Elizabeth Boyle (42 page)

He paled and shuddered, just like Amelia thought he might. “Don’t even say her name. If I’d known the little imp was visiting I would never have agreed to join my father here. She’s followed us riding, placed herself at my elbow at every meal, and tagged along while we tried to ‘tour’ the west wing.” He sent her a knowing look, as if she should have been just as annoyed at the young girl’s interference.

But she couldn’t help tweaking him a little bit further about his ingénue. “I think you will miss Lily when we leave Byrnewood. She is quite spoiling you with all her attentions. She’ll ruin you for every woman you’ll ever meet.”

“Come now, Amelia,” Webb began, leaning over her shoulder so his lips were just a whisper away from her ear. “Forget Lily, forget our hosts, forget everything but us—hidden away, trapped if you prefer, within this verdant prison.”

“We’re hardly hidden,” she replied, ignoring the picture her lascivious imagination began to create. “Why, anyone could stumble upon us.”

“That’s what makes it so exciting,” he offered, his fingers plying the neckline of her gown, edging the blue satin slowly off her shoulders.

Amelia leaned back and let him begin his seduction. It was just as he said, the danger of being caught added to the excitement.

The same dangerous thrill of disclosure they shared in their mutual profession, spying.

It had been Webb’s father, Lord Dryden who’d recruited her into the ranks of the Foreign Office at two and twenty, when she’d gained her freedom as a widow. In the nine years since, she’d become one of England’s top agents— deception and amorous pursuits her most valuable contributions to King and country.

Webb’s lips teased a sensitive spot at the nape of her neck. “If my father wants us to pose as lovers in Vienna, shouldn’t we start practicing our roles?”

Oh, she wanted him. But she wanted him demanding her favors. Pulling away, she rose from the bench and straightened her gown.

“I really can’t do this. As a woman of honor, that is.” She ignored his snort of disbelief. “I can hardly allow myself to be the instrument of your ruination. I have it on good authority you are saving yourself for your young fiancée.”

“My wh-a-a-at?” Webb choked out, as he backed away.

“Lily, of course. She confided to me last night that once she turns sixteen, the two of you are to be wed.”

“The hell if I …” He paced a few steps away, tramping the grass beneath his feet. When he whirled back around, he sputtered, “How could you believe her? She’s a lying, conniving little …”

“
Tsk, tsk
. That’s hardly the way to talk about one’s betrothed,” she teased. “I’ll certainly cry at your wedding. But then I always cry at weddings.”

His frantic steps came to an abrupt halt. “Wedding? I’ll not wed her or anyone for that matter.”

“Anyone?” Amelia retrieved her parasol and twirled it back and forth. It wasn’t that she had any intention of marrying a man like Webb Dryden, who possessed neither title nor wealth, but still she found his declaration insulting. She tipped her chin up and looked away from him.

“Dammit, Amelia. You know what I mean.” He began pacing again. “I am heartily sick of everyone teasing me about that child. She’s followed me around like a stray mongrel since the first day we met—much to my misfortune.”

“Oh, you are too cruel,” she cooed back. “Besides, that child, as you so dismissively call her, is growing up—or haven’t you noticed?”

“Noticed what? She’s a skinny, gangly creature. She is so awkward, I’m surprised they take her out in public. Why, she nearly destroyed half of her sister’s salon last night, what with her tripping and bumping into everything. And that gown she wore, why it was indecent on someone that young. I can’t see how her parents allow her to parade about clad like that.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t paid that much attention to her.” As much as Amelia disliked his eyes being anywhere other than on her, their conversation was having the desired effect. “That child has all the markings of a beauty,” she said quite honestly. “Look at her sister and mother. Give your little fiancée another year, perhaps two, and she’ll fill out and grow into those awkward limbs you so heartily disavow.”

Webb shook his head. “Lily D’Artiers grow into a beauty? Preposterous! They should consider locking her away in a convent as a mercy to society.”

“She wants only to impress you, and you ignore her.”

Webb’s mouth fell open in dismay. “I don’t dare encourage her! Why, I’ll never be rid of her as long as she thinks I harbor some slight
tendre
for her. And rid of her I mean to be or else I’ll have her tagging after me until I am in my grave.”

