His Sinful Secret (5 page)

“Curious thing to crop up, don’t you think?”

Yes, I do,
Michael thought grimly, well aware of the ache of lacerated flesh under the tightly wrapped bandage. “It doesn’t bode well for security within the organization. We can’t ignore the probability someone is leaking information. Both times I was on my way from an exchange point. London isn’t the safest city in the world, but two attacks in such close sequence make me wonder if whoever is responsible has prior knowledge of my whereabouts, which raises an entirely new set of questions. Let’s start with who, how, and why.”

“Hard to say.” As always, Peyton showed very little emotion. “What are you going to do about it, and how soon can I know the results of your inquiry?”

“Damn all, Charles, I’m supposed to get married tomorrow. I’m contemplating my options, but I have to make a pretense of offering my new wife some of my attention. You’re going to have to give me a few days at least. And can I mention I am asking you for information, not the other way around?”

“I admit I am intrigued by this particular development. If I find out anything pertinent, you will be contacted, as long as you promise a reciprocal agreement.” A low laugh rang out. “And of course I realize your nuptials are impending. I’m invited, remember?”

As was most of London’s exalted circles, if the guest list was any indication. Sir Charles certainly qualified. Even if he hadn’t been knighted for his service to the

Crown, he was the brother-in-law of the infamous Duke of Rothay and had an aristocratic heritage as impressive as his own. Michael had to admit that the thought of the ceremony and the celebration following it made him want to grind his teeth. He was not one for ostentation, much less that kind of crush, and on top of it all he had to deal with his injury, along with being the center of attention.

And afterward, of course. The wedding night still loomed as somewhat of a problem. He hadn’t yet decided how to explain away his wound.

A swirl of mist went by, the curling moisture brushing his face like tiny, wet claws. He gave a curt nod. “I look forward to seeing you there, Charles. But the wedding aside, I admit I am very fond of breathing and quite a few other things that go along with being alive. Any theories on how to approach this?”

“You’re an inventive man. I’m sure you’ll come up with something. What I can do is loan you help if you need it. Contact me the usual way.”

It was the best Michael could hope for, and he nodded. The moment the real problem surfaced in the second vicious assault in less than a week, he’d known he was going to have to deal with it. Peyton rarely became involved directly. He was the girder under the bridge, holding it up but hidden from view.

They parted, going in different directions, the convoluted departure a time-consuming necessity. Though it was fine that he and Charles knew each other on a social basis, they made it a point to never be seen meeting. Questions would be asked, conclusions would be drawn, and the results could be disastrous.

He avoided going home and instead headed to his club. Southbrook House was crawling with relatives he didn’t even know he had, and though he was prepared to be congenial and act the eager bridegroom tomorrow, he didn’t have the fortitude to deal with elderly aunts and distant cousins at the moment.

A quiet meal and several stiff brandies in a secluded corner sounded like a more appealing idea.

As he handed his damp greatcoat to the steward, he couldn’t help but think of how different Harry would be feeling at the moment. His older brother would have been happy, no doubt, and looking forward to the whole affair rather than dreading it, because at the end of the day, he would have his beautiful bride to warm not just his bed but also his heart.

Michael didn’t in the least resemble his easygoing, idealistic sibling except in looks. He wondered if the lovely Lady Julianne realized the bargain fate had arranged for her. Instead of a man who was eager to wed her and dutiful in every way, and who would probably make an ideal husband and a splendid duke someday, she’d gotten nothing but a reluctant bridegroom with a legion of dark secrets and no desire for the pomp of his status in society.

Not much of a trade, in anyone’s mind. She’d been cheated.

“Damp out there, isn’t it, Longhaven? If you’ve a mind to, come join us. We were actually just discussing you, wondering if you might make an appearance.“

His attention jerked back to the moment and he saw Luke Daudet, Viscount Altea, sitting at a table, a glass of amber liquid in front of him and a faint smile on his mouth. Next to him, his face holding the same gloss of amusement, was Lord Alex St. James, his dark hair just a shade too long for fashion—not that he’d ever cared for convention—his gaze speculative.

