Love and Let Spy (Lord and Lady Spy) (2 page)

The door opened, and Carlisle, one of Dominic’s half brothers, entered. “Oops! Sorry.” He stepped back out just as quickly, but not before catching Dominic’s eye and giving his older brother a grimace.

“No, no, Carlisle,” their mother said. “Your father and I will speak in the parlor. You go ahead.” And she tugged the marquess out of the room, leaving Carlisle little choice but to enter.

“I’m not going to ask what that was about,” Carlisle said, “so you’ll have to volunteer the information.”

Dominic couldn’t stop a smile. Carlisle was his youngest half brother and just out of school. At nineteen, he was not yet jaded by the world. But then again, why should he be? He was the son of a marquess, he was handsome with his blond hair and brown eyes, and he was wealthy. Nothing could touch him.

“I’ll give you one guess,” Dominic said, lifting his teacup from the drawing-room side table. He’d always liked his youngest brother. With thirteen years between them, they were too far apart to be rivals.

“The woman who showed up with the babe last week?”

“Your father wants me to marry before I bring more shame on the family name.” He sipped the tepid tea. He’d not even had a chance to taste it before his stepfather launched into his tirade.

Carlisle popped a tea cake into his mouth and reached for another. “Is marriage so bad?”

“I don’t see you rushing into the parson’s mousetrap.”

Carlisle held the tea cake in front of his chest like a shield. “I’m far too young. You’re an old man.”

“Charming to the last,” Dominic retorted.

“Was the babe yours?” Carlisle asked, his mouth full. Dominic rolled his eyes. The boy had no sense of decorum.

“No.”

“Whom do they want you to marry?”

“Does it matter?”

He seemed to consider as he reached for a dainty sandwich. “It might.”

“A Miss Jane Bonde.”

Carlisle dropped the sandwich, and it rolled under a chair. The boy ignored it. “And you refused?”

“I don’t want to marry, and I certainly won’t marry some chit I haven’t even met.”

“But you’ve seen her?”

“I don’t think so.” Dominic avoided social events. He had nothing to say to the
ton
. He was well aware they looked down on him. He did not need to be reminded of it nightly.

“That explains it then.” Carlisle reached for another sandwich.

Dominic drank his tea. “You imply that if I laid eyes on her, I would change my mind.”

“Probably not,” Carlisle mumbled around the bread. “But you’d think twice.”

Dominic set his teacup down. He was beginning to think it a good idea to escape while he had the chance. “I doubt we have the same taste in women.”

“She is every man’s taste, I assure you. Are you leaving?”

Dominic was halfway across the room. “Yes, but I must say, Carlisle, you have intrigued me. I might have to see this Miss Bonde for myself.”

“There is a long line of men ahead of you.”

Dominic opened the door. “Give Lord Edgeberry my regards.”

“That ought to be a pleasant task,” Carlisle muttered. Dominic closed the door and started for the stairs. He hadn’t made it far before his mother stepped in front of him. She was petite, dark, and exotic with her Gypsy coloring. As far as Dominic knew, she was not of Gypsy blood, but she did nothing to dispel the rumors. He was a great deal taller than she. His father must have been a man of some height, for Dominic was a head taller than his stepfather and his three half brothers. But woe to the man or woman who equated height with power. Titania Griffyn—now Titania Houghton-Cleveborne, Marchioness of Edgeberry—was a force to be reckoned with.

“A word, my darling son.” She gestured toward her boudoir, where she met with her closest friends, and set off, not waiting to see if he would follow.

Dominic sighed and followed.

***

Elsewhere in Mayfair

It was never a simple matter to descend the facade of an edifice with no more assistance than that of the occasional ledge or outcropping that might be used in place of a hand- or foothold. Trying to accomplish such a feat while wearing a ball gown and the accompanying silk slippers made the task even more difficult. And, in Bonde’s opinion, it was an all but impossible commission when one was wearing gloves.