“Sir, I think thou protests too much,” she quipped. “Why it sounds to me as if you do harbor some feelings for her, whether you care to admit it or not.”

At this, he launched into an angry tirade on Lily D’Artiers and her numerous shortcomings. Amelia almost felt sorry for the girl. But any pity was quickly set aside. She would have bet the sapphire necklace the Pasha had given her that the fair Lily would grow into a sensational beauty. One day Webb Dryden would find himself standing in line for the chance to gaze upon the girl’s heart-stopping golden hair and pale green eyes. Then Lily would have him dancing to her tune.

By that time, Amelia would be … well, she didn’t want to count the years today. Though she still passed for twenty and five, even that, she knew, wouldn’t last much longer. She needed to start seriously looking for a titled, and more importantly, wealthy husband.

However, she thought, as she watched Webb’s dark blue eyes flash while he continued his litany of Lily’s endless faults, her search for another husband could begin after their mission in Vienna. Webb’s eyes promised too much passion, too much excitement, something too dangerous and compelling to rush hastily into a convenient marriage.

Besides he’d nearly reached his boiling point. For that matter, so had she.

Amelia glanced up and listened to his final objections.

“You would have me encourage her, Amelia?” he said, his tone as amazed as outraged. “Knowing that Ramsey bloodline of hers, I’d very likely find her sneaking into my bed in the middle of the night, declaring her undying passion for me. T’would be a bit crowded with the three of us, now wouldn’t it?” He caught her hand, his tight grip evidence he had no intention of releasing her as he hauled her into his embrace. “There is barely enough room in my bed these days for me, given how you chase me around.”

“I do not chase… .” She leaned against him, her lips coming within inches of his. “I prefer the word
pursue
.”

“Then start pursuing, my lady.”

His lips caught hers in a bruising kiss. She nearly cried out in triumph as his pent-up frustrations poured forth in his ravenous exploration of her mouth. They sank to the ground, pulling off each other’s clothing in heedless abandon.

It took Amelia but a moment in her lover’s fevered embrace to set aside her concerns about his amusing little “betrothed.”

But she may not have forgotten so easily if she’d looked to the entrance of the secret garden and seen the tall, gangly figure poised in horrified silence at the opening in the hedges. Nor did she hear the tear-choked vow as the broken-hearted maiden stumbled away.

“I hate you, Webb Dryden. I’ll hate you ‘til the day I die.”

“Y
our reasons for tearing me away from London had better be important, sir,” Webb Dryden said to his father, seated at the imposing desk of his long-time friend Giles Corliss, the Marquess of Trahern. Byrnewood Manor, Giles’s ancestral home, was situated a few miles outside of Bath, and though it was a delightful town, London was where Webb wanted to be, not rusticating in the countryside in the frosty depths of late autumn.

As far as he was concerned, other than an imminent French invasion, there couldn’t be reason enough to drag him away from the delights of town. He’d spent the last two years mucking through the wars and courts on the Continent and had been recalled only after he’d been injured and needed the safety of home to recuperate.

And that had only been a month ago.

Damnation, he was bone weary of traveling and wanted only to yield to the comforts of a soft bed and an even softer woman. Not that he’d found that in London.

He’d made the mistake of mentioning in passing to his worried mother that he was considering settling down. He’d only said it to appease her fears about his missions, but she’d taken his words to heart and had been dragging him through the Marriage Mart ever since.

“Why are you still limping?” his father asked, ignoring his rude inquiry. “I thought McTaggart patched you up in Paris.”

“He did,” Webb said. “He also said I needed rest, and I should avoid bruising carriage rides across the countryside.”

“
Harrumph
,” his father replied, not looking up from the papers before him. He’d arrived from their family estate, Webb knew, minutes earlier, for the Dryden coach with its plain trappings and small, tasteful crest still stood in front of Brynewood’s ivy-fronted entrance, the lathered horses prancing in their traces. The elder Dryden had used his extra time to appropriate the room’s most commanding seat, a leather-bound monstrosity behind Giles’s large oak desk.

