In Bed with a Spy (6 page)

I
T DIDN’T SEEM
possible a person could be abducted from a London townhouse in the middle of a crowded ball. But it had happened.

Now here she was, sitting in Angelstone’s carriage, with the faint glow of the lamps highlighting his inflexible jaw and cutting cheekbones. All lean legs and broad shoulders, he filled the vehicle’s interior. In the partial light, with his unreadable gaze and his unruly queue of hair, he looked much more dangerous than a fallen angel.

“Angelstone.”

“Mrs. Fairchild.” The words were clipped. No seductive purr, no sensual smile from those lips. Lips that had kissed her senseless and reminded her she was a woman with needs and desires. Even now, she could still taste him. Rich brandy and wild heat.

Embarrassment washed through her. She’d been forward and shameless, and look where she had found herself. Hands bound and trapped in a man’s carriage, destined for parts unknown and heaven knew what treatment.

“I demand to be released.”

“No.”

“Why am I here?” she fired back.

“I think you are quite aware.” He watched her steadily as he pulled off first one glove, then the other and stuffed them in his pocket. It was an unpardonably rude gesture for a gentleman. Obviously, he was not a gentleman.

He was close enough she could kick him. But she wouldn’t be able to open the carriage door quickly with her hands bound. And he had the medallion. The final gift from her husband, one he gave her with his last breath.

She refused to leave without it.

“The medallion is mine,” she said.

“Is it? Interesting.” The conversational tone of his words was oddly frightening. “Well, now the medallion is mine.” Propping his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward. He filled the space between them until his face was only a foot from hers.

The instinct to shrink into the seat was overwhelming.

So she leaned forward to meet him. And smiled. Slowly. “Give me”—she angled her head insolently—“the medallion.”

“Oh, but your smile is a formidable weapon, Mrs. Fairchild.” He reached out, tracing a bare thumb over her bottom lip. His skin was calloused and sensitizing. “Wicked, wanton and willful.”

Heat pooled low in her belly as desire warred with temper.

“Why, thank you.” She flicked the tip of her tongue over his thumb, tasted salt and man. Lilias hid a smug smile at Angelstone’s quick inhalation. “So is your voice. It’s by turns chilling and erotic.”

“Erotic?” he said. “A strong word for a woman.”

“I’m a strong woman.”

The carriage shuddered to a stop and they stared at each other through the darkness. The clip of the horses’ hooves rang on the cobblestones as the animals paced a step or two. Above them, the coachman called out to calm the horses.

Large hands tugged the hood of her cloak forward to shade her face.

“I’m surprised you care for my reputation enough to cover my face while you abduct me,” she said.

“Only mildly.”

The hood concealed everything from her view but his face. Just there in front of her. Lean and male—and frightening given the circumstances.

But she wasn’t beaten yet.

He stepped out of the carriage and onto the London street. For a moment, she couldn’t see him through the door and she wondered if he’d disappeared into the night. Then a strong hand reached into the carriage and gripped her arm to guide her out.

She had little choice but to accept his help. She couldn’t leave the carriage with her hands bound behind her back. Getting out the door, maneuvering the steps—all were a feat she knew would best her.

Lilias studied the street. They were still in Mayfair, but away from the fashionable West End. It was a perfectly respectable area, if not the wealthiest. She could scream and someone would look out. She could run to any door on the street and find assistance.

“Don’t.” He gripped her upper arm, hard.

Apparently he could read her thoughts.

The front door to Number 12 opened as they approached. The man standing in the lit opening flicked expressionless eyes over Lilias before stepping aside to let them pass into the hall. No, not expressionless. Concealing eyes. Secretive eyes.

“He’ll be here shortly,” the man said.

He shut the noiseless front door with careful, deliberate movements, then turned to face them. Her gaze fell on the pistol held easily in the man’s hand. She swallowed hard and studied his face again, the barest hint of nighttime stubble on his jaw, the unsmiling mouth. His jacket was tailored to broad shoulders, but it was not livery. He was no common butler.

“Good. Thank you, Jones.” Angelstone’s grip loosened, but his fingers remained curled around her upper arm. “We’ll be in my study.”

The man nodded once in acknowledgment, face serious, brows low, before disappearing into the nearest doorway.

She let Angelstone propel her down the hall and into a room full of heavy masculine furniture. A fire roared in the hearth. “Your study? Is this your home?”

“In a way.”

“Cryptic answer.”

“Sit down.” He didn’t give her much choice in the matter. He pushed her into a seat facing the desk.

Anger bubbled up in her, shot through with fear. But she knew how to bury fear. “I want the medallion.”

“Here it is.” He tossed something silver and circular on the desktop. The disc struck with the dull ping of metal hitting wood before rolling across the surface.

“I thought it had been lost.” She couldn’t reach for it. Her hands were still uselessly bound behind her. She gritted her teeth and scooted forward in the seat, her eyes on the medallion. “I don’t understand why you abducted me for this.”

