Shana Galen (6 page)

“You heard me.”

“I—” Winn hesitated. He did not like to reveal personal details about his life, but if Melbourne trusted this man, Winn supposed he could offer general information. “Yes. I have a wife and two daughters.” He was thinking about that Trollope fellow again. He might mention the name to Wolf. Perhaps the other operative had heard of him. “But the reason I’m here, other than to discuss—”

“How old are your daughters?”

“My daughters?” Now Winn narrowed his eyes.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to overstep. You came to discuss the Maîtriser group. Melbourne sent you, I suppose.”

Winn did not show his surprise. “He said you asked for me, my lord.”

“Hardly. I don’t want to involve the Barbican group any more than necessary. But Melbourne isn’t quite prepared to allow Saint and me to walk away that easily.”

Winn blinked. “Saint and you?” He did not quite want to believe what Smythe seemed to be implying.

Smythe smiled. “He didn’t tell you?’ Smythe chuckled and shook his head. “Melbourne does enjoy his amusements. I am Agent Wolf. My wife is Agent Saint.”

“You—? What?” His
wife
was Agent Saint? Saint was a man. How could a woman be Saint? Winn could well imagine Smythe was Wolf. He had the look of an agent about him. But would Melbourne have allowed a husband and wife both to operate as agents?

“I’ve surprised you.” He lifted his snifter to drink again, then seemed to notice it was empty. “Melbourne should have told you, but undoubtedly he thought your finding out this way more intriguing.”

“Melbourne said you were retired.”

“Yes, though Melbourne hasn’t officially retired us. He wants us back.” And now the weariness returned. “He might have his way after all.”

“Is something amiss?” Winn asked. He did not want to pry, but Smythe—Wolf—seemed defeated. “The doctor was here to see Lady Smythe. Is she unwell?”

“I don’t know, Keating. Only time will tell.”

Winn wasn’t certain what comment to make in response to so cryptic a remark. This was why he usually preferred working alone. He wasn’t any use in these sorts of discussions. He and Crow had seemed to understand each other, but then Crow had been his mentor and like a brother to him. “I could come back tomorrow, discuss the Maîtriser group then.”

But Smythe wasn’t even listening. He was staring out the window, turning his snifter to and fro in his hands. “What does your wife think about the work you do?”

Winn hesitated. Agents for the Barbican were taught never to discuss personal matters with other agents, but then Winn hadn’t known agents could marry each other. And it seemed if ever there was a man to ask about balancing marriage and covert operations, it was Smythe. “She doesn’t know,” Winn said. “She thinks I am away managing my estates.”

“Do you have many?” Smythe asked, still looking out the window.

“No.”

Smythe raised a brow. “She must think you either a very dedicated overseer or a wretched liar.”

“I would have said she trusted me enough not to ask questions. I would have said she believed what I did was for the good of all of us.”

“Would have?” Smythe asked. “What has changed?”

“Have you heard of an agent named Rafe Trollope?”

Smythe shook his head.

“Good. I may need you to help me kill him.”

For perhaps the first time in recent memory, Adrian Galloway, Lord Smythe, was glad his snifter was empty of brandy. Otherwise, he would have choked on it just now when Keating spoke. Instead, he slowly set the snifter on his desk, folded his hands, and leaned forward. The man had a hunted look about him. Initially, Adrian had thought Baron was hungry and fatigued after a long day of work. Then he’d considered the other agent’s behavior stemmed from the fact that Baron didn’t really want to work with anyone on the Maîtriser case.

But now Adrian saw it was something else entirely. Such deductions were a simple matter, when one was paying attention. Sophia would have sensed something amiss and solved the man’s problem by now. But Sophia wasn’t here, and Adrian wasn’t going to wake her at the mere suggestion of murder. Now if they actually killed this Trollope, that was another thing entirely. She wouldn’t like to miss out on something like that.

“So you want me to help you kill a man,” Adrian said. Plan A was always to go along with another agent’s suggestion. He’d move to Plan B, counter suggestion, when he had a better feel for the issue at hand. “Do you want to tell me why we’re killing this man?”

“Not particularly.”

Plan B was looking better and better. “Do so anyway.”

“He’s trying to bed my wife.” Baron stood and began to pace the library. He was a tall man with a broad chest and brown hair that had need of shears. The man was obviously a good operative. If he hadn’t been, he would be dead by now, because such an imposing man would make an easy target. Adrian studied him further, noting Baron had large hands that could probably crush a man’s head between them, and long legs that could outrun most pursuers. Baron was known for his unconventional tactics. Adrian wasn’t sure what that meant, but judging by the discussion they were having, he thought he might soon find out. To capture Foncé, Adrian was going to need someone who could think unconventionally. Sophia had that talent, but they were both too familiar with the case now. And perhaps too close. They needed someone with fresh eyes and innovative ideas. That was why Adrian had asked for Baron.

But he hadn’t expected the events earlier that evening, and he hadn’t expected Baron to arrive with murder on his mind. Someone was trying to seduce Lady Keating? Adrian shook his head. He couldn’t think of a single sane man of his acquaintance who would be foolish enough to even
think
of bedding the wife of a man like Keating, much less act upon such a suicidal course.

