One Night With a Spy (17 page)

Marcus raised his head to gaze across the table at the dandy, his eyes narrowed. "Now, why would you say that with such irony?"

Elliot blinked, then quickly brought his ale up for a deep draught. "Don't know what you mean," he mumbled.

Marcus leaned back in the splintery settle. "I say, Elliot," he said with false nonchalance. "Might you be acquainted with a bloke by the name of Montmorency?"

Elliot choked on his ale.

Marcus shook his head. "I ought to have known. Only one of you lot would have such boneheaded staying power in the face of mortal danger."

Elliot wiped his chin with the back of his wrist, eyeing Marcus warily. "I haven't a clue what you're speaking of."

Marcus twitched his lips sourly. "Of course you don't." He leaned forward. "When you get back to your club, do be sure to describe me
very
well. Better yet, do one of those sketches you lot take such pride in."

Elliot leaned back in his seat as well. "I have been known to sketch from time to time. Most gentlemen do. I never keep them, however."

"Meaning you've already sent one in." Marcus nodded. "You'll get a new set of instructions any moment, I expect."

Elliot tilted his head and slitted his eyes. "I do believe I've had enough to drink. Every single thing you're saying sounds like nonsense to my ears."

Marcus waved him away genially. "Go on, then. Tell that bloke I mentioned earlier that I would appreciate hearing from him soon."

Elliot stuck a pinkie in one ear and wiggled it. "Utter gibberish. It's like you're speaking a different language altogether."

Marcus stood and dropped a coin on the table. "That ale is on me. Do take care not to dawdle back to London." He turned away but Elliot called him back.

"I wonder if you might let me borrow your fine horse," he said blandly. "Since you're in such a hurry for me to leave and all. I can leave it with that bloke you mentioned."

Marcus rolled his eyes. "Liars." He tossed several more coins to the table. "Talk to the hosteler. He'll make sure you don't get a nag. I don't let anyone ride my horse. Ever."

"That's too bad," Elliot said with a grin. He idly slid one finger across the tabletop in a quick motion. "Her ladyship expressed an interest in tacking your stallion."

Marcus gave a short laugh. "I don't think so. My mount would be far too much horse for her."

Elliot's grin became more pointed. "Not for me to say. But watching her ladyship on horseback is like watching a bird soar. As if it were what she was born for." He tossed back the last of the ale. "That's a curious thing, don't you think?"

"Most ladies ride."

Elliot stood. "Not as if they'd marry the beast if they could." He swept the coins from the table and deposited them in his weskit pocket "Thank you for the contribution to the happiness of my buttocks." He tipped his hat. "Good hunting,
my lord
."

Marcus let the dig pass and only nodded. "Safe journey, Elliot. Mind the well in the yard."

Elliot shuddered delicately. "Spare me the well. I'll never swim again." He bowed again and sauntered away, whistling.

Marcus leaned down to pick up his hat. There was a design drawn in the small puddle that had dripped from the ale mug. He leaned closer. In the liquid, Elliot had drawn a single symbol—a perfect numeral 4.

Marcus swiped it away with the side of his palm. "Not yet, old man," he breathed. "Not quite yet."

«
^
»

I lie in bed. The night is fair, so the windows are wide to the sky. I cannot rest, for the aroma of climbing roses sweeps my thoughts and makes my body restless. I rise from the linens and go to the balcony to soak the scent of the night into my skin.

I lean on the stone balustrade and look down onto the garden where I last saw my lover. The garden is empty and dark, yet I can still smell his sandalwood through the roses.

"Can you not find your rest, my lady?"

I close my eyes at the deep voice behind me. He always knows when I need him.

"Exhaust me," I whisper toward the night. "Tire me to collapse."

Large warm hands cover my shoulders and pull me back onto his broad chest. "I would not want to be forceful with you, my lady."

I shake my head urgently. "Be forceful with me. I will not break."

His hands tighten on me in response. I revel in his strength. "As you wish, my lady."

