Shana Galen (11 page)

Jacob finally appeared, rubbing sleepy eyes and leading a sweet bay mare. Elinor thanked him, but when she refused his offer to accompany her, he stood firm.

“Lord Keating spoke to me personally, my lady. Told me not to let you out of my sight. I’ll be sacked if you go alone.”

Elinor rolled her eyes and consented. He was unassuming and would not intrude upon her need for solitude. Mayfair was all but empty this time of the day, and she thought she might just walk the horse through the quiet streets instead of heading for the park. There, she would feel obliged to run the mare, and that might take more strength and stamina than she possessed after last night.

She did not know how she had managed to resist Winn. She could not remember a time when he’d touched her like that, and she wanted, more than anything, to give in to his caresses. She wanted his mouth on her, his hands, his body covering hers. She wanted him more than she ever had, but she knew if she gave in to the desire she would never be able to resist him again.

And when he left again—because he would; she knew that if nothing else—she would fall into an even deeper despair than she’d felt before. She’d drawn upon hidden reserves of fortitude and told him to stop touching her, seducing her. At first she had not even believed herself. She certainly hadn’t sounded convincing, but when Winn hadn’t immediately acquiesced, she began to mean it. Was he so arrogant that he assumed she would never refuse him?

Probably. After all, it was not as though she ever had.

She allowed the horse to trot a little, lost in her thoughts and the novelty of the deserted streets. Here and there a maid bustled with a basket full of produce, but for the most part, this part of the city was not yet awake. She turned back toward home. Elinor could remember, as a new mother, rocking Georgiana back to sleep in the early morning hours when the city was silent. She’d had a nurse, of course, but she’d so enjoyed that quiet time with her daughter, she had defied convention and told the nurse to go to sleep. This morning reminded her of all those years ago. She should have felt happy and fulfilled, but all she could think was how she wished Winn would fall in love with her. He’d robbed her of even the simple pleasure of motherhood.

Now it seemed he wanted her, but she still felt something was missing. Perhaps because he still was not in love with her. Would she never realize that some dreams were unattainable?

Would she never be satisfied with her—?

Suddenly her horse reared, and Elinor grappled to keep her seat. She clutched the reins with all her strength and murmured soothing words, but when the mare came back down, she shied to the side, and Elinor saw what had spooked the animal. Two men wearing hats low over their brows and with mufflers obscuring the lower part of their faces were approaching from a dark alley, and one was reaching for the horse’s bridle.

Elinor brandished the whip she had remembered but rarely used, and shouted, “Step aside! I do not have any money or jewels.”

Jacob raced to her side, whereupon one of the men raised a pistol and shot the groom. Elinor screamed. She’d not been truly frightened until that moment. She had been concerned, but deep down she did not really believe the men would accost her in the streets of Mayfair, just blocks from her home. It was practically unheard of. Poor Jacob. Her assailants ignored her screams, and the taller one succeeded in grasping her horse’s bridle and holding her steady.

“Release my horse at once!” Elinor commanded. She raised the whip, striking at the shorter man, who was coming for her. The man caught the end of the whip and yanked it from her hand. The shorter man grabbed her and hauled her off the horse. She kicked and screamed until his hand covered her mouth, silencing her. A moment later, she was dragged down the dark alley and shoved into a carriage. The drapes were drawn, and the interior of the conveyance was black as night. She blinked, momentarily blind. She reached out, her hands touching the soft velvet squabs and heavy brocade draperies. And then her hand touched something warm, something encased in soft material, but something undeniably human.

She drew back with a hiss and looked up. She could just make out the eyes of the man seated above her. His knee was in front of her face, and she jerked back, appalled that she had touched his leg.

“Good morning, Lady Keating. Or should I call you Mrs. Baron?”

“What do you mean, you cannot find her?” Winn demanded of Bramson several hours after breakfast. He had not seen Elinor all morning and had assumed she was attempting to avoid him. He decided to allow it for the moment, taking breakfast alone while she dined in her room. He read the paper, checked ledgers in his library, but when midday approached and she was still hiding, he had had enough.

