In Bed with a Spy (24 page)

A
BRIEF KNOCK PRECEDED
Jones’s entrance into the room. “Sir Charles has arrived, Angel. I heard his carriage out front.” Even as he spoke, the front knocker fell hard, once.

“I’ll speak with him.” Angel stood, long body unfolding itself. “Stay here, Lilias.”

There was little chance to argue, given that Angel was through the door. She started to follow, but Jones stepped in front of her. In his quiet, dispassionate way, he blocked her from exiting the room. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“I will give them two minutes, Jones. That is all.”

“Yes, ma’am.” That was all he said. As though he were not protecting his compatriots, and she were not threatening him.

But she had no intention of being left behind. Angel might believe she did not need to be informed of the circumstances, but this was her battle. Her life. If she needed to fight to be included, she would. She wasn’t waiting even two minutes. She sized up her opponent, his broad shoulders, the narrow hips. He was bulkier than Angel. More solid. She looked him over, trying to decide on his most vulnerable area.

Jones squared his shoulders, as impenetrable as a stone wall, just as Angel and Sir Charles brushed past him.

“Where are the books?” Sir Charles moved into the room as he had before, with purpose and strong strides.

“Here, sir.” Angel picked them up in one hand and passed them to Sir Charles. “I think they’re coded—or partially coded.”

“Will you arrest him?” Lilias said, stepping up beside Angel. “If he is an Adder, he must not be allowed to go free.”

“Lilias.” Angel set a staying hand on her arm. “There isn’t enough evidence to arrest him.”

“Not enough—what about the books?” Shocked, she swiveled her head between the two of them.

“They’re likely coded.” Sir Charles riffled through the pages, as though that was all she needed to know to understand their logic.

Well, she didn’t. “Explain.”

“He’s a peer,” Angel said, his hand firm on her arm. “Fairchild is a member of the House of Lords and is well respected. The books aren’t enough information to arrest him on. We don’t know what they say. Once they are decoded, or if we find more information, we can act. Until then, there is nothing that can be done but search for more evidence.”

“Catherine may be in danger every moment she stays in Fairchild House. The household servants as well,” Lilias bit out. She could not let them stay there. She did not know what Grant was capable of, but if he was involved with the Death Adders, he could kill them all.

“There is no reason to believe he will kill any of them now,” Sir Charles said calmly, picking up the second bird volume to thumb through that. “Presumably, unless he becomes aware he is under suspicion, he would not want to be linked to any deaths—yours included. It’s likely the reason you are still alive.”

Angel let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a growl. “We need the volumes decoded. Quickly.”

“Agreed. Use Maximilian Westwood. He’s fast and he’s the best.” Sir Charles tossed the second book on the desktop. The slap of it made Lilias jump and stare at it.

More evidence.

“How much evidence do you need to arrest him?” She set her hands on the edge of the desk and leaned over so her face was inches from Sir Charles. “I will obtain it.”

“Lilias, no.” Angel stepped beside her, tried to push her back from the desk.

She angled her body away from him, ignored the heavy hand on her shoulder and kept her eyes on Sir Charles. However much it hurt her heart, Angel would have to wait. “I will obtain whatever evidence you need,” she repeated.

“But, sir—” Angel was cut off before his protest could even begin.

“She must return, regardless.” Sir Charles’s fingers tapped the journal as he frowned. “If she does not—if even a whiff of suspicion reaches Fairchild—he may bolt. We can’t risk that.”

“I can search the house,” she said. Ideas began to grow in Lilias’s mind. Where would Grant hide weapons? Documents? Medallions? She could think of a dozen hiding places in the townhouse. “There are unused attics upstairs for storage. There might be something there. I could search Grant’s room. Linen closets. Wardrobes.”

“She’s not trained. She’ll make a mistake, perhaps forewarn him without meaning to.” Angel’s hands fisted, unfisted. “Send an agent during the night. Myself. Jones.”

