Unmasking the Spy (6 page)

Alicia pressed her lips together to bite back a
bitter reply. He saw no reason for fuss. She saw every reason to find a
replacement suitor. Fast.

Great-aunt Beatrix wiggled.
Alicia couldn’t be certain whether she was warning her or encouraging her.

“Louis doesn’t love me,” she
whispered, hating the pleading note to her voice. “Nor I him.”

Chadwick paused, his fork
arrested midway to his mouth.  He seemed about to speak, then continued the
path of his fork until the morsel of duck was on his tongue.  He chewed with
slow, precise movements, and when he was through, he took a long draught of his
wine.

“Eat your food, Alicia.”

Fine. If he wouldn’t tell her
what was going on, she’d just have to find out on her own.

*          *          *

It was time.

But what if she were caught?
Alicia swallowed. She could claim insomnia and say she wanted to read until she
became drowsy, but had left her book in the library. Such a ploy would only
work if she looked like she was trying to sleep – not if she went downstairs
fully clothed, as if she expected company at any moment.  She would have to
investigate in her nightclothes. Any other dress would be impossible to
explain.

She seized her house cap from her
vanity and placed it on her head.

Ideally, no servants would see
her. She planned to dash in and dash out, just as soon as she found the
paperwork she needed. No matter what Papa planned, he stuffed all his notes in
his desk. She’d locate them and devise a solution to her father’s dilemma and
extricate herself from a marriage to Louis. If she couldn’t find answers
tonight, she’d simply search again until she succeeded. The sooner she solved
the puzzle, the sooner she could create a solution to salvage both their
situations.

Hopefully, luck sided with love.

Alicia visualized the office.
She’d enter through the hall door, pass the fireplace and the bookshelves, and
head straight to his desk. If the moon cast enough of its beams through the
window, she wouldn’t need to light a candle. Just in case, she slipped an extra
taper into her pocket.

A syncopated tapping at her
window caused Alicia to turn her head. Rain. An extra boon. A storm should
cover any sounds she might make and the house would be even darker than usual.
Alicia slid off her slippers to ensure even further silence, and rose from the
stool before her vanity.

A quick puff of breath snuffed
out both candles. The smoke rising from the wicks tickled her nostrils. If she
didn’t want to call attention to herself, she’d have to traverse the path by
memory. In the dark.

She stepped out of her room and
glanced down both sides of the passageway. Empty. Alicia tilted her head and
listened. Her father’s legendary snores rivaled the thunder even from this
distance. Thus far, her plan was unfolding perfectly.

She crept to the staircase. The
marble chilled her bare feet. She tiptoed down the stairs, grateful when her
icy toes came in contact with the carpet.

Darkness enveloped her. Her
breathing sounded as irregular as the falling rain. She spread her arms until
the backs of her hands brushed the wainscoting. A faint draft chilled her bare
ankles. Her fingertips slid along the papered walls as she ventured down the
corridor to her father’s office.

She stood still until her eyes
adjusted to the shadows. Although the hallway leading to her father’s office
offered no windows, each individual room had many. Through the rhythmic rain,
the moon cast no light to guide her way.

She reached for the door and
realized it stood ajar. A soft glow indicated the presence of a burning candle
somewhere within. Alicia frowned. The staff never entered her father’s office
in the middle of the night. The possibility of her father leaving a candle unattended
caused the wrinkles in her brow to increase. 

Alicia leaned her head toward the
doorjamb, her ear to the gap, and waited. The soft creak of a drawer opening
caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise.

Unbelievable. Someone had beaten
her to the desk and stood just on the other side of the door, ransacking the
papers before she had a chance to execute her own search. Some treacherous
businessman was no doubt sabotaging Papa’s plans in order to prevent him from
taking advantage of an investment opportunity. And he might inadvertently take
the very papers she was looking for.

Self-righteous outrage replaced
her initial alarm and Alicia cast aside all thoughts of self-preservation in
her overwhelming desire not to let someone spoil her chances of avoiding a
marriage to Louis.

She pushed the door a few inches
wider. She couldn’t see whoever lurked behind her father’s paper-strewn desk,
which meant he couldn’t see her either. She snaked a hand through the gap and
inched her back along the wall until her fingers touched the rack housing the
fireplace tools. Her fingers closed around the cold metal of the poker. In one
continuous motion, she kicked open the door, brought a fire iron up and out of
the rack, and flew across the room. She swung the poker full-strength at the
head of the man hunched over her father’s desk.

With surprising grace, he blocked
the end of the poker with his forearm and pushed it away from his body with one
gloved hand. His fingers wrapped around the other end. The intruder lifted his
head and faced her.

Alicia felt her heart flutter.

From the darkness, the man behind
her father’s worn chair straightened to his full height. He advanced to the
side of the desk. A stroke of lightning lit the room in a blinding flash,
providing a glimpse of the intruder.

Shiny black boots rose past
strong calves, skintight black pantaloons stretched across muscular thighs, a
form-fitting black shirt covered his broad chest, and a stiff black mask
obscured his eyes. Alicia swallowed. The sudden temperature increase could not
be due to the masked man’s single tallow candle.

Although no man had ever cut such
a singularly dashing appearance, she simply couldn’t allow him to spoil her
plans. The heavy iron trembled in her hand.

The hand grasping the other end
of the poker did not move.

Wind rattled the windows in their
panes. Hooded eyes watched her through the mask. This intruder in no way
resembled her father’s business partners. This man looked every inch the
pirate, if a dangerously handsome one.

He suddenly twisted his hand and
wrenched the poker from her grip. His eyes never left hers. Alicia’s limp hands
fell to her sides.