“I did not know the Death Adders counted a woman among their assassins.”

Her eyes jerked up. Shock pinged around in her chest. “I don’t—What do you mean?”

“That is quite a virtuous look, Mrs. Fairchild. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were innocent.” His voice had changed. It was hard. Cold. His eyes, too, had changed. The deep amber was as sharp as the edge of the gem. He stalked forward, a predator in elegant evening attire.

“I
am
innocent of—”
What was he insinuating? Assassinations?
“I am.”

“Indeed?” He tipped his head toward the medallion. “Your little token? It’s the sign of the Death Adders. Only an assassin carries it.”

A
NGEL WATCHED HER
carefully, searching for signs of guilt or innocence.

Her features blanked for an instant, as though there was simply no thought in her mind. Then her eyes darkened as the pupils dilated. Color drained from her face. She swallowed once, hard.

He would swear she was innocent. A person can control movement, words. Tone of voice. But not pupils. Not the color of their skin. She was either shocked he had discovered her secret, or shocked the medallion was the sign of an assassin.

“I don’t know what you mean, Angelstone.” Her tone was brisk, the words clipped. “But I suggest we discuss it.”

She recovered well. Admirably well. “A wise choice,” he said.

She sat daintily in the chair, her spine straight, her chin high. Bound hands were hidden beneath her cloak. He saw her throat work as she swallowed hard. “Explain to me why you believe the medallion belongs to an assassin.”

“Explain to me why you have it.”

She held his gaze but did not speak. Her chin tipped up, showing him the slight hollow beneath her jawbone where candlelight danced.

He stayed silent, waiting. Watching. She did not struggle against the bonds, and he found that strangely admirable. Giving her a moment to think, he rounded the desk and sat. Still, she did not answer.

“We are at a stalemate, Mrs. Fairchild. One of us is going to have to break the silence or we’ll never have a discussion.”

“Irritating, but true. Very well, my lord.” She shrugged delicately, rounded shoulders curving up, then down. The cloak rippled around her. “The medallion was a gift from my husband. The last one he gave me.”

“An odd gift for a wife when a man is going off to battle.” He couldn’t think of a more horrific gift.

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.” Blond curls bounced along her jawline. She tossed her head to flick away the loose tendrils.

“One would think a man would buy a trinket to remember him by. A book of poetry. A pretty bauble. Diamonds or some other gem. But a medallion? One that is not even pretty?”

Mrs. Fairchild’s nostrils flared. In agreement or denial? She did not speak, so he did.

“A fascinating story, but highly doubtful.” Angel leaned back in his chair, eyeing her over the desktop. She was selling him a story, and he could not decide if he should buy it. She appeared calm, her voice even, but the lovely flush that usually covered her face was still noticeably absent. “Try again.”

“It’s true. I don’t know when he purchased it or how long he carried it, but he gave it to me when—” Her breath hitched. “When he lay dying.”

His instinct stirred. The doubt flickered again, for entirely different reasons.
When he lay dying.
Angel forced his muscles to relax. “The major died at Waterloo.”

“Yes.” She looked up, met his gaze. There were no tears there. No grief. The bright blue was clouded with memory. He wondered how similar the memories she carried were to his own. “But you know that already.”

“How did he die?”

“A sabre cut to his chest,” she said flatly.

Such a cut could wound a man or kill him. It was all in the angle of the sabre, the placement of the cut, the depth of the wound. An assassin would know precisely the right method.

It occurred to him Lilias Fairchild knew how to handle a sabre. She’d wielded the weapon with rudimentary skill at Waterloo. Perhaps, if she were an assassin, the sabre was not her weapon of choice, but she could certainly kill with it.

“Now it’s your turn to answer my question.” Her lips tilted up in a mocking smile. “What is the medallion?”

He studied her face again, searching for an assassin beneath the beautiful exterior. Was she an Adder? The Adders were skilled at deception. But then, he was skilled at unearthing lies.

He’d seen her grief-stricken eyes two years before.
L’Ange de Vengeance.
Yes, she had been full of vengeance, but also honesty. War revealed truth. Brave men became cowards and the humblest soldier became a hero. Mrs. Fairchild had fought, but not with any glee. Not with the skill of an assassin. In battle, soldiers did not conceal their skill or they would die. She could use the sabre, but not with enough skill to show she’d been trained. An Adder would be skilled at every weapon, or at least more skilled than Mrs. Fairchild had been.

He knew the truth in his gut, even if his brain questioned her possession of the medallion. When espionage was a man’s business, he learned to trust instinct. The brain could overthink things.

But that did not mean she was not the key to finding the Adders—or Gemma’s murderer. She still carried a medallion.