He marched to her room, knocked on the door, and was informed by her maid that the baroness had gone out riding early this morning. The cold chill of unease skittered up Winn’s back and down his arms. He knew this feeling. He knew it well, and he did not want it associated with his wife. He’d pushed the maid aside, ignoring her gasp of outrage, and searched Elinor’s room. Her clothing, valises, and mementos were still here—at least from what he could ascertain from a cursory glance.

But if she had gone riding early this morning, where was she now?

He made his way to the mews and questioned the grooms there, who looked relieved to see him. They had been worried about her ladyship and the groom who had accompanied her and were uncertain as to what to do about her long absence. Once again, Winn cursed his frequent travels. It was obvious the staff was not used to him being in residence and did not think to go to him with their worries.

Next, he enlisted the footmen to search the house for any sign of her and also to inquire—discreetly—at Lady Ramsgate’s and Lady Hollingshead’s residences. Shortly thereafter, Bramson had informed him that Lady Keating was not to be found.

Winn paced his library, scowling. “Are you saying she has simply disappeared?”

“No, my lord. I am saying
I
do not know her whereabouts. Would you like me to call for a magistrate or the Bow Street Runners?”

“Good God, no.” The last thing he wanted was to involve Bow Street. He was a spy, after all. It was his job to ferret out people and information. But his unease was growing. He did not want to acknowledge what he now feared to be the truth: something had happened to Elinor. Pickpockets? Thugs?

Perhaps it was nothing quite so horrible. Perhaps she had merely fallen from her horse, hit her head, and was lying unconscious in some filthy street. No, that was not dire at all.

Bloody hell! Why had he allowed her to order him out of her bedchamber last night? He should have insisted upon staying close to her. But that was ridiculous, of course. He’d never worried about being close to her before.

And just now he was beginning to realize that perhaps he should have.

“I will find her,” he told Bramson now. The butler nodded and rushed to fetch Winn’s coat and walking stick. When the man stepped out of the way, Winn drew a key from his waistcoat pocket, inserted it into his desk drawer, and slid it open. Inside was a case holding a pair of Forsyth & Co. dueling pistols. He was about to open it and remove them, when a sharp knock sounded on the door. Bramson opened it without waiting for permission.

“What is it?”

Bramson handed him a white note. The fact that the proper butler had not bothered to take the time to bring the note on a tray told Winn it was important. “This just came for you, my lord.”

Winn broke the seal.

“The courier said it was urgent.”

Winn glanced down, recognized Melbourne’s handwriting, and cursed before he even read the contents.

***

Elinor sat in a well-appointed drawing room, a cup of tea balanced on her knee, and stared at the man before her. He was tall and broad-shouldered, though not as tall or as muscular as Winn. His eyes were bright blue, which made a stark contrast to his lush black hair. It fell in waves to his shoulders and framed a handsome, Gallic face. He had dark brows and a generous mouth, and he seemed inordinately fond of smiling.

He was smiling at her now, though the expression did not quite reach his eyes. Those eyes were as cold as glaciers. Looking into them made her shiver.

“And so, madam, I ask again, with as much civility as I am able to muster, what is your role in the Barbican group?” His accent was French, cultured, and smooth as silk. She would have liked to answer him. If she had known what he was talking about, she would have. He was a difficult man to resist.

“I told you. I do not know who or what the Barbican group is.”

He lifted one dubious eyebrow. “Are you saying you have lived with one of the most formidable spies in the Barbican group, and you have never heard of it?”

Elinor looked down at her cup of tea. She had not even tasted it, and it no longer warmed her knee. The delicate cup rattled against the saucer now as her nerves jumped. He had asked her this same question several different times, and she had evaded it as best she could. She did not want to compromise Winn, though she did not know if he was truly a member of this Barbican group or not, but she did not know how much longer the man before her would remain cordial if she did not give him an answer.