If Michael could count anyone as his close friends, they both qualified. But this wasn’t the night they should all see each other. Both had been recently married. St. James had taken as his wife the gloriously lovely daughter of an earl, and she was now expecting their first child, and Luke had recently wed a very beautiful young widow who was also embracing coming motherhood. Both men were, by their own admission, extremely contented in their newly wedded bliss and delighted at impending fatherhood. They might even want to talk about it, and it was a subject Michael wanted to avoid like the plague.

Bloody hell.
If he wished to discuss marriage he could have just gone home and endured the well-meaning, enthusiastic aunts.

But it wasn’t as if Luke and Alex were not comrades, after all. He took the proffered seat. “I thought you both were still out of town.”

From across the table Luke, fair and classically handsome, gave him his infamous lazy smile, his silver eyes full of amusement. “Remember, we have a wedding to attend tomorrow. Madeline had a fitting for a new gown just this afternoon to wear to the nuptials. Her waistline has begun to disappear.”

Michael made a noncommittal noise and glanced around for the waiter.

Alex remarked, “Amelia would never miss it, though her condition has become obvious. She made me swear we would sit near the back.” He grinned. “I do not have the heart to tell her that will not make her less conspicuous, but if it reassures her, I will agree to anything. I think she is more beautiful than ever as she increases.”

Where was that damned waiter? Michael nodded, enceinte ladies not his forte.

Luke reached out and offered his half-full glass of whiskey. “Though few people do, I know you. Both Alex and I do. Or as much as anyone does. You have
that
look. Here, take mine until your drink arrives. I just ordered it.”

It was a decent gesture and Michael wasn’t about to refuse. He accepted the glass and took a drink so large he almost ended up coughing. In a slightly hoarse voice, he asked, “What look?”

“Hunted.” Alex nodded slowly. “I agree with Luke. Cornered. Trapped. Doomed. Condemned.”

“Spare me more descriptions, please,” he interrupted with a short laugh. The irony of the observation didn’t escape him. He
was
being hunted and it had nothing to do with his upcoming wedding. “Damn all, I am not in the mood for sarcasm, but the whiskey is most welcome.”

“Avoiding the well-wishing throng by hiding out here, eh?” Luke lounged back, his expression neutral. “I did the same thing the night before I married, and we had a small, private ceremony. Yours promises to be quite the event. I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve seen you panicked before.”

Michael admitted, “I concede, as someone who can make the comparison, I would rather face a French column than a bevy of nosy, well-wishing relatives, much less the pomp of the grandiose celebration my mother has planned.”

“I understand the sentiment.” Seated carelessly in his chair, Alex chuckled. “It is why I was married by special license. But ask my brother John; it passes eventually. Like a bad case of indigestion.”

“Thanks.” Michael gave him a wry look.

“Your intended bride is a beautiful girl. Madeline pointed her out to me one night at a function.” Luke’s silver eyes were reflective.

“Yes.” Michael drank more whiskey. It banished the chill and eased the pain of his wound. If only it banished the image of Harry’s smiling face and his own nagging sense of guilt over the current state of affairs. Logically, he knew it was irrational to feel that way, but he just did. He hadn’t asked for the title, nor, as a younger son, had he ever expected to inherit, but it had happened and he accepted it, though reluctantly. Julianne was another matter. His brother had been in love with her.

“You’ll survive.” With a lifted brow, Alex watched him down his drink.

“I’ve certainly been through worse,” Michael muttered. “The other evening comes to mind. Since you are here and I value your opinions, I’d like your advice. I have a certain delicate issue to address.”

“Issue?” Luke raised a brow.

“I might have something to hide from my bride.”

St. James choked on his drink. After a clearing cough, he said sardonically, “Just one something? I would more likely think you have hundreds of secrets she will never discover. For instance, that you were one Wellington’s most celebrated spies and haven’t completely retired the title either.”