But she was determined. And besides, she had to make a good showing. Poor Lady Keating—code name Butterfly—was expecting her to act as an example. Bonde lowered a foot, searching for purchase, found it, and moved down the wall of the gray stone mansion.

“Tell me again why we must attempt this,” Butterfly said.

“Because,” Bonde answered, trying to secure a handhold and floundering slightly.
Show
no
fear. Show no fear.
Her glove slipped, and she flailed, but she managed to regain her balance by grasping a hole in the limestone with her other hand. “At some crucial juncture you might need to make a quick exit, and there are times when a window is more accessible than a door.” She glanced down at the ground, still a good distance below her. Baron stood in the shadows under them, keeping watch and occasionally glancing up and frowning. “Baron, do I have the right of it?”

“Of course,” he called up. “Talk later. Concentrate now.”

Bonde did not think chitchat much of a distraction. Having someone shoot a pistol in one’s general direction or dump a pot of hot water down the side of a building, those were credible distractions. But, she reminded herself, Butterfly was still learning. Bonde descended the next few feet in silence, listening instead to the sounds of the orchestra playing at the ball taking place inside the Grosvenor Square mansion. The low rumble of voices and the clink of champagne glasses rose above the music at times, as did the tittering laugh of some woman or other. She decided that for all the exertion of the climb down, she much preferred it here than inside.

“What is taking so long?”

Bonde knew that voice and sighed. She glanced at Butterfly above her. The other spy was still proceeding slowly but surely. Bonde could have drunk a glass of ratafia by now if she’d not moved slowly to make certain Butterfly did not need her. And now here was her uncle, expressing his usual impatience.

“We are trying to concentrate, Uncle,” she called down.

“Everyone is asking for you,” he answered. “Your aunt, in particular.”

That news was rather worrisome. What could her aunt possibly want with her? She’d worn the gown her aunt had chosen, allowed her hair to be styled by her aunt’s lady’s maid, and promised to dance with no fewer than six eligible gentlemen, none of them more than once, of course. What else did her aunt require?

Her actual appearance, she supposed. Bonde glanced up at Butterfly again and noted the woman seemed to have her footing now. She did not have far to go, and there was a window ledge under her, which made the last few feet child’s play. Bonde crawled, spiderlike, down the rest of the building and jumped neatly beside Baron and her uncle.

“What the devil was that?” Baron asked. “Are you part ape?”

Bonde smiled. “I assume you meant that as a compliment. Some ladies might take offense.”

Baron raised a brow. He was handsome with those green eyes and that unruly brown hair. Not that she cared whether men were handsome or not. She had never been swayed by appearances. She knew well how often they might deceive.

“Some ladies do not descend walls as though they are part monkey.”

“Hmm.” Bonde inspected her gloves for any traces of dirt. “Another questionable compliment.”

“He excels at those,” Butterfly added from her perch above the window.

“Will you concentrate?” Baron barked and moved underneath his wife. Bonde glanced at her uncle. The idea of two married spies working together was still a novelty to her. But then, she insisted upon working alone.

“He’s a bit overprotective,” her uncle murmured. “That’s why I called you in. I didn’t feel he was challenging her to reach her full potential.”

“She’s good,” Bonde acknowledged. “She has natural instincts.”

“I’m pleased you agree.”

Baron caught his wife around the waist and set her down, rather than making her descend the last few feet. She looked spent and relieved. Bonde would have flayed him for such presumption. If she started something, she finished it.

Butterfly all but skipped over to them, smiling from ear to ear. “I did it. I really did it!”

“Of course you did,” Bonde said. The alternative had been to splat on the stone paving on which they now stood.

“You performed beautifully,” Baron said.

“Not as beautifully as Bonde. I don’t think she has a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her gown.” Butterfly looked down at her own wrinkled gown and her ruined gloves. “You made it appear so completely effortless.”

“That is why she is the best,” her uncle said.

“You were certainly correct on that account, Lord Melbourne,” Butterfly agreed.

“Excuse me,” Baron said, frowning, “but I do think a man should be able to rely on his wife championing him, even if no one else does so.”

