A Spy's Honor (18 page)

What could they possibly have to agree on?

Now, however, she and the other ladies were back in the drawing room awaiting the imminent return of the gentlemen. No amount of female chatter could keep her from devising a plan to avoid John. After their talk that morning, there was nothing further either needed to say to the other.

The gentlemen returned, full of port and, by extension, good cheer. Robert was especially boisterous and he immediately persuaded the dowager duchess, Allerton, and Stephen to play whist. Before Claire could even blink the others huddled near the fireplace, talking earnestly. That left John to himself.

She hurried over to the pianoforte and began shuffling through the music sheets. He approached her anyway.

“What are you doing?”

Ignoring how splendid he looked in his black coat and green waistcoat and focusing on the music she replied, “I thought I would play.”

“You don’t play the pianoforte.”

She couldn’t help throwing her shoulders back a little. “I do too.” Then honesty won over. “I just do so rather wretchedly.”

“There’s no need for you to play; you make a lovely portrait sitting there.”

She so rarely received compliments. Stephen never commented on her appearance, and while Allerton’s compliments were abundant, he was not only her brother-in-law, he was also apt to flatter any female within hearing.

She looked up. Behind the spectacles, John’s blue eyes were dark and serious, as if he were studying a rare book. She grew warm, almost as if her whole body had flushed.

“Stop it.” The admonishment was meant for both of them. “You are being inappropriate. Did our conversation this morning mean nothing to you? Whatever glimmer of desire there might have been between us, you killed it when you deserted me. If you had wanted to marry me, you would have.” Oh, how she wanted to shout those words, but she had to settle for a strident whisper. And if he wanted her now, she admitted to herself in a moment of horrified shame, all he had to do was declare himself. But despite his clandestine kisses, he had done nothing to indicate she was his and by God he would marry her at all costs.

She drew in a breath, ready to excuse herself, when Stephen interjected, planting himself right beside her. “You must be talking politics, to have got my betrothed in such a high passion.”

One could not miss the steely undercurrent in Stephen’s tone. Was he jealous? John clenched his jaw, and Claire shivered.

John didn’t exactly lie, but he was much more adept at prevarication than Claire would have ever thought. “She will do you credit, that’s for certain.”

Stephen grasped her hand and slipped it under and around his arm. “Did he tell you that he’s asked for my assistance?”

With what? Claire wondered. They had nothing in common. “No, he didn’t.”

“He seeks a seat in House of Commons and has come to me.”

There was no small amount of pride in his voice. Stephen had worked so hard in the last year to become a contributing member of the Whig party. He must see John’s request as a testament to his good standing. But Claire narrowed her eyes in John’s direction.

“Why did you not go to Allerton? You do know Stephen is a Whig not a Tory?”

He cocked an abashed smile at her fiancé. “I do. My mind was opened to many new ideas while I was on the Continent, and I think my beliefs might align better with Kensworth’s party.”

On the Continent
doing what?
Claire ground her teeth, still irritated with his lack of proffered illumination on that matter. Nonetheless, “I had no idea you wished to become an MP, but I’m glad to see you giving some thought to your future. Now, which liberal principle are you most committed to: Catholic emancipation, voting reform, or the abolition of slavery? Personally I would like Kensworth to focus on slavery, as I believe it behooves us to free all men before turning our thoughts to the voting concerns of Englishmen.”

She almost missed it, but she just caught the flicker of surprise in John’s eyes and couldn’t help lifting an eyebrow smugly.
Why yes, Lord John, I do think about more than romantic novels.
She squeezed Stephen’s arm and added, “But I fully support his efforts for Parliamentary reform, knowing it’s an issue close to his heart.”

“Probably too close,” Stephen said. “Claire knows how to take my half-formed, fervent incoherencies and turn them into a speech worthy of Charles James Fox.”

John dipped his head in acknowledgment. “As I said before, you are a lucky man indeed. Being so new to all this, I will follow your lead until I’ve found my feet. Or until Allerton orders my head on a platter because of my defection.”

Stephen laughed, but John’s words gave Claire pause. Would John really turn away from his family’s tradition? Was he serious or was he…? She didn’t know what else he could be, but she still had the feeling he was slipping into an actor’s role every now and then, spouting lines from a play.

“I beg your pardon, but I must speak with my mother,” he said now. He bowed to her and then turned to Stephen. “Until Thursday.”

Breathing came a little easier once he was gone. Claire looked up to Stephen. “Thursday?”

“I’m riding out to Wakebourne. John is accompanying me, as are Robert and David. There are one or two things that need attending on the estate and I thought it would be a good time to further assess John’s potential as a Whig. We’ll return in two days. It seems like forever, but you’ll be in my thoughts the entire time.”

She smiled. “Only because you’ll wish I was there to win him over to our cause.”

Despite her joke, he frowned and glanced around the room. “Can we a moment elsewhere?”

Her stomach took a little tumble. Without a word, she led him out onto the balcony that overlooked the garden. Space was limited, as it was meant to be more ornamental than functional, so Stephen’s large frame crowded hers.

“Is John still living in the past?”

“What…what do you mean?”

“I see the look in his eyes, Claire. He’s no great actor.” Taking her hand he asked, “Has he acted ungentlemanly toward you at all?”

She could not lie, not when he asked directly, and even before she spoke she could feel her cheeks heating to what had to be a flame red color. “I don’t want secrets between us. Yes, John has kissed me.”
And I kissed him back.

Emily had planted a small but vibrant patch of tulips in the corner. Stephen stared, transfixed, at the yellow and red flowers waving in the twilight breeze, and when his green eyes shifted back to her, Claire’s legs nearly gave way. Stephen had always been fiery about politics, but now his eyes were on her, burning intently.

“Damnation! I never thought a gentleman would descend to such behavior.” He cupped her cheek with one hand and looped the other around her waist, pulling her closer. “I’m sorry you’ve had to suffer. It’s unfortunate the wedding isn’t to take place sooner. I would like nothing better than to whisk you away from this house.”

No. No, no, no.
Claire fought through the guilt threatening to drown her and studied Stephen, wishing, hoping, praying not to see what she thought she saw. Not to hear what she heard. He didn’t love her. He couldn’t. He’d denied it during his proposal, hadn’t he?

Hadn’t he?
She searched her memory but could only remember that
she
had claimed he didn’t love her. He had not confirmed the statement.

“Thank you for your honesty. I will speak with John.”

“You don’t mean… You aren’t going to…” She couldn’t even finish the question. Gentlemen had such ideas about honor. A duel was the last thing she ever wanted.

Stephen’s blond eyebrