A Spy's Honor (11 page)

Her hesitation was ever so brief before she turned and walked to the far corner of the room, bending slightly to reach a book on a lower shelf. John smiled at his good fortune but put a halt to thoughts of her in such a position without the pink dress, petticoat, and chemise.

“It’s here.” Claire whirled around and set the heavy book down on a nearby table. She must have noticed his smile, for she said, still maintaining her air of distant civility, “You seem in good spirits this morning.”

“It is good to be home.” Under the circumstances, it was actually quite wretched. He didn’t want to trade niceties with dignified, civil Claire; he wanted to have a conversation with spirited, opinionated Claire. Still, the sight of her always elevated his mood.

She gestured toward the book on the table. “What do you plan to do, find suitable heiresses to search out at the ball tonight?”

Of course he didn’t want to peruse the peerage for a bride. He needed to search for an assassin. But he couldn’t tell her that. As it was, he’d barely withstood her interrogation at breakfast the other morning.

From the brightness in her eyes, she might have been teasing about the heiress. He chose to believe she was. “I wanted to familiarize myself with some of the members of the
ton
before I meet them again. I’ve been kept awake the last few nights by thoughts of my social ineptness.” That was only partially true—mostly he had been kept awake by the knowledge that Claire slept down the corridor. “What if I don’t recognize someone I should? What if I forget that Lady Scarlet-Cravat is now married to Lord Padded-Calf?”

Claire tried mightily not to giggle, and relief washed over him. “Yes, poor Lord Scarlet-Cravat has passed on, but we must be happy for Lord Padded-Calf, who has won his first love at last.”

“He’s a very lucky fellow,” John said.

“Do not worry. Emily and your mother will readily assist you, I am certain.”

“And you?” he asked, with more hope than was necessary.

Her gaze lowered to the three-part novel he’d been holding in his hands since she arrived. “Of course, yes, certainly. I… John, I must apologize for my behavior the other morning. I did not mean to imply you were a liar.” She lifted her lashes and looked him in the face. “It’s just… Never mind. I’m sorry.”

He smiled wryly. He had got over his anger within the hour. He
had
lied to her—too often, including just now. Though he couldn’t afford her suspicions, she had every right to have them. “Do not give it another thought. I would prefer to focus on the present, not the past. By the way”—he took a gamble and strode closer—“I’ve found something you might like to read.”

Instead of offering the smile he expected, Claire frowned. “I am needed abovestairs.”

She tried to rush past him. Desperate, he put an arm out to block her, holding up the set of books in his other hand. “Please. Have a look.”

Claire had stopped short of his arm, but she was so close he could have smoothed an errant lock of her silky hair back into place. Instead, he restrained himself and simply gazed into her chocolate-colored eyes.

After too short a time, she glanced over at the front of the first volume. “No, thank you, I would rather not read it.”

“It’s a novel.”

Her eyes rolled upward in exasperation. “I know that. Just because I like novels does not mean I read every one handed to me. That author’s books are not horrid enough for my taste.”

That might be true, but they were romantic and Claire had always indulged her more romantic feelings. “You haven’t read any of her novels?”

“I read
Sense and Sensibility
,” she admitted, arms crossed over her stomach.

“Whom did you prefer, Marianne or Elinor?”

Her mouth gaped. “
You
have read it?”

“Yes. Haven’t you read any of the others?” When she shook her head, he set
Emma
aside, moved to the nearest shelf and pushed his spectacles more firmly onto his nose. After extracting three more volumes he said, “Here. You must read this one first then.”

She took them from him. “
Pride and Prejudice
? John, you don’t like novels. I cannot believe you have read these.” She tried to make her voice sound disgusted, but he could tell by the light in her eyes she was intrigued.

“I
prefer
other genres, but I do not dislike novels. The author is quite insightful, and I cannot believe you didn’t enjoy her writing.”

“You are not required to believe it, but it is true nonetheless.”

John saw the tiniest glimmer in her eye and knew she wanted to say more. He said nothing, waiting and hoping.