“If Fairchild is trained, he’ll be ready for a night intruder.” Sir Charles stood, stacking the journals one on top of the other. “Mrs. Fairchild has the opportunity to search during the day while he is away, and has an excuse to be in almost any room of the house. You do not,” he said to Angel. “Send her back to search.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. She could not decide if she was satisfied or terrified. It was her duty to find the evidence now. Her duty to save herself, Catherine, the servants—and to avenge Jeremy. Or at least, to avenge the life and love she’d thought she had.

“Good,” she said. “Good.” She would not let fear overwhelm her, whatever it took.

She stepped to the ubiquitous brandy decanter in Angel’s study, poured herself two fingers and tossed it back. It scorched her throat, her heart, her stomach. Drawing in a breath, she welcomed the heat. Snapping the glass onto the tabletop, she turned and faced them.

She sent them a savage grin. “May the best woman win.”

—

L
ILIAS’S WORDS COMPETE
D
with a furious buzz in Angel’s ears.

She could not go back into the lion’s den. Fairchild could kill her at any minute. His blood chilled. He was putting a woman between himself and the Adders—putting her at risk.

“A word, Angel,” Sir Charles said before disappearing into the hall, calling for Jones and his greatcoat.

Angel spun on his heel to follow, filled with a vicious fury that had no proper direction.

“Sir,” he said, once they were near the front doors. “She cannot go.”

“It’s the plan with the least amount of risk and the most chance of success. Decode the books, let Mrs. Fairchild search—”

“I’m not letting her go back.” The words were a shock to him. He hadn’t planned to say them, but once they were out, he could not deny them. He was not putting Lilias in harm’s way. He could not let another woman die by the hand of the Adders.

Sir Charles paused in the act of putting on his greatcoat. A brow rose, slowly, coolly.

Perhaps Angel should have taken it for the warning it was, but he did not. “She’s not trained. She has no experience. She should not go back to Fairchild House.”

“Angel,” Sir Charles said softly. “You are bordering on insubordination.” He shrugged into his greatcoat with deliberate movements.

“She may be killed.” Even the thought sent his gut churning.

“Indeed. A risk she is aware of and willing to accept. I believe it does not need to be stated.” Sir Charles picked up his cane without looking at Angel, as though his concerns did not matter. “It is a risk I, too, am willing to accept.”

“But, sir—”

“She will go back.” Sir Charles opened the door, letting in rain and a cold wind. “It is nearly midnight. You will spend the next few hours giving her instructions. You will ensure she gets a few hours of sleep. Then you will return her to Fairchild House and take the journals to Westwood.
That is a direct order
.”

Angel nodded once, hard, in acceptance. But he could not speak. There was nothing to say. It was no longer a warning, but a command.

Sir Charles did not even wait for an answer, but stepped into the night and closed the door quietly behind him.

Panic gained a slippery foothold in his chest. He could not let her go back, and he could not disobey his commanding officer.

Y
OU WILL SPEND
the next few hours giving her instructions.

He had done so. Instructions on weapons to search for. Tricks to avoid detection such as searching for hairs in cabinet doors, the placement of books, the folds of a coverlet.

You will ensure she gets a few hours of sleep.

Now they were in his bedchamber, as per Sir Charles’s second command, though he doubted Sir Charles had planned for her to sleep in Angel’s bed.

“You need to sleep, Lilias. A few hours is all you have before—” He choked on the words, but she did not seem to notice. He pulled off one boot, then the other and set them next to the bed, side by side, as was his habit. If a man had to move quickly in the middle of the night, he wanted his boots close by.

“Yes, but I’m concerned about coded documents.” She toed off her half boots and set them neatly on her side of the bed. It would have been a mirror image if not for the fact that his Hessians were tall and black and polished, while her half boots were shorter and tan and soft kid leather. “What if I don’t recognize what I’m looking at?”

“Then you bring it to me.” Could she hear the displeasure in his voice? She had not noticed it yet, despite the hours of questions and answers.

You will return her to Fairchild House and take the journals to Westwood.