“Your note only said to meet you here,” Webb stated, bowing briefly to their hosts—Giles and his wife, Sophia, the Marchioness of Trahern—both seated on a sofa to one side of the desk.

As bad as all that
, he thought, noting the worried frown marring Sophia’s normally unruffled features. Even in the toughest of spots, the lady rarely looked anything but en-chantingly amused.

Surely the news of his little nighttime excursion into the Tuileries right past Boney’s guards hadn’t reached his father’s ears yet. They’d only winged him as he’d escaped, and the fact that he’d survived the fall from that first-story window was a testament both to his resiliency and to the gardener’s laziness at not having cleared away an enormous pile of autumn leaves. And even if the entire venture hadn’t received his father’s blessing beforehand, Webb had obtained the documents they’d sought.

For the life of him, other than that minor issue of insubordination, he couldn’t think of any other reason why he would be summoned into the country for an interview with this grim-faced tribunal led by his father.

So why was it that Webb had the distinct feeling he’d been summoned for a funeral?

His, to be precise, gauging from Sophia’s sympathetic expression. More than likely another demotion. Or worse, a desk assignment in the catacombed basement of the Foreign Office.

Lord Dryden waved Webb toward an open seat. “I was just telling Lord and Lady Trahern the news, my boy. News far too delicate to discuss in my office.”

Too delicate for the formidable stone walls of the Foreign Office? His prospective desk in the damp basement took on the proportions of a looming coffin.

His father cleared his throat and announced, “Henri de Chevenoy is dead.”

“Henri dead?” he repeated quietly, startled out of his own selfish musings. But even then, an impish part of him drew a sigh of relief. That meant his escapade hadn’t been bandied about as yet.

Webb watched his father slowly take off his gold-rimmed spectacles and wipe them with a white linen cloth. The measured movements told Webb that de Chevenoy’s death, a disastrous event in itself, wasn’t the only piece of bad news his sire wished to impart, merely the beginning.

But what could be worse than the death of Henri de Chevenoy? Webb wondered.

For nearly twenty-five years, de Chevenoy had been England’s primary agent across the Channel—and not just for the operations in France. De Chevenoy had been trusted to oversee most of England’s activities on the Continent. Once a high-ranking nobleman in Louis XVI’s court, he had disappeared into the nominal safety of the countryside during the first deadly tides of revolution. Though not one to call attention to himself, de Chevenoy had never been far from the administration
du jour
. With the ever shifting political forces, the man had developed an uncanny knack for disconnecting himself from one regime and latching onto the ascending fortunes of the next, all behind the scenes. Lately, his friendship with the upstart Corsican, Napoleon Bonaparte, had been a great service to England’s war efforts.

And now de Chevenoy was dead, just when England needed him most. Webb’s earlier fears seemed foolish in the face of this calamity.

“When?” Sophia asked quietly, breaking the stunned silence.

“Well, now, ‘when’ you ask,” Lord Dryden blustered as he sorted through his papers. “A month ago. His valet, Costard, found him face down in his dressing room. The man stepped out to retrieve something, and when he returned, de Chevenoy was dead. Apparently a heart ailment. Sad business it is, my lady, but I wanted you to hear it from me, because I knew you were fond of the man.”

Sophia nodded her appreciation.

“Now, the real muddle to all this is …” he paused, looking vaguely uncomfortable at having to continue in the presence of a lady, even one with Sophia’s nefarious background.

“You know I’ll not leave, my lord,” Sophia said, smiling politely and settling deeper into the sofa. “You can’t drop such havey-cavey business within my earshot and then expect me to bow out like some insipid miss when you finally get to the gist of the matter, now can you?”

Webb knew his father had never quite approved of her involvement in these operations, but not even his father’s stiff-lipped mien could argue with her natural skill for spying or her ability to plan strategy. While Giles had long been considered one of the Foreign Office’s best operatives, Sophia was her husband’s partner and equal in every sense, and had been since the first day they’d met.

And even now, when she was obviously far gone with another child and clearly unfit for whatever mission his father had in mind, Webb saw her glancing at her husband in that secret, unspoken language they shared. Webb swore the Traherns could stand across a room from one another and have an entire conversation without uttering a word.