A Spy's Honor (33 page)

Or, if she wanted to remain in Town, they could purchase a house and he could remain with the Foreign Office in some capacity.

He sighed and stroked Claire’s arm. Truthfully, he no longer wanted to remain with the Foreign Office, or the Home Office if Sidmouth were to ask. He was done with spying. More and more, the idea of taking a seat in the House of Commons and helping to reform Parliament stirred his intellect and eagerness. But the prospect of Kensworth assisting him in gaining such a seat had dimmed considerably, and while his brother would see him elected in a heartbeat, it would be as a Tory, not as a reform-minded Whig. And more and more he saw the need for reform.

Ah well, they could discuss all this eventually. For propriety’s and Kensworth’s sake, he and Claire wouldn’t be marrying anytime soon. With the necessity of discretion, they wouldn’t be able to do this as often as they’d like. Perhaps once more before dawn, though. Dropping one more kiss onto Claire’s shoulder, John grinned and drifted off to sleep.

He dreamed of the Cahills. Only, there was just one of the burly figures skulking around Liverpool’s home. The man’s face transformed rapidly from Kensworth’s to Robert’s to David’s, twisting with ugliness each time. John sprinted after him but could not catch up, even though the man was merely creeping down the pavement, a pistol aimed at the prime minister….

Ping
.

He jerked awake at the small sound, his heart racing.

Ping
.

John fumbled around the bedside table until he located his spectacles, then quickly found his shirt and slipped it on. His breeches were nowhere to be seen in the waning firelight, but the long shirt covered him well enough. Crouching down, he crept over to the window and peered out.

Damnation.

Instinctively he ducked as another stone hit the window.
Ping
.

Watson stood in the street hurling pebbles as if he were an amorous suitor. Was he completely mad?

Rising up, John shoved open the sash and swept a glance around Grosvenor Square. Luckily for the idiot below, no revelers were stumbling down the street and no watchmen were out on patrol at the moment.

He pushed his head out. “Go round to the mews.”

Watson tilted his head up as if to speak.

John cut him off. “Now.”

Ducking back inside, he checked the time. A little after five o’clock, at least an hour before sunrise.

Claire slept on. He would have to wake her, though, tell her he’d be back soon. But first he would wash and dress. Maybe the noise would ease her from her satisfied sleep.

By the time he was fully dressed, however, boots and all, Claire still hadn’t moved a muscle. John bent over the bed and stroked his fingers across her forehead and through her hair.

“Mmmm,” she mumbled, turning onto her back, exposing one gracefully curved breast.

“Mmmm is right,” John murmured, tempted to take that dusky nipple into his mouth. But duty called. He’d already broken his vow to put work first. “Claire.”

Her breaths were deep and even; he didn’t have it in him to wake her. So he leaned over and feathered a kiss across her cheek. “I’ll be back soon. You’ll never even know I was gone.”

Possibly soon enough to make love to her again before the sun rose. Now
that
was a secret engagement he could look forward to. Then, later, more courtship.

He quickened his pace down the back staircase.

***

A whisper of air tickled Claire’s cheek. She sleepily brushed at it with the back of her hand and then turned and snuggled deeper into her pillow. It wasn’t time to rise yet. It couldn’t be. She sensed no light on the other side of her eyelids and her stomach wasn’t complaining, so…

Something, a disturbance, a stillness that hadn’t been there before, prodded the back of her sluggish mind. Still, she refused to wake up. She was so warm and cozy here.

In John’s bed
.

She snapped her eyes open. It was dark. So dark she couldn’t tell if she was in John’s bed, but she was still naked, so she must be. Had to be.

She couldn’t hear John breathing. That was the change, what had made the room seem so still. She pulled herself up onto one elbow.

“John?”

No response. The bedclothes on the other side were flat. Empty.

Claire sat up. A queer feeling wormed its way through her stomach. “John?”

Second by second, her sight adjusted to the darkness. He was gone.

She took a deep breath and smothered her disappointment. Perhaps nature had called. Yes, of course, it was something like that. He would return soon.