“I see,” Adrian said noncommittally. He was treading carefully between Plans A and B now. “And you know this because?”

“You’re married, Smythe.” Keating paced away from him, then rounded on his heel. “Do all women want excitement and danger?”

Adrian thought of Sophia, lying still and quiet beneath the white and lavender counterpane in her bedchamber. When he’d left her, her dark hair trailed over the pillow like a spill of chocolate, and her graceful eyebrows stood out on her pale skin like angry slashes. No, all women did not crave excitement and danger. Some women craved a family, the birth of a child.

“I would be careful about putting all women into any one category,” Adrian said now. “It has caused me some difficulty in the past.”

Baron waved an arm encased in a plain but well-made coat. Sophia was always telling him to have more coats and shirts made, but he didn’t want to look like a dandy with all the laces and frills. Perhaps he should ask Baron for the name of his tailor.

“Yes, well, your wife is probably an exception,” Baron was saying. “In the past, mine has always seemed content to be home with our daughters.”

Adrian well knew looks could be deceiving.

“She seemed to enjoy all the Society functions and charitable organizations. But now… now I wonder.” Baron dropped down again in the chair opposite Adrian and lifted the brandy that had been sitting untouched.

“What do you wonder?”

Baron stared into his brandy, and Adrian could almost hear him deciding how much to reveal. “If I even know her at all.”

Ah, now this was moving into familiar ground. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to resort to Plan B after all. Perhaps there was a Plan C: convince the man to talk to his wife.

“Listen, Keating,” Adrian said, leaning back. “I know the kind of life you lead, because I’ve led it too. All the traveling doesn’t make for a very close marriage. Hell, Sophia and I didn’t even know we were both operatives until a couple of months ago. But I’ll tell you what I’ve learned and save you the trouble of murdering this man or having to speculate”—ad nauseam, but he didn’t say that part aloud—“about what she might be thinking.”

Baron raised his brows, looking skeptical.

“All you have to do is talk to her.” There. Adrian folded his arms across his chest. He felt rather proud of himself, actually. Sophia wasn’t the only one who could be sympathetic or solve others’ personal problems.

“Talk to her?” Baron said, sounding less than enthusiastic about Adrian’s advice. “And tell her what? I overheard her chatting about bedding another man?”

“I don’t know that I’d take that tack…”

“Oh, perhaps I should reveal I’m a member of the Barbican group. Even if I hadn’t pledged to keep that a secret, I can imagine her reaction when she realizes I’ve been lying to her for years.”

“Yes, well—”

“Or how about this idea? I go find this
Rafe
and beat the hell out of him, because the more I think about it, the more I think this might actually be some kind of rival operation’s method of getting to me.”

Adrian shook his head. “Wait. You’ve lost me.”

“Ever heard of the Babylon group?”

“I don’t think so.”

Baron stood again. “I haven’t either. I kept thinking she’d got it wrong, and it was the Barbican group, but I can’t think why one of our own would do this. Neither you nor I know of a Rafe Trollope in the group.”

“True, but I don’t know many other operatives. I’m at sea here, Keating. Are you saying the man trying to seduce your wife is another spy?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. He works for a group called the Babylon group.”

Adrian nodded. “Babylon, Barbican. It’s close. But you think this Babylon group might be trying to gain access to you by seducing your wife?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

A shiver ran down Adrian’s spine. “Well, why the hell didn’t you say this in the beginning? Now we’re dealing with a serious issue. We need to find this Trollope.”

“And kill him.”

Adrian held up his hands. “Slow down. We’ll start with torturing him first. We can do that here. If we decide to kill him, we’ll probably have to move elsewhere. Sophia will have my head if we spill blood on this rug. We just had it replaced.”

“They’re meeting in Hyde Park in the morning,” Baron said. “I propose we conduct surveillance and dissect our target.”

“Agreed. We can make a plan from there.”

“I’ll take my leave.”

“Wait.” Adrian stood. “We have another issue.” He couldn’t let Baron walk away that easily. If he helped the man with this Mr. Trollope, Baron was going to help with Foncé.

“Foncé?” Baron asked.

“Exactly. Saint and I chased the man halfway across Europe, but we lost him. Blue suggested we return to London, thereby luring Foncé here. We have no way of knowing if that will work or not. Perhaps we’ve read Foncé all wrong. But if I know Blue—”

“No one knows Blue.”

That was true enough. “All right, let me rephrase. If Blue’s assumption is correct—”

“And when has one of Blue’s assumptions ever been incorrect?”

“—Exactly. We have a man who has succeeded in murdering half a dozen of our agents, using rather grotesque methods, and he is presently on his way to England.”

“I see your point,” Baron acknowledged. “We must be ready for him. We should start with a list of his known acquaintances and previous contacts. The way to best him is to find him before he finds you.”

“We surprise him when he’s not ready for us. Somewhere he feels safe. The residence of a mistress or another member of his group.”