Waving the volumes through the air, she finally relented. “Her novels are nothing more than descriptions of everyday life. Reading one feels like secretly perusing the diary of a dear, dull friend.” She shrugged a pink shoulder and set the books down. “Why should I waste my time when I live much the same life?”

Her gaze had dropped to the floor on her last statement, as if something were not quite truthful about it. John had a feeling she would withdraw into politeness once again if he continued questioning her, but perhaps there was another way to solicit her true view. Why it mattered to him, he couldn’t say—except that her adamant opposition to a romantic novel nagged at him like an annoying fly.

“I knew you could not withhold your opinion. It would be like the tide refusing to come in.”

Her smile was broad, full of a cheerfulness he hadn’t seen in five long years. “Or like you missing an opportunity to tease.”

He laughed—at her own teasing, at the glow in her cheeks, at the fact that they could finally speak comfortably after so many wretched days. Then he asked, “Do you mean to say you find your own life tiresome?” He masked the serious question with a smile, attempting to keep her off-balance and open.

She mumbled something that sounded like, “Not the last four days.” But then it was as if she threw her cloak of courtesy around her shoulders once again. “Of course not. I am to be married to a viscount in a month. What girl wouldn’t find such a life thrilling?”

A girl who wasn’t in love with her fiancé
. But that was merely wishful thinking on his part. Kensworth seemed to have every advantage a woman could want: fair looks, wealth, a title.

Claire must have decided he wasn’t going to answer, for she said, “Thank you for the recommendation. If I have the time, I might give it a try.”

She was lying, and again it irrationally bothered John, but for now he would drop the matter.

Claire swept up the volumes, but in her haste to rush past him the books tumbled to the carpet. John went down on his haunches to retrieve them, as did she. Ignoring the novels, he drank in the sight of her, as refreshingly pretty as a cherry tree in blossom. Leaning closer, he whispered her name.

She jumped up. John gathered the books and held them out. When she reached for them, he didn’t let go.

“Might you save a dance for me this evening?”

Her eyes grew wide with horror. “No!” She yanked the books away and rushed to the door. “That wouldn’t be—”

He didn’t hear what their dancing together would not be, because she banged the door shut.

With a grunt of disgust he strode across the room and jerked a chair back. Once he sank down next to the
Debrett’s
, he pulled his spectacles off and rubbed his eyes. What the devil had he been thinking? Well, that was easy. How heavenly it would feel to touch her. How her scent—whatever it was—drove him mad. How he didn’t care; to be near her, he’d gladly trade his sanity. Living with Claire would leave him with a screw loose. She was wise to decline his offer of a dance.

Reluctantly he replaced the spectacles. The government’s initial clue about the assassination attempt had come from an unsigned note dated the sixth day of April, found by an honest man and turned over to the proper officials. John had memorized the words he’d read in the file:

In Lords today—HC discussed as if a threat of epic proportions. The damned Tories were in a dither about the evil plotting that must go on at these meetings. Isn’t that the bloody pot calling the kettle black? Come May, the common people of this nation might wear black for the PM but they will cheerfully
thank us for the privilege! I’m spending tomorrow morning in Town and then I’ll ride home. Join me for dinner at four
.

HC undoubtedly stood for Hampden Club. The writer, if he was a member of the House of Lords, most assuredly was a Whig since he readily disparaged the Tories, the more conservative party.
The nation might wear black for the PM
could refer to the prime minister’s funeral following an assassination by this mysterious
us.
Or this could all be nothing but the ramblings of a servant or someone else who had overheard a lord discussing the Hampden Clubs.

In a casual conversation with Allerton, John had asked if the Hampden Clubs were debated in the last few days. His brother had said no, leading him to believe that the referenced discussion must have taken place either in a committee meeting or in a private conversation.

Regardless, he had best start with the peers, as Sidmouth had averred, and see where that might lead him. If the writer of the letter intended to be home by four o’clock after a morning in Town, John could only surmise that said person’s estate must be within a few hours’ ride of London.