In one motion, he turns me toward him and presses my lower body to the balustrade with his. His hot mouth comes down on my neck and I feel his teeth scrape my skin. It is not pain I feel, but need.

I need to feel him, to be taken, to be owned. He pulls my nightdress from my shoulders, trapping my arms to my sides. I cannot resist now, I do not want to resist and my imprisonment frees me to be his prey. I close my eyes and surrender to his hot mouth and hard hands. He pulls my braid free and wraps it about his fist, controlling me with the reins of my own hair.

"Take me," I demand. "Possess me."

With a single hard tug, my nightdress falls to the garden below, ruined beyond repair. I am bare to the night now, naked before him. He remains fully dressed tonight, my master, my possessor… my lover who always recognizes what I need.

Marcus rode back from the village slowly. He'd done it.

Julia could say that she ended her engagement for Elliot's safety, but Marcus knew why she had done it. He'd won.

Having accomplished the goal he'd set out to accomplish from the beginning, now he had to decide upon his next step.

Of course, if he were to complete his mission, he must learn everything about her. He must dig deep into her thoughts and bring out all her secrets. Only then could he, and the Three, be sure of her motives and her capabilities.

In the beginning, he'd assumed some sordid bits were lurking just below the surface of her beauty, sure to trip her up and expose her for the manipulator she must be.

Unfortunately, he had come to see precisely why old Barrowby had chosen her. God, if he ever became the Fox, he would be looking for an apprentice with precisely the combination of qualities that Julia possessed in abundance. Intelligence, deep loyalty, honor—she wouldn't do more than allow a brief stolen kiss while unofficially engaged to another man!—and twist-minded as all the Four must be.

She worked as hard as anyone in her staff and never let a complaint pass her lips. Her humor never failed her, yet she never lost control of the people she directed. She was clever and thoughtful, gathering all her facts before making an informed decision.

And she was the most beautiful, sensuous woman he had ever seen.

Truly, a woman to tempt the gods.

And yes, he was tempted. Tempted to woo her for himself, to have her as his lady, to keep her forever as his own.

And tempted to let her be the Fox, curious to see where she would take the Four and the nation, intrigued to watch her mow Liverpool's objections down with the swift blade of her quick mind.

But what of the danger? What of the cost to her as a woman? Why should she be put through that deprivation and toil when she deserved to be cosseted and protected and sheltered from it all?

He was faced with a choice. Complete the seduction, or walk away. He knew he could worm his way beneath her defenses—he'd read every word of those diaries. He knew the one absolute way to fulfill her every dream.

The problem was, could he do that to her? He didn't have to. He could turn about this moment and ride away.

Yet that would mean leaving her forever.

Julia could not help but watch the hands of the clock, waiting for Marcus to return. After she had seen Elliot off, she had told Marcus what she had done.

He'd nodded thoughtfully and then informed her that he wished to give Elliot a proper farewell.

Julia raised a brow. "You mean, you wish to make sure he actually leaves."

She received a brief, white-hot glance in return. "Indeed," he said huskily. "For I would not be so obedient."

With that nerve-wracking response—dear Lord, she was in deep trouble now!—he'd ridden off to drive his rival most politely from the vicinity.

Men and their territory.

The thing that Julia had learned a long time ago about men—bless 'em, every one—was that they were never the sort to think about why they were thinking about what they were thinking about. A woman might wonder why her mind was preoccupied with a certain thought, but a man was a simpler creature. He merely had the thought and then moved on with things.

That noted, it had become easier for Julia to "think like a man" as Aldus had so often instructed her. Male minds did not indulge in tangents of thought, so neither did hers—or at least not while she was working.

It was only after a long day of sifting through intelligence reports and records of meetings of the House of Lords—a place she would never see the inside of, that was sure, although she held all their lives in her female hands—and newssheets, even the tawdry ones, for one never knew where the next bit of information would come from, that Julia even had time to think of herself as a woman, much less to luxuriate in dreamy ponderings of love and life and lovemaking…

She hadn't written in her diaries since… since when? Since the night Aldus had his first attack?