“I…”

He waved a hand, dismissing her answer before she could give it. “I have it on good authority that you are married to the spy called Baron.”

“My husband is Baron Keating. As to whether he is a spy, that seems rather unlikely.” She managed to still the rattling cup and look the dark-haired man in his bright blue eyes.

“You are a good liar, madam. I would almost believe you. Except…” He trailed off, and though she did not want to fall into his trap, she found herself compelled.

“Except?”

“Except I do not believe my source lied.” He rose, and Elinor tensed at the way his dark form cast a shadow over her. The cup began to rattle again. Oh, why had she gone on a ride this morning? Why had she not stayed at home in her safe, warm bed?

And why had she ever thought it would be glamorous to be a spy?

“W-why is that?” she asked, looking up and up, into his cold eyes.

“Because before he told me what I wanted to hear, I carved my name into the bare flesh of his chest.” He knelt before her, snatching the clinking teacup and saucer out of her grasp. “He begged for death, and I granted it after he told me what I wanted to know—the identities of the spies Baron and Blue.”

Elinor swallowed. She could feel her skin burn where a knife might slide over her bare flesh. “And what name did you carve?” she asked, though she could not have said what motivated this question. Only that she wanted to know the name of the man who would take her life.

He smiled, bowed, and kissed her hand. “Monsieur Foncé, madam. At your service.”

***

Winn was cold. The fire burned hot and bright, the logs crackling and popping, and Winn shivered. Melbourne pressed a snifter of brandy into his hand. Winn looked at it, and a voice from across the room said, “Drink. You look like you need it.”

Winn squinted, staring at the man sitting calmly in the armchair across from him. Why shouldn’t Agent Wolf be calm? It was not his wife in the grip of a murderer.

“Let’s go back over this again,” Wolf was saying. “We’ll start at the beginning.”

Winn wanted to punch him. He resisted, because in Adrian Galloway, Agent Wolf, he saw himself. How many times had he sat across from a man or woman who was frantic with worry and panic? How many times had he been the cool, aloof voice of reason?

Every time. Until this one.

Until it was Elinor.

“I don’t want to go over it again,” Winn said, interrupting Melbourne and Wolf and their tedious recounting of the few events all of them had recounted innumerable times. The two men looked at Winn, and he knew their looks. Indulgent looks because they were sympathetic. They were trained to humor the victim, console him.

Well, Winn was no victim, and he did not want sympathy. He wanted action.

“I want to do something. We sit here and talk, while somewhere out there”—he gestured wildly with his hand and sloshed brandy over his wrist—“Foncé could be carving my wife into tiny pieces.”

“He doesn’t carve them up,” Wolf said. “He—”

“I don’t give a bloody farthing what he does!” Winn yelled and threw the brandy glass against Melbourne’s wall. It shattered, and brandy ran like blood down the wood paneling. “I want her back. Now.”

“So do we,” Melbourne said. He held up a hand to stay Wolf, who had risen and looked ready to strike. “But we do not know where he has taken her. We do not know his whereabouts.”

Winn understood this, but he thought running in circles and chasing his tail would be preferable to sitting in this room any longer. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was the operative, not his wife. His family and his position were not supposed to intersect.

“Let’s look at it from another angle,” Wolf said. Winn clenched his fists, and Wolf took a step back. “Hear me out. We know Foncé has Lady Keating, because the man we had assigned to watch the known operatives from the Maîtriser group saw them take her. But even he did not know, initially, who she was. He followed the riderless horse back to the mews and inquired as to whose residence it was.”

“This information is nothing new,” Winn said.

But Melbourne put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait. I think I see where he is headed.”

“My point,” Wolf said, “is that if our own man did not know who Lady Keating was, how did Foncé’s men know to take her? Not only did they take her, they made sure the groom could not follow them. This was no random abduction. We know Foncé too well for that. Somehow Foncé was able to discover the spy Baron was on to him, and he was able to link you with Lady Keating.”