Sir Charles’s third command.

Some howling monster in his chest was fighting with itself. Tearing itself apart the same way a trapped animal might chew off its own leg to escape.

He glanced at Lilias, at the curve of her jaw as she angled her head to study her bundled cloak. She rummaged through folds of fabric and drew out one pistol, then the second. She’d left the fancy wood and velvet box behind when she came to him with the journals. It would have made them even more unwieldy to carry with her than the pistols alone.

For some reason, that single fact arrowed through the fog of exhaustion and worry. She’d left the box and brought the pistols. Even now, she was carefully setting the weapons on the bedside table.

Christ, he could love a woman who knew how to use a pistol and thought to set it out before bed. He
had
loved a woman like that.

And damnation, he did again.

He’d fallen in love with the widow. With Lilias.

It was good the bed was there to sit on. He needed the support just then.

He pulled his shirt over his head, let it fall beside his boots. Behind him, Lilias began to pull pins from her hair. He could sense she was coiled tight as a spring, her movements erratic and irregular.

Did she think of the fact that this might be the last night they were together? That tomorrow she could die?

“The attics seem like the most likely place to start. No one ever goes into those rooms.” She presented her back to him, turned her head to the side to look at him over her shoulder. She didn’t even ask him, as though it were a nightly routine for him to undo her buttons and the gesture needed no explanation.

He reached for the tiny pearl buttons that marched down her back. They were slippery under his fingers, and he felt clumsy. But he worked his way down the row of lustrous sentinels guarding the curve of her spine.

Damn if his male parts didn’t want her. Always, he wanted her. It was that deep part of the night, past midnight and hours before dawn. They would only get a few hours of sleep at best. Protecting her was his job for the night—it was why she was in his room. In his bed. It was no time for his body to stand at attention. But he wanted to press her to the mattress. To sink into her and pull her close and around him. Into him. To hide her from prying eyes and assassin’s knives.

He wanted to run a finger down the line of her spine, covered by the soft fabric of her chemise. Press a kiss against each one of her vertebrae. And then just stay there, holding her.

When he reached the last button she shrugged out of the gown and let it fall to the floor. She bent to pick it up, an efficient movement that spoke of routine. She snapped the fabric and moved away to lay it over the arm of a chair. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed his violent need. Perhaps she did not see the vicious fist of lust and fear that tightened in his chest.

She wore only a chemise beneath the gown. No stays, because she’d dressed herself at Fairchild House before bringing him the journals. The hem of the linen chemise brushed the top of her white stockings and the ribboned garter holding them up.

“Where would be the mostly likely place to hide more evidence, do you suppose?” She set a foot on the chair and untied the garter. She dropped the garter over her gown, then rolled the stocking down. The simple cotton skimmed over a slim thigh, the curve of calf.

“His study, where the first journals were.” But then, if it were he, additional documents would be in a separate location. Divide for maximum concealment.

The second garter followed the first. Feminine fingers with short, rounded nails rolled the second stocking down, over another shapely thigh, over skin he knew to be soft and silky. She kept the chemise on, as she had no nightgown. Practical, his Lilias. She turned down the covers of the bed with an efficient flick. Looking up at him, she raised a brow.
Are you coming?

It was all very domestic, wasn’t it?

He could see it all happening again. The domesticity. The complacency. On another day, someday in the future, perhaps they would make love in that bed, perhaps they would laugh. The highs and lows of the day would be discussed.

Then an assassin would slip into the room and the world would end. His lover’s life would end.

“Get some rest.” He could not escape. The door led to the hall, to the other levels. But leaving meant leaving her vulnerable. “I’ll be staying up to keep watch.” The chair before the fire beckoned.

Cynical blue eyes watched him stride to the chair. He pushed the pillow behind his back into shape, tested the fluff of it. Still, her eyes watched him. She got into bed, the chemise still skimming her thighs. He could just see the shadow of her sex beneath.

