Love and Let Spy (Lord and Lady Spy) (17 page)

“Yes, he will. What you fail to understand, Mr. Griffyn, is this visit to Kenham Hall is not about securing our betrothal—although it does solve that problem for him. This is about protecting his wife and the Barbican group from Foncé. Lord Melbourne will do anything to ensure the safety of Lady Melbourne and the group.” And whatever else he was hiding.

“What about you?”

“I am part of the Barbican group.”

“You are his niece, and he threatens you while you lie here covered in blood.”

The dear man actually looked offended on her account. “This is but a mere scratch,” she said. “But thank you for your concern.” She was not used to such solicitousness.

Griffyn did not speak for a long moment. She was half-afraid he would not speak again before her uncle returned. Finally he crossed to her. His gait was a bit cocky, but not quite a swagger. And he moved like a man who was confident of himself but wary and careful. He knelt beside her. “You are nothing more than a pawn in your uncle’s game of spies.”

“Pawn or not, I know this chess game very, very well.”

He put a finger on her lips, and she instantly felt the room was too warm. “Do you not believe you are more worthy than a pawn in someone’s game of chess? Do you not think you are worthy of your uncle’s love?”

“Yes, but…” She trailed off, not certain what she would say next.
Did
she believe she was worthy? She had known she had worth as a spy, but what about as a niece, as a person? She swallowed. Griffyn still hadn’t spoken, and she didn’t know what to say.

“But?” he prodded. “What of your husband’s love? I don’t love you.”

“Of course not.” He barely knew her. Why would he love her? And yet the words pierced her very close to her heart. She couldn’t tolerate such softness. “If you propose, we needn’t actually marry. I will find a way out. We may have to cede this battle, but we won’t lose the war. I never lose.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“What is
losing
in this case?”

She caught herself before she could make her reply—something to the effect that marrying him would be losing.

He shook his head. “That’s what I thought.”

She sat forward and winced at the pain. “But you just admitted you do not love me.” She was at a level with his dark eyes now, and those chiseled cheeks that begged for her to caress them with a finger.

He shrugged. “There are other reasons to marry.”

“Such as? Appeasing my uncle and your mother?”

“To begin. The marquess also wants me to marry. I have an interest in keeping him happy.”

“So you are not even going to fight?”

“To what end? If I don’t marry you, I’ll have to marry some other chit.”

“Chit? Chit!”

“Believe me,” he went on, ignoring her protest, “I understand the sacrifice you make in aligning yourself with me—the bastard child of an actress.”

Jane gasped. She didn’t know whether to hit him or hug him. The circumstances of his birth had nothing to do with her objections, and while she wanted to reassure him as much, she also wanted to smack him. He’d called her a chit! As though she was interchangeable with any other girl in London!

“Before you act on that murderous look, I’d better call your uncle.”

“No—”

Griffyn stood and faced the door. “Lord Melbourne, you may come in.”

The door opened immediately. “Well?”

“Serve as witness, my lord.” Griffyn faced her, crossed his arms, and glared. “Miss Bonde, will you do me the honor of becoming my…” He swallowed and scowled at her. “Wife?”

She blinked at him. It was the worst proposal she had ever witnessed. Not that she had witnessed many proposals, but she was certain had she witnessed a thousand, this would be the worst of the lot. Not that she could blame him if he really thought she cared on which side of the blanket he’d been born. Well, perhaps she could blame him a little. If she was forced to marry him, this was likely to be her only marriage proposal.

“Jane.” Her uncle’s voice had a warning in it.

She blew out an angry breath. “Fine. Yes.” Then she glared at her uncle. “I am consenting to a betrothal, not a marriage.”

“One leads to the other, Jane.”

Not with that proposal. “We’ll see.” She looked at Griffyn, but he shook his head and turned away.

***

Dominic did not know how it had all happened so quickly. It seemed one moment he was on his way home in the early morning light after a night rife with one too many revelations, and the next he was in a carriage seated across from Lady Melbourne and her niece.

It had been a day and a night, but already Miss Bonde—he supposed he had the right to call her Jane now—looked much improved. Her color had not fully returned, but she could walk on her own, though slowly, and seemed to be tolerating the ride to Richmond without complaint. Not that he thought she would complain. He could shove a hot poker in her eye and she would rather hit him than admit she was hurt.

She sat facing forward and staring out the window. Beside her, her aunt was reading a book. It seemed no one wanted idle chitchat today. No one wanted to pretend this was a journey they all looked forward to. The sun peeked out from a cloud, shining its light on Jane’s golden hair. Dominic would have sworn her hair sparkled. And even in the bright sun, he could not detect a freckle or blemish on her skin. She was a little pale, but her lips were a tantalizing shade of pink. It was an innocent shade. A sweet shade. He wanted to kiss her until her lips were wanton red.

He closed his eyes. He was on dangerous ground with her. She was the sort of woman who might make him forget all his rules. He could not allow that. Not with her or anyone. She was right to fight a union with him. He could offer her nothing a true husband should.

But he and his betrothed were the only ones not rejoicing. The marquess had been ecstatic at the news of the engagement, as had his mother. They had agreed to keep it secret for the time being—Dominic was not certain what excuse Melbourne had given for that—but he really couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen them so happy. His mother, in particular. She’d actually started to cry.

Bonde had better hurry and figure out some sort of escape plan, if she really did not intend to go through with it. He looked at her across the coach. His betrothed.
His
betrothed.
It didn’t seem possible. No woman like the beauty that sat across from him would consent to marry him, and if she did, she would certainly scorn him until the end of her days.