He opened
Debrett’s
, intent on researching all the dukes, marquises, earls and barons who resided within thirty miles of London and immediately slammed his fist onto the open page. Lord Kensworth, whose estate lay only twenty miles away in Hertfordshire, would make the list. As would John’s brother. But he had no suspicions there. Allerton was a Tory through and through.

John had spent the last few evenings at his old club, renewing acquaintances and gathering information on Whig members of the House of Lords, of which Kensworth was a rising member.

For the next hour he paged through
Debrett’s
. Kensworth’s entry somehow didn’t surprise him.
Of course
the man had served in the army, fighting against Napoleon, and
of course
he had risen to the rank of captain despite no currency to purchase advancement.

I wonder if they’ve begun erecting his statue yet
.

He finished memorizing what details he could about each peer, for he planned to begin his investigation that evening, at his first ball. His mother and Emily had at last deemed him ready for Society. He’d been fitted with a new evening kit, received a haircut from his brother’s valet, and practiced the waltz and the quadrille with his sister-in-law while his mother played the pianoforte. Unfortunately he had not learned the steps as well as he should have, because most of his attention had been focused on the drawing room door, willing Claire to walk through it and partner him.

She hadn’t, of course, and now it looked as if she would never dance with him.

“Which is for the best,” he muttered savagely to himself. Was he so lost to sense he could not recognize the broad hints she’d thrown his way?

The door to the library slammed open as loudly as it had been shut. “Uncle, Uncle! Save me!”

John turned in time to catch up little Olivia in his arms. Behind her, his nephew Lord Marden crashed into the room brandishing a wooden sword.

“Arrrr! She’s led me right to you!” the boy cried. “I’ll ransom you both to the queen.”

Facing the pointed end of the weapon, with a squealing three-year-old hanging on him, John gave himself up. “Fear not, Olivia, the queen will save our necks.” After snatching up his list and stowing it in a pocket, he whispered slyly in her ear, “If we do not escape first.”

***

Claire stood in front of her mirror, not entirely satisfied with the flattering appearance of her Bristol red gown. Her recent restless nights and distressed days had sapped some of the color from her skin, enabling the dress to complement her complexion in a way it usually wouldn’t, and the cut of the gown showed her too-plump figure to an advantage she’d never noticed before. But why did she have to look so pleasing tonight of all nights? She wanted to look as she felt, blue-deviled.

As she slipped a gold chain around her neck, she thought about begging off the ball. But she didn’t want the family or Stephen speculating that she was avoiding John. Because she wasn’t. She had already turned down his absurd request for a dance, so she had nothing to fear on that front. An ill-humor
had
taken hold of her, however; perhaps her monthly courses were about to begin.

She wanted to be married to Stephen sooner rather than later. If there was anything she had learned over the past few months, it was that he was the perfect man to marry, even if he didn’t love her. He was charming enough to amuse her when she needed it, interesting enough to prevent their marriage from ever going stale, and caring enough to treat her with respect. They’d formed an attachment as friends and the passion would come later. The viscountcy had come to him unexpectedly, but he was serious about his responsibilities, both on the estate and in Parliament. Oh, how she admired a responsible man.

She would not give him up for a wish and a prayer.

“Claire?” A soft knock preceded her sister’s voice. “We must be leaving now. Everyone’s ready.”

Claire grabbed her shawl from the bed and opened the door.

“Well!” Emily exclaimed. “That gown is much more becoming than we anticipated. Still, I thought you swore never to wear it?”

“It looks well enough, but I am still fat.”

“Don’t spout that man’s hateful words.” Her sister cupped a hand around Claire’s cheek. “Do you love me any less because I am not as sharp as you?”

“No, but—”

“Do I love you any less because you aren’t as thin as I?” Before she could speak again, Emily answered her own question. “No, I don’t. You have a wonderful fiancé who cares for you exactly as you are too. Stop thinking so poorly of yourself.”

Emily had tried different variations of this conversation over the years but Claire still had a difficult time convincing her brain to accept her sister’s sensible words and shut out her father’s.