Damn her. He had no right to a woman. Not when he knew what could happen to her. Not when he was about to drive her to death’s doorstep and leave her there.

“Who was she?” Her words were low and quiet, but not sympathetic.

How the hell had she known? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know there was someone.” She drew her knees up, creating a mountain of fabric with the coverlet. “Whoever she was, she was someone important.”

Her eyes were curious and sharp and kind. All of the things he admired her for. No artifice there. Just Lilias.

“I loved her.” The words popped from his mouth before he realized he’d thought of them.

The chair before the fire was bloody uncomfortable. The fabric prickled against his bare back. He wanted to be in the bed. But there she was, watching him with those bright eyes, her head angled in that half-coy, half-challenge way. She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were knowing.

“What happened?”

“She died.”

—

L
ILIAS SUCKED IN
a breath. “How?” But she did not need to ask. The answer was as plain as day.

“Assassinated.” His tone was flat, his face expressionless.

He was silent and still in the chair. Neither of them could be sure if he would continue. She wondered if anyone knew the details besides himself. Pushing back the covers, she slipped from the bed and went to him. He watched her with slitted eyes as she approached. His body was flesh stretched taut over muscle and sinew, a hunter ready to pounce.

She set a hip onto the arm of the chair, bent one thigh to drape along the arm, toes of the other foot pressed against the piled rug below to balance her. She looked down and met his amber eyes.

“She was a target because I was hunting one of them in Pamplona.” Quiet words. Churning gaze. “Gemma was on assignment with me. I was posing as a wealthy merchant and she was my mistress. We tossed money around Pamplona, buying a ridiculous number of gowns and trinkets and boots. Whatever we wanted. In short, we made ourselves conspicuous.”

“On purpose, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth. “Yes, it was on purpose. It was part of the mission. Be conspicuous so no one would guess our mission. It should have succeeded.
Would
have succeeded. But I heard rumors of an Adder killing. Sir Charles sent word we were to come in, but I disobeyed his order. I thought we could delay our departure by a day, perhaps two, so that I could gather information on the Death Adder assassination.”

She wanted to tell him to stop talking. What came next was as clear to her as if she’d already heard the story. Setting her hand on his bare shoulder, she opened her mouth to tell him just that. But the words began to tumble from his lips in a mad rush.

“I went out to follow a lead. I was gone only an hour. That was all. But when I returned, the door to the rooms we had rented was open a crack. I knew what I would find.” His voice trembled, then firmed. “They had slit her throat. One clean cut. There were no other wounds, which I was grateful for.”

There was little comfort she could offer.

“She would have been aware,” he said fiercely. He turned bleak eyes toward her. His cheekbones stood out in stark relief, the skin stretched tight over bloodless cheeks.

He could have spared her the details. Perhaps he should have. But it was a heavy burden to carry alone. So she would carry it with him. “Tell me.”

“She would have seen the assassin standing over her as she died. She would have tried to call out. To call for me—” The words became a croak, then trailed into nothingness.

The gold of his eyes had turned dark as his pupils dilated. Misery etched lines into his face. With aching eyes as she fought tears, Lilias slipped right over the arm of the chair and onto his lap. She wrapped her arms around him and felt his hands grip her waist and cling there.

Then his arms went around her, drew her in until she could not tell where he began and ended. Skin pressed to skin, heart to heart. She gave him what comfort she could, knowing that it would never be enough.

“It wasn’t just any assassination, Lilias.” He whispered into the crook of her neck. “They left a note, telling me my pursuit of the Death Adders placed her on the top of the target list. They didn’t know my real name, but we were too casual with our disguise. They followed me to our rooms. She was killed because of me.”

His face was hollowed by grief and guilt. There was nothing she could say to ease either one of those. Only time would do that. But she could help in other ways. “Then let’s hunt the bastards down.”

With a raw laugh, Angel set his forehead against hers. “Christ, Lilias. You should be terrified.”

“Perhaps I should be.” She flashed him a ferocious grin. “But so should they.”