He stood and walked toward her. In a moment, the cool hilt of his dagger was in his hand. He saw the slight stiffening of her spine, the quick intake of breath. Fear. Temper. It wasn’t clear which emotion had stolen her breath. But she tipped up her chin and met his gaze squarely. Much like a brave martyr meeting the guillotine, eyes full of defiant determination.

“A deadly skill,” she said, “to hide a knife so easily in one’s coat.”

“One learns what one must.” He moved behind her chair, looked down at the nape of her neck. A vulnerable place, that exposed nape. Her shoulders tensed and he knew she felt that vulnerability. His gaze traveled the length of her spine, to the hands tied uselessly behind her.

A swift slice and the cord binding her wrists fell to the chair.

He replaced the weapon before moving around to face her again.

“And then the knife returns to the same nowhere from which it came.” She chafed her wrists. Narrowed eyes scanned his body once, likely imagining just where he’d hidden the knife. Then her eyes flicked to the medallion on the desktop. She snatched the disc, ran her hand over the onyx as though wishing to feel the surface through her gloves.

“The medallion is the sign of a group of assassins called the Death Adders.” He leaned a hip on his desk. Her head was bent over her cupped hands. The curls and coils of hair piled on her head shone like wheat under a late summer sun. “They leave it at the scene of every assassination to identify their work.”

Her body jerked. The medallion tumbled out of her hand and landed on the thick rug. The onyx emblem lay faceup. They both stared at it. The emblem resembled a many-legged spider at this distance.

“Death Adders.” Her whisper barely reached him.

“Assassins for hire.” He had some sympathy for her, but he did not change his tone. “They kill for politics, succession to a throne, inheritance of a title. As long as they receive compensation, they’ll take a life. The medallion is left on the victim or delivered to the individual that hired the assassin upon completion of the assignment.”

“Why would Jeremy have a medallion?” This statement seemed to revive her. Her hand darted out and she picked up the medallion again, fisted it. “Why would my husband have one?”

“A very good question, Mrs. Fairchild.” One he would find the answer to.

“Jeremy was not an assassin. I would know.” Her tone was low and fierce, her eyes bright. “I was married to him for six years. I lived with him. I marched with him through foreign countries. I slept beside him nearly every night.”

She spun away, the medallion still clutched in her hand. Pacing to the window she stared out. “How could I not know? If he were—if he—It’s not possible. It’s simply not.” She opened her fingers and stared down at the medallion. Anguish contorted her features, turning beauty into despair. “And if he were not an assassin, then his death—” Her lips pressed together. She did not complete the thought aloud. She did not need to.

Her shoulders hunched forward, creating a rounded valley between them. Protection of the heart. His bare fingers reached out, almost touched the creamy skin and delicate lace covering her shoulder.

But he did not. The subtle arch of her back also protected her from him.

“Do you know what you have done?” She turned to face him. Her agony had been replaced with rage. She was magnificent with it, brilliant and powerful and bright. “Even if your vile accusations aren’t true, I will always wonder if I truly knew my husband. I will always wonder if my marriage was a lie. Jeremy isn’t here to ask—” Her voice broke. She turned the medallion over in her fingers. Firelight flashed on the medallion’s smooth metal back. “He isn’t here to ask, so I will never know.”

Well, damn. Somehow he’d shrunk until he was two inches tall.

“My apologies, Mrs. Fairchild. But—”

A throat cleared. Angel spun toward the doorway and found his commander standing there.

“We may not be able to ask your husband about the truth, Mrs. Fairchild, but the circumstantial evidence carries great weight.” Sir Charles Flint wasted no time or space striding into the room. Decisive footfalls rang on the wood floor, then muffled on the rug. He was not particularly tall, but he filled the room with broad shoulders and a barrel chest.

“Sir.” Angel felt off balance, being only two inches tall. It was decidedly uncomfortable.

Sir Charles paused as he passed Angel. The spymaster’s brows rose—the question was asked. Angel shook his head, the movement barely a tremor—the answer was given.

Lilias Fairchild is not an Adder.

“I apologize we must meet under such circumstances, Mrs. Fairchild.” Sir Charles took a chair near the fire and folded his hands in his lap. “I’m Sir Charles. I can’t give information on my position or the office I work with. I’m sure you understand.”

“No. Frankly, I don’t understand. I choose not to play your games.” She shot Angel a dark look. “I demand to be released. Again.”

“You cannot be released until we have received more information,” Angel interjected, stepping forward. Sir Charles would say the same, but Angel would see to it.

“If I do not return to Fairchild House soon, the other members of my household—including my cousin-in-law, Lord Grant Fairchild—will wonder where I have gone. They will start a search for me.” Her chin tipped up and she gazed steadily at Sir Charles. The damsel staring down the dragon, though there was no fear in the damsel.

Angel stationed himself beside Sir Charles’s chair. His commander would remain seated to portray a nonthreatening demeanor. It was one of his strategies.

It was not Angel’s. He smiled. All charm. All polish.