Flopping back onto the pillow, she pulled the bed linens close around her. He would be back soon and then perhaps… How long did they have to wait before being lovers again? Emily hadn’t covered that.

Claire closed her eyes and imagined John’s return. Hot kisses along her shoulder, firm hands cupping her breasts, hard muscles pressing against her back. Her body flushed just thinking about it, and Claire sighed. But now that she was awake, she was hungry. And in need of a wash.

Spying her wrapper near the end of the bed, she threw it on before fumbling about the bedside table, trying to light a candle. At last the flame flickered to life, and she swept the candle before her, illuminating the empty room.

John’s clothes were gone. Claire’s stomach turned oddly once more. She did not like being left.

He’ll come back
. It must be hours yet before dawn. She glanced at the mahogany clock beside the bed—and suddenly froze.

Nearly half past five
.

Panic swept through her, jolting her heart into a frenzied beat. The maids would be up and about soon. Soon enough that they might discover her creeping through the hall toward her own bedchamber.

She flew into action. Wrapper off. Nightrail on. Wrapper back on. She dashed to the bed and went to straighten the linens but hesitated when she spied a dark red stain. Emily had mentioned the bleeding. Faced with the evidence of what she and John had done, Claire swallowed. She didn’t regret it, but…John’s absence occasioned a qualm, a qualm that grew more serious and intense as the seconds ticked away. Why had he left her in such a vulnerable position? She couldn’t embarrass Allerton and Emily. Or the dowager. How mortifying would it be if John’s mother found out what they’d done?

The last thing she wanted to be doing the morning after—the
very early, still dark
morning after—making love for the first time was scurrying around the room worrying about all these details. She wanted to be nestled in John’s arms, inhaling the wonderfully sweet almond scent of him.

But there was no time to do either. She pulled the sheets and counterpane tight. John would have to deal with whatever questions arose, since he wasn’t here to deal with the issue right now.

Grabbing her candle from the mantel, she slipped over to the door and eased it open. The hall was still dark, meaning no one was up and lighting the wall sconces, so Claire took a deep breath and bolted, her bare feet making no noise on the carpet. Within half a minute she was safely inside her own darkened bedchamber.

She sank onto the cold bed. Why had John not awakened her? Had something important happened with his mission? He could have awakened her, or at the least left a note.

Instead he’d simply left.

Was this what life lived with a spy was like—always wondering where he was and what he was doing? A life filled with uncertainty, the chilling disquiet always threatening?

For both their sakes, she hoped sleep and a large breakfast repaired her foul mood.

***

“Watson, what in God’s name are you doing here?” John grabbed the man by the arm and dragged him down the mews, farther away from Allerton House. “You risk compromising my position by showing up here.”

“There has been a change to Liverpool’s schedule, and I thought you might like to know forthwith.”

John could barely make out the man’s face in the pre-dawn light, but he heard him sniff. “A coded note asking to meet you at White’s, at a reasonable hour, would have been sufficient.”

“
My lord
, you seem to be unaware that time is of the essence.”

“I am very aware of the
time,”
John said with tempered patience. He held out his hand, and Watson slapped the paper onto his palm. “Is the prime minister still refusing to curtail his activities?”

“Of course,” Watson said. “He refuses to succumb to violent intimidation and doesn’t want to scare the people.”

Or rouse those who wish to remove him from power
. Aloud, John asked, “Have you any other news?”

“I have plenty. Let me see.” Watson paced the cobblestones. “Because you haven’t caught the assassin, the prime minister has added more guards to his retinue. Because you have so far failed in your mission, Lord Sidmouth has increased pressure on the Hampden Clubs. Because you can’t find the rotten peer in England, this whole country may burn to the ground.”

So, Watson had accomplished what he came to: giving John the new information in the most irritating way possible.

“That’s coming a bit strong,” John replied with an air of nonchalance he didn’t feel. Sidmouth
had
authorized that attack on the Hampden Club in Hertfordshire? Why had he risked John’s mission? Did he think such raids would quiet the agitators, possibly even the assassin? What a fool.