“Which means he knows your true identity,” Melbourne said.

“Yes.” Wolf acknowledged this with a quick nod, far too quick for Winn’s taste. He’d worked for years to keep his identity secret. And now it was known to the most dangerous man in Europe, a man picking off Barbican operatives seemingly at will. “If we can discern how Foncé was able to link Baron and Lady Keating, we might turn up something new.”

Melbourne nodded.

The room was silent but for the hiss and pop of the logs in the fire. Wolf and Melbourne looked at Winn, and he stared at the smoke rising up into the chimney. “Bloody hell,” he swore. Winn cut a glance at Melbourne. “Why did you need that key?”

“What key?” Melbourne asked smoothly.

Winn took three steps, grabbed Melbourne by the throat, and pushed him onto the desk. “I am in no mood for spy games,” Winn hissed.

Wolf was beside him in an instant, but Melbourne shook his head. Winn knew Wolf was a match for him. If the other spy wanted to tussle, he was not certain who would emerge the victor.

“I suppose at this point, you have a right to know.”

Winn didn’t answer, and he didn’t release Melbourne, either.

“We believe the key is to one of Foncé’s safe houses. One of our operatives managed to steal it from the man we think may be Foncé’s second-in-command.”

“
Believe
and
think
,” Winn all but spat. “Are we gypsy fortune-tellers or spies? Is there anything you
do
know?”

“You asked about a key,” Wolf said quietly. “Is there something
you
know?”

Winn looked at him and released Melbourne. “The Ramsgate ball. I was chased by a man in black to the ball. We fought over the key, and while we were fighting, he managed to ascertain that Elinor was my wife.”

Melbourne was adjusting his cravat, but he paused to stare at Winn. “That information might have proved important before this.”

Yes, Winn had already considered that. If he hadn’t been so jealous over Elinor’s puppy. If he hadn’t been shocked by her gown. If he’d been doing his job…

If, if, if…

His life for the past year had consisted of ifs and whys and so much blame he could hardly shoulder it. And now he had made another grievous error, and this one hurt his family. Except… Winn looked at Melbourne. This time the blame was not entirely upon his shoulders.

“Why didn’t you tell me the key had something to do with Foncé?”

Melbourne shook his head. “I tell you what you need to know.” The older agent stalked toward a decanter of brandy, but Winn stepped in front of him.

“And you think I don’t need to know I’m dealing with the minions of a madman out to annihilate the Barbican group?”

“It has not been policy to—”

“My wife may be dead because of your inane policies!”

“Winslow, I know you want someone to blame,” Melbourne began.

“Yes!” Winn slammed his fists against the wall. “I want someone to blame. Someone besides me, because I cannot be responsible for another death.”

In the silence that followed Winn’s outburst, Winn heard a man clear his throat. Slowly, he turned and saw Blue standing in the doorway. His hair, which had been long and flowing only the afternoon previous, now appeared cropped short. “Is this a bad time?” he said, brows raised.

“What do you have?” Melbourne demanded.

“A body,” Blue said.

Winn sank to the floor, head in his hands.

***

She was going to die. Elinor knew this for a certainty, and yet the thought itself would not stop looping itself through her brain.

It was quickly followed by:
I
will
never
see
Caro
and
Georgiana
again.
And then:
I
will
never
see
Winn
again.

Though, as for the last one, she was not certain whether she was upset that she would not see him because she was still in love with him or because she now hated him enough to want the opportunity to kill him.

She suspected it was a combination of both. Unable to sit still in the small upper chamber where she’d been taken when Foncé had ordered her out of his sight, Elinor paced under the barred window, her hands clasped over her roiling belly. She felt ill. She felt as though she would go mad with not knowing when she would die and how. She counted her steps, thirty-three across the room and thirty-three back, and wondered if this was how those French nobles condemned to the guillotine had felt. They’d known they were to die, known the horrible way it would happen, but could do nothing but pace and pray for a miracle that would never come.