“That’s part of it.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I’m glad you find this amusing, but this is not a jest.” Michael did his best to look bland. “I might have encountered a small problem.”

“Small?”

“Perhaps not
so
small.”

“Such as?”

“A knife wound.”

That caught their full attention. In consternation, they stared across the table. “Maybe we should order a full bottle as you explain how that came to be,” Luke finally murmured.

“The bottle sounds like a good idea, but I can’t explain. I am not sure why, but I was unexpectedly attacked. It isn’t the first time either, though in this instance, my assailant did some damage.”

“How bad is it?”

“Bad enough I can’t possibly conceal it.”

“I see,” Luke said after a quiet moment. “So in the service of the Crown, once again, you were wounded, and you—so used to devious practices—have no idea of a plausible excuse to give your new bride? Hmm. I may have to think for a moment on this one. More importantly, what steps are being taken to ensure your safety?”

Michael’s smile was crooked. “You know full well the policy on intelligence agents. The war is supposedly over. We do not exist.”

“In other words, it falls to you find out who wants your blood.” Alex ran his fingertips down the side of his now-empty glass.

Thinking of Antonia and Lawrence, not to mention several other colleagues, Michael said neutrally, “I’m not entirely alone, and I’m on my guard.”

“If we can do anything—”

“Oh, you can. You are both married men. Help me decide how to handle the question of why I’m currently wearing a swath of bandages. I have only until tomorrow before the ax falls.”

The hum of conversation was low at this hour, and the subdued surroundings held a familiar hint of tobacco and the smoky essence of brandy. The waiter unobtrusively brought more whiskey and discreetly departed. Luke poured himself a glass, and when he glanced up his gaze was very direct. “I am not sure what to tell you except don’t lie to her.”

Almost instantly, Alex agreed. “He’s right.”

Michael’s face tightened. It was probably so insignificant no one else would notice it, but he felt it. “I don’t tell falsehoods as a rule.”

“No, you don’t.You are a master at redirecting the conversation instead, but in this case, she is going to be your wife. The mother of your children. Your lover and your partner. I know I am simplifying it, but surely if she shares your life she deserves to share your secrets as well.”

Alex had never been good at equivocation. That was why he’d been a damned fine soldier, but not a spy.

This was, however, not a war, at least not in the sense most people knew it. Michael knew
his
secrets were a burden. He had never put them on someone else’s shoulders and wasn’t about to give them to a young woman he barely knew. He finished his whiskey. “Put that way, you were correct earlier. It does sound like a life sentence.”

“You’ll survive.” Luke’s mouth twitched. As a former aide-de-camp for Wellington, he understood compromise a bit better.

The wedding? Or the assassination someone seemed determined to execute? One loomed as ominous as the other. Michael set the glass on the table with a decisive
click
. He said, “I intend to.”

T
he scent of flowers filled the air and even the weather had cooperated and cleared, replaced by warm, benevolent sunshine. It made the church too warm, and everywhere fans moved in languid rhythm. It was packed with well-dressed guests, all of them craning their necks, impatient for the event of the season. The wedding of the handsome heir to the Duke of Southbrook was a coveted invitation. The tragedy that boosted a younger son into the spotlight seemed only to add a romantic edge to the situation that titillated the rapt crowd. His status as a war hero didn’t detract from the attraction.

Antonia understood the romantic ideal of it all, even if she no longer believed in it.
If they all only knew the truth.
Oh, yes, Michael was a hero—more of a hero than any of them realized. That wasn’t in doubt. But his status didn’t conform to the conventional sense of flashing blades and bullets and defeated Frenchmen retreating in terror.

No. He was valiant in a different way. A man who used his mind besides his sword arm, and won with uncanny success. Had it not been for his keen intellect, she wouldn’t even be alive.

Maybe that was incorrect. Her former life had been obliterated back in Spain, so that part of her was gone, but she wouldn’t have been resurrected into a new form of woman . . . one who still fought against treacherous anarchy and ambitious invaders.