fiancé was alone.

“Let’s go.” John swung into his saddle and turned toward the path without looking at her.

They rode back in miserable silence.

Chapter Twenty

“I suggest you be introduced as Mr. Donner tonight instead of Lord John,” Kensworth advised as they headed toward the village of Brantley and the monthly meeting of the local Hampden Club. His dun snorted and inched closer to John’s bay, the same dun John and Claire had observed earlier in the day riding about the estate. John’s first thought, or possibly hope, had been that either David or Robert also rode a dun. However, the two Cahill brothers rode behind them, Robert atop a chestnut gelding and David saddled on a frenzied black stallion. It was possible one of them could have borrowed Kensworth’s horse, but John couldn’t think why they would have done so when their own mounts appeared in perfect health.

Kensworth lifted a golden eyebrow, still awaiting an acknowledgment of his suggestion.

“Why the pretense? You’re a viscount and you attend the meetings.” Not that pretense wasn’t John’s forte, but of late he’d got rather tired of pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He couldn’t be the man who loved Claire. He couldn’t be Kensworth’s friend. Hell, he couldn’t even be a man simply returned home to his family. Secrets and lies shadowed every corner of his life.

“They know me and my past. As a newcomer you’ll be under enough suspicion; I don’t need them getting fanciful ideas that you’re Sidmouth’s spymaster or a Tory infiltrator sent by Allerton.” Kensworth laughed and shook his head. “I hope no one notices your resemblance to the duke.”

John furrowed his brow, trying to look insulted. “You dare accuse me of being a spy, of sinking so low?”

Kensworth glanced behind them. “Not so loud! I know you’re only quizzing me, but if Robert hears the word ‘spy,’ he’s liable to panic.”

John raised his eyebrows. “You were the one casting aspersions on my honor.”

Kensworth didn’t reply but surveyed the darkening landscape as they rode. The trees were starkly outlined against the twilight sky, and the pungent smell of burning peat infused the air. The rumbling murmurs of David and Robert’s conversation drifted toward them, though they couldn’t distinguish any words.