But Jane Bonde had consented, albeit reluctantly, but not because she objected to him. He’d seen the shock in her face when he’d accused her of not wanting a bastard as a husband. That was not why she did not want him. No. She objected to being taken away from her precious case—her mission. She objected to marriage and the freedoms it would curtail. Perhaps he had objections as well. For one, he didn’t want the intimacy of marriage. There were some men—and perhaps women as well—who should never marry. They had secrets or pasts too vile, too shocking, too revolting. Such a one did not deserve a wife or children.

But this was not the sort of thing one mentioned to one’s betrothed—even if she was only biding her time as his betrothed. This was not the sort of secret one mentioned to anyone. It was the sort one tucked away in the dark, forgotten folds of the cloak of one’s mind and hoped it stayed hidden. It was the sort of secret that invariably reared its monstrous head after a long day, waking him with sweat pouring over his body and a scream on his lips.

How would he explain waking up screaming to his wife?

Not that a scream would scare Jane Bonde. She would probably roll over and go back to sleep. Little as he liked to admit it, that was actually a point in her favor. If he had to marry, better to marry a strong woman. A woman who would not flinch at what he was and what he’d done.

But she had points against her as well. Jane Bonde, spy—or whatever she wanted to call herself—for the Barbican group, was unconventional. His mother had been unconventional, and God help them all if the family added another like her. He closed his eyes, weary at the very idea. Memories and images assaulted him, and he opened his eyes to shut them away again. He could not abide the dreams today. He hadn’t quite convinced himself that the night of his betrothal wasn’t a bad dream. Had she really fired a pistol? Had she actually suffered stitches with barely a cry of pain, not to mention nothing to dull that pain?

And had he really kissed her while the doctor sewed her up? He didn’t know why he’d agreed to that idea. And he couldn’t have said why he’d kissed her the other times he’d done so. It seemed difficult
not
to kiss her. And when he kissed her, it was even more difficult to cease.

The only way to keep from kissing her, it seemed, was to avoid her, which would be difficult when they were living under the same roof at Kenham Hall. The only solution was for him to return to London. He always had a room there. It would mean neglecting his horses, but the animals had grooms to see to them. They didn’t need him.

If only he could say the same. Already he was tense and edgy from having been away too long. The darkness lurked just on the edge of his vision. The hem of that cloak billowed in the breeze, and he needed to find a way to calm the breeze, restore the peace. His horses had always done that for him. Now, his only sanctuary had been ripped away from him, in addition to everything else he’d lost.

“I believe that is Kenham Hall,” Lady Melbourne said, breaking the silence and gesturing to the view of the house from the rise they had just topped. It was an impressive view. The architect of the great country house had combined the best of the Palladian and neoclassical styles to create a pleasant red-brick edifice with white-stone dressings. The stable had been built with that same red brick and was just visible in the distance. Dominic looked from the vista to the lady and started, surprised to find her not looking at the view, but at him. “Lost in your thoughts, Mr. Griffyn?”

He glanced at Jane, who was studying him curiously too, and then back at Lady Melbourne. “I was, my lady. I should have pointed the house out for you. But then, no one has ever accused me of doing as I should.”

She raised a brow. “You proposed to my niece. Should you have done that?”

“My lady,” Jane interrupted. “Do you see the lake there? I imagine it is a lovely prospect in the morning. Perhaps we might walk there after we break our fast tomorrow.”

“Splendid idea, Jane, but tomorrow is too soon, in your condition. A few days yet.”

Lady Melbourne continued in that vein until they reached the drive. She was actually quite good at chatting about trivialities. He always struggled with inconsequential topics. She seemed able to go on at length about anything and everything. Finally, the carriage stopped, and the footman opened the door. Dominic stepped down first, followed by the ladies holding their skirts with one hand. Dominic handed each lady down then nodded to the housekeeper and butler, who’d assembled to greet the new guests. Strangely enough, Old Connor stood before the house as well, wringing his hat.

Dominic didn’t think; he simply acted. He bypassed the other servants and went straight to Old Connor. “What is it?”

“It’s Nessa,” Old Connor said. “She has the colic.”

“No.”

Nessa was one of his favorites. At sixteen hands and with a bright bay color and perfectly black points, she was one of the most graceful and certainly the grandest mare the marquess owned. If there was royalty among horses, she was it. She had birthed many equally regal foals, and she was older and perhaps more fragile than the other horses to suffer thus far. “Let’s go.” Dominic started walking, everything but Nessa forgotten.

Old Connor jogged beside him. “But, sir, your guests!”

Dominic glanced over his shoulder without slowing. “Millstone,” he said to the butler, “see to the guests.” And he continued walking. Lady Melbourne might stare at him in shock, and Jane Bonde might regard him with that puzzled look, but he did not have time for pleasantries and social dictates at the moment. He would save Nessa.

In the end, he could not save her. The grooms and Dominic worked all night, side by side, to no avail. The first morning light broke, and the beautiful mare lay still. Dominic dismissed the grooms, ostensibly sending the men to their beds, but in truth, he wanted to be alone with her. In the quiet dawn, he sat, hand on her neck, and grieved. He would not cry. He’d shed enough tears as a boy to know they served no purpose. But he mourned her nonetheless. It was the least he could do.

Finally, he rose and pulled the blanket over her. He stepped into the aisle and closed her stall door with a finality that tugged at something in his chest. He detected a movement and glanced down the aisle, then blinked.

“Am I disturbing you?” she asked.

He was relieved she’d spoken. He’d been afraid the lack of sleep had muddled his brain and he was imagining her. “You should be back at the house in bed.” Not only was she injured, it was too early to be out for a morning walk. His voice came out raw and tattered, and he thought he must look like he sounded. Dominic was rather surprised his appearance hadn’t scared her away.

But this was Jane Bonde. She feared little except failing at one of her precious missions.

She waved her hand, dismissing the notion that she should be in bed after suffering a knife wound. “I could not sleep and wanted fresh air.”