Three years. Her secret fancies had lain in the dust for three—

Or had they? Alarm shot through her.
The intruder
.

Or worse yet…
Marcus
.

He couldn't have, yet he always seemed to
know
, in the garden, in the lake—oh, God! Hadn't she once written a passage about the lake?

She leaped to her feet and ran down the hall so fast that the wind in the wake of her fluttering wrapper made the candles flicker in their sconces. She ignored the leaping shadows and took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to touch the handrail on the way down. Her bare feet skidded on the marble but nothing slowed her.

The morning room was dark and cold, but Julia didn't need the light. She dropped to her knees beside her sewing basket and scrabbled beneath the embroidery goods for the false bottom, her fingertips missing the catch the first time. She took a breath and forced her hands to calm. "You won't know until you open the bloody thing," she told herself.

The catch moved beneath her searching fingers and the bottom lifted. She ran her hands over the small space beneath—

The key was there, cold and solid to her touch.

Julia let out a great, slow sigh and dropped her head. She ought not to have left such damning material so accessible—in her front parlor yet! What if the Royal Four's henchman had found those scorching entries—what would they make of her then?

Oh, the things she'd written about, the wicked, seductive things she'd written of herself doing!

She must burn them all, immediately.

She removed the key and let the false bottom fall shut, carelessly pushing the now tangled mass of skeins and needles back into place. Never mind. She hated embroidery, anyway.

Her short journey to the front parlor was slow enough for her to become aware of the chill on her bare feet. She turned back to gather a lit candle from the last sputtering sconce.

She used the candle to start the kindling in the parlor. There was no point in bothering with coals, for she wouldn't need the fire long. She opened the inlaid box and removed the nursery key, then went quickly up the cold stairs to retrieve the trunk.

Setting it down by the hearth back in the parlor, she pulled out the first of her diaries. In fact, it was not the very first. There had been one other, the one she had begun when Aldus had taken her and her mother in. She'd burned that diary when she'd wed Aldus and left Jilly behind forever.

She closed her eyes, remembering the pages filled with the large looping handwriting and unrepentant misspellings of Jilly Boots. The many hours sitting by her mother's bedside had caused the words to pour from her young heart.

Pain at her mother's deterioration, fear of being alone in the world, first impressions of the luxurious Barrowby, descriptions of the mysterious but magnanimous Aldus. One page in particular needed no paper, for it was inscribed in her heart forever.

"
Mum died tonight. Like a whisper, she went. It's good she won't hurt anymore
." Then, scrawled in deep impressions that had nearly torn the paper, "
What am I goin' to do now
?"

Julia sat back and opened her eyes. She'd done what Aldus had instructed her to do, of course. She'd married him in the Barrowby chapel the day she'd turned eighteen, her hands cold and shaking, his not much better. They'd shared a silent dinner and then they'd shared a bed.

Jilly had been curious and willing, although nervous. Aldus had been reluctant and in the end, incapable. They'd made a better success of it later, when they'd come to know each other more, but there had never been any satisfying resolution for her. Aldus had been quick and shamefaced about the whole business, never at ease with the difference in their ages.

Eventually, when his best efforts failed to bring about an heir, he'd let the endeavor go entirely with ill-concealed relief.

Leaving Julia—as she then had begun to think of herself—to expend her considerable sexual drive in her "scribblings."

Her hands caressed the embossed leather cover of the diary she held in her hands. The most lurid fancies began with this, the second diary. Julia turned resolutely to the now crackling fire. "Sorry, but there's no getting around it. They must go."

Her voice was firm enough but her hand didn't seem so sure. She ought to burn them. It was the only way to make sure someone sent by the Royal Four didn't get their hands on them.

Then again, she'd been well taught never to ignore any source of information. Along with her lonely fancies, these diaries contained insights into herself, something she felt sorely in need of now, with no one to advise her.

Very well, then. She would read them all first.