“Oh, poor Winn,” Butterfly said, patting his arm. “I was mistaken. You are the best. Now, please take me home.”

Bonde felt a sharp jab of surprise. “Oh, but won’t you be attending the ball?” Was everyone but her allowed to escape?

“I’m far too fatigued,” Butterfly said. “Not to mention, we promised our girls we would be home to tuck them into bed.”

She had forgotten they had children. “Oh, I see.” As she watched, the spies became less and less Baron and Butterfly, and more and more Lord and Lady Keating.

“Come then.” Her uncle took her arm. “I dare not keep Lady Melbourne waiting any longer.” He escorted her around the side of the house and into the garden, where several couples were strolling. Spring was in full bloom, and the flowers looked lovely in the moonlight. Not that Bonde had taken any time to look at the flowers, but she imagined if she ever did have time, they would look lovely. Her uncle led her up the steps of the house to the open doors of the ballroom. The cool night air wafted inside, rustling the curtains and relieving a bit of the stifling heat caused by the crush of people.

It took Bonde several moments to adjust to the sounds and the lights and the mass of bodies, but before the first gentleman bowed and said, “Good evening, Miss Bonde,” she had become Miss Jane Bonde again and had left Bonde, the spy, outside.

She smiled, her lips curving prettily, and tossed her blond curls back over her shoulder. “Mister Asprey. How good to see you again.”

He looked as if he would detain her, but she could not speak to him longer or he might ask her to dance, and her toes would not tolerate another mashing.

“My aunt awaits,” she said as she glided away. As a consolation, she tossed him a charming smile. He almost stumbled.

“Jane, darling!” Her aunt clutched her arm and dragged her aside. “Where have you been?”

Jane looked at her uncle for assistance, for she was not certain what he had told his wife as an excuse. But her uncle had suddenly disappeared. He was quite good at disappearing, especially when his wife was nearby. “Aunt, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“It is not I you have kept waiting, but someone very special.” As she spoke, Lady Melbourne propelled Jane through the crowds and toward the supper room. Jane did not argue, which would have been pointless at any rate. The supper room would be quieter than the ballroom, and her head was already pounding from the noise of too many voices. Oh, but she hated these affairs. Why could she not turn thirty already and be declared officially on the shelf? At four and twenty, she was unsuitable and elderly, but not yet completely unmarriageable.

More was the pity.

How would she survive six more years of Seasons? She had several sources of hope. One: that her aunt and uncle would run out of discretionary funds and have to forego all social activities. But though Lady Melbourne spent quite extravagantly, Jane’s last peek into her uncle’s account books revealed he still had enormous funds at his disposal. Since her uncle was a former operative, Jane had suspicions as to where those funds might have originated.

Her second hope was that a crisis requiring her intervention would interrupt her participation in the endless round of balls, musicales, and routs. This was by far the more likely scenario. It had been six months since any new information about Foncé had been reported and four since another agent from the Barbican group had apprehended the assassin for the Maîtriser group, Foncé’s criminal organization. But though Jane had questioned this Reaper on many occasions before his untimely death, he had proved less than talkative.

Still, Foncé would not lick his wounds forever…

If he would just make another appearance in London or Europe or anywhere. Here, in the supper room, would have been preferable at the moment. No good could come of anything or anyone her aunt believed was
special
. Heaven forbid any person receive the designation of
very
special
.

As soon as they stepped into the supper room, the noise from the ball dimmed. Jane’s head throbbed in relief. What she would not give for a night of quiet and a good book on ancient weapons or deadly poisons. Out of habit, Jane scanned the room, taking quick note of her surroundings. Several tables had been laid with delicacies of every sort—cold meats and thick sauces, glossy fruits, savory breads, and sumptuous sweets. The hot dishes would be set out right before the call to supper, but Jane would have been quite happy with the cold dishes alone. She thought she’d eaten a piece of cheese at some point this afternoon, but that might have been yesterday. She’d spent the better part of the day at the Barbican’s offices, and there was never anything to eat there.