“Right.” Baron considered. “Who’s going to do all this research? It’s tedious, and most agents don’t have the time or the knowledge of the Maîtriser group.”

“Leave that to me,” Adrian said, grimacing inward. “I know the perfect person.”

***

Winn had always been an early riser. Elinor, for all her efficiency in other arenas, was not. He usually breakfasted, read
The
Times
, and enjoyed a morning ride before his wife and daughters were even awake.

But today was different. Today he had just accepted his tea from the butler when the dining-room door opened and Elinor entered. She could not hide a look of surprise. “You are here,” she said, all but stumbling into the room. She wore a rose-colored day dress cut low enough to expose the swells of her breasts under the gauzy fichu. Her hair, which she always wore simply, had been curled and coiffed and hung in charming coils over her shoulder.

She looked like the girl he had married. No, she looked even prettier than the girl he had married.

“I live here,” he answered her. He watched as she considered the obvious retort about his frequent absences and then decided not to make it. Clearly, she was hoping for peace this morning.

Futile, futile hope.

She sat at the other end of the table, accepted her cup of tea from the butler, and seemed to sip it warily. He studied his copy of
The
Times
silently and allowed her to consider. If she had not cancelled it, she had a rendezvous this morning with her lover. Winn’s presence was clearly a complication. He glanced over the top of his paper and could not help studying her.

Had she always been so pretty? Her skin was milk white, and her cheeks so perfectly pink they looked painted on. She had a small, pert nose both of their daughters had inherited, and dark brown eyes that were amazingly expressive. But her best feature was and had always been her mouth. She had red lips the perfect size and shape for kissing. Her small white teeth were perfectly straight. And there was a tiny freckle just at the curve of the left side of her mouth. He could not even see it from this distance, but he knew it was there. He’d kissed that freckle on many occasions.

Unfortunately, at present, he could not remember the last time he had kissed her. And he could not remember ever having missed kissing her before now.

“Is something amiss?” she asked.

Winn blinked. “No. Why?”

“You are staring at me.”

“You are a beautiful woman,” he answered, watching as color flooded her cheeks. “I cannot help myself.”

The look she gave him was one of confusion and wariness. She did not believe he was being sincere and, further, she did not know how to accept the compliment. The fact pleased him, because it meant others like this Trollope had not yet corrupted her. She had not decided to throw him over yet. Of course, the fact that she was open to corruption was his fault entirely. Why did he not compliment her more? Why did he not kiss her more often? Take her to bed?

Because he was never here. Except… he was here now. “Bramson, leave us for a few moments, please.”

Elinor gave Winn a puzzled look.

“Yes, my lord,” the butler answered, closing the door behind him.

“Now I know something is wrong.”

Winn stood, crossed the room, and sat in the chair beside her.

She scooted to the far side of her chair, increasing the distance between them. “You have never dismissed Bramson.”

“Nothing is the matter.” He reached over and took her free hand. She tried to pull it away, but he would not release it. She had not yet donned her gloves, and her hands were warm and soft. “I wanted to speak to you privately.”

“Why?”

He must be one of the worst husbands in England to receive this response. Elinor did not even want to hold his hand, much less believe he wanted to speak to her. “Do I need a reason to speak privately to my wife?”

“Winn.” She loosed her hand. He let it go rather than engage in a tug-of-war. “Please stop being so mysterious. What is it you want?”

“You,” he said without thinking.

She blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“Another of my failings,” he murmured. She really did not know her appeal. He stood and pulled her chair back.

“What are you—?”

Before she could protest further, he pulled her out of the chair and into his arms. He remembered the feel of her. Her body was soft and feminine and ripe with curves. He did not remember it having been so rigid.

“Winn!”

He put a finger on her lips. “Don’t speak. It’s been far too long since I’ve done this.” He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her tenderly, gently. It was the kiss he would have given a new lover, a tentative, testing kiss, because he could not remember how she liked to be kissed. Or perhaps he’d never paid enough attention to know.

Her lips remained as rigid as her body, but she exhaled a small puff of warm, surprised air. Her breath was sweet with the sugar and cream from her tea, and he dipped his head again to taste her more thoroughly. His lips met hers with more persuasion this time, and he tightened his hands on her arms, pulling her closer. She did not go willingly, but he sensed desire in her, in the way her breath hitched and her lips yielded slightly.

“Stop,” she whispered. It was perhaps the most unconvincing order he had ever heard. Her voice, husky and low, betrayed her need. No man in his right mind would stop after hearing the unspoken craving.

He was obviously not in his right mind. “Why?” He kissed her cheek, the tip of her nose, the flutter of her eyelashes.

“Someone might come in.” She stepped back, and he noted the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Oh, Winn could think of so many places he wanted to kiss, so many wicked things he wanted to do. Why had he spent so much time away? Why had he not remembered what a desirable woman he had married?

“Shall I lock the door?” he asked. He glanced at the table. “I could clear it in a matter of moments.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “You would look glorious spread naked on that gleaming wood. Perhaps I could take some of the clotted cream and lick it off—”