“Careful,” he said as he leaned
the poker against the wall. “I might have been injured.”

“I could have killed you,” Alicia
whispered weakly.

“Yet you did not.” The low voice
brimmed with amusement. “That’s love.”

His voice was soft, gravelly,
seductive. Alicia blinked. He found the situation amusing? Even more strange,
his accents hinted at high birth, if not aristocracy. Before she could decide
how to respond, his gaze traveled down her body. She wished she’d dressed in
more flattering attire. Who knew a thief in the night could look like Prince
Charming? She should have stayed in her room.

He cocked his head. “Nice
patches, by the way. Don’t see many of those these days.”

Alicia touched her cheek and
fought the urge to clap her hand to her forehead. In her haste, she had
forgotten about the shaped patches dotting her skin. Of course, she’d hardly
expected to run across random strangers in her father’s office, handsome or
otherwise.

*          *          *

Ian tried to think how best to
proceed. He never prowled about undisguised. Yet even he couldn’t have
anticipated that a lissome young lady wielding a fire iron would interrupt his
search.

The inadequate light made it
difficult to discern colors. Her hair and eyes were inscrutable underneath the
ruffled cap and the random patches dotting her face made it impossible to guess
her age. Of course, anyone who still believed patches to be current and stylish
was either much older than he, or out of touch with Society’s fashion dictates.
Or both.

The tips of naked toes peeked
from under white nightclothes. The panic frozen on her face had thawed,
replaced by an odd, considering look. Most likely, she was a relative of Miss
Kinsey’s. Marvelous.

Ian held completely still. Even
if she was an elderly spinster, she was no doubt a shapely one. The fingers of
one hand touched the side of her face, but the other gripped the sides of her
shift, stretching the material and emphasizing the feminine curves of her body.

Her skirts rustled in the
silence. Ian couldn’t fathom why she was wandering the halls and brandishing
fireplace pokers, instead of sleeping soundly in her room. Not that he was
complaining, for the chit was fetching, even with the odd-shaped patches. Maybe
even because of them. The entire ensemble made her look ingenuous. Hoydenish.
And a little unbalanced. How many women ran about armed and barefoot in the
middle of the night?

Before he could decide on his
next move, her gaze lowered from his eyes and traveled the length of his body.
The hitch in his breath seemed to echo in the silent room, loud even to his own
ears. Was this how she had felt when he had done the same to her? Perhaps she
was returning the favor.

She paused to study his lips. Ian
wondered if she considered kissing them, then mentally shook himself. He was
here for a mission, not a dalliance. First, he needed to get the situation
under control. He had no wish to battle her household in a dramatic escape.

So far, she hadn’t screamed. Nor
had she burst into tears or fainted in a fit of hysteria. Other than the minor
incident with the fireplace poker, she comported herself calmly. Calm was good.
He just needed to get past her, and she stood between him and the doorway.

Suddenly, her eyes focused on the
desk.

“What are you doing with that
painting?” she asked.

Ian contemplated a good answer.
The art itself didn’t interest him. The gilded structure housing the canvas
did. However, “Removing it to my townhouse to determine whether it contains a
hidden opening used for secreting stolen jewels” seemed an inflammatory reply,
even though he planned to return it once he’d proved its innocuousness.

He risked a glance at the
painting. The canvas measured maybe eighteen or twenty inches wide, and twice
as tall. In the darkness, he couldn’t discern the subject. The canvas was
bathed in as many shadows as the woman before him.

If he’d known he would need a
story, he’d have taken the time to craft a plausible tale. He probably looked
like a thief. In fact, he couldn’t imagine any other rational explanation to
offer. Damn. He’d been prowling the house for hours now, and it was no doubt
well past five in the morning. Why wasn’t she asleep?

“I’m stealing it,” he admitted
reluctantly.

Her expression conveyed her
disappointment with the news.

What on earth had she thought he
was doing? Sneaking into London houses and appraising random artwork out of
boredom or idle curiosity? Ian wished he could fabricate a noble, yet
believable reason for the theft. As a general rule, thieves were unlikely to be
Robin Hood, there to steal from the rich and give to the poor. On second
thought, why not? If he could just appeal to her heartstrings…

“To pawn for money,” he added
with his most mournful expression. “I live with my younger sister, and we are
very poor. She may have an infection of the lungs, and we cannot pay for the
doctor she so desperately needs. I am forced to steal trinkets so that we can
afford medical care.”

The barefoot nymph slanted him a
doubtful look, but released her grip on her skirts.

He met her gaze. “Contrary to how
I may appear, I am not a common burglar. I mean you no harm.”

She searched his face for a long
moment and Ian held his breath. Something she saw there must have convinced her
better than words alone. She smoothed her skirts and crossed her arms.

“Well, you can’t have that. It’s
a favorite and sure to be missed.”

He would have to come back.

Assuming the most abashed manner
he could manage, Ian bowed his head. He lifted the painting and hefted its
weight in one hand. He’d been just about to leave, for God’s sake. Why couldn’t
she have strolled by just five or ten minutes hence?

The disheveled sprite before him
narrowed her eyes. He offered her the painting in a gesture, he hoped, of
submission. After a brief moment, she reached up and took the artwork from his
hands.

 “Thank you.” She smiled at him.

Her infectious smile caused his
lips to twitch involuntarily. Ian leaned back against the front of the desk. A
woman was the last kind of trouble he needed.

“How did you get in?” she asked.

“Window.”

She cast a disbelieving glance
behind him. Even as he turned to look, tree branches scraped the sides of the
house and soggy leaves slapped against the wet glass.