John had hardly been sitting idle. He’d submitted his report on the Hertfordshire Hampden Club as soon as he returned to London. Now he recounted to Watson how he’d spent the last thirty-six hours: visiting three different clubs, attending a ball plus two soirees, and venturing into a sordid gaming hell and numerous taverns, all in the name of exposing the assassin. Not to mention employing Claire to do his work. Literally,
not to mention it.
But the clues all pointed to Robert or David now. Or both. And not Kensworth.
Please God, not Kensworth.

“It’s the twenty-first of April!” Watson exclaimed. “You are damned fortunate Liverpool is still alive.”

The look of disgust on his face mirrored John’s assessment of his own work. He
was
failing miserably. The sensible thing to do was ask for assistance. He couldn’t watch the two Cahill brothers all the time, but someone needed to.

“I need four men,” he told Watson.

“Four!”

John ignored the outburst. Sidmouth wouldn’t deny him the support; how would the secretary explain
that
to a dying Liverpool? “Send the men to me at the Crooked Crown, ten o’clock.”

Watson didn’t look pleased—when did he in John’s presence?—but nodded. John strode back toward Allerton House, intent on completing his mission and then making Claire his wife.

“You still owe me dinner!” Watson claimed.

Without breaking stride John replied, “You still owe me six hundred pounds.”

Back inside the house, he paused outside his bedchamber door to savor what awaited him, a sleepy, naked Claire curled up in his bed. He couldn’t wait to kiss those plump lips again. To bring her sweet body to climax once more before they must part. He slipped inside.

She was gone. He sensed it before he even looked at the bed.

Then the clock. Twenty-five minutes. He had not been away long, and look what it had cost him.

Claire must have awoken and, finding him gone, decided to leave. He couldn’t blame her. The last thing he wanted was for her to be caught in embarrassing circumstances.

Wanting to make certain she’d returned to her room without incident, he crept down to the other wing and silently opened her door. Under the quilted counterpane she slept soundly. Oh, to wake her. Claire had been as passionate as he’d always imagined and, what thrilled him even more, she’d been bold despite her lack of knowledge. When she’d touched him…

Enough. For propriety’s sake, he must leave her.

***

He slept too long. By the time he awoke, he had to rush his morning ablutions and forego breakfast in order to arrive at the Crooked Crown to meet Sidmouth’s men. He did, however, pen a note before leaving Allerton House and entrusted it to a footman along with the coins necessary to purchase a bouquet of flowers. At least living in the same house would enable him to court Claire on the sly, away from the eyes of the
ton
.

He arrived at the tavern with only a minute to spare. The four men sent by the Home Office must have been given a description of him, for they waved him over as soon as he entered the noisy common room. He straddled an empty chair and explained how he needed them to watch the Cahill brothers in shifts, day and night. They quartet seemed capable enough, though two were a bit rough. He ordered that pair to go rest up for the evening watch then took the other two, Duncan and Flewett, in tow to Kensworth House.

While John was showing them the best places to remain unobtrusive, Robert Cahill lumbered down the front steps and into a waiting carriage.

“Flewett,” John said, “remain here and keep an eye on David. Duncan and I will follow Robert.”

Then they hailed a hackney and were on their way, with John hoping the day would end in an arrest and the end of his mission.

For he had a pretty lady awaiting his escort that evening.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Claire was in the nursery, simultaneously playing dolls with Olivia and being beaten at draughts by her nephew, when Emily burst through the door.

“You’ve received flowers!”

Handing the doll back to Olivia and making one final, foolish move on the game board, Claire stood and gave her sister a sardonic look, hoping the nervous flutter of her stomach didn’t show on her face. “It’s been known to happen. Remember Mr. Dutton from two years ago?”

“Auntie Claire will be back in a trice, children,” Emily said. Then she lowered her voice as she escorted Claire out into the corridor. “Women who break an engagement do not usually receive flowers so soon afterward.”

“Perhaps they were sent by some grateful young lady who’s secretly been in love with Stephen these past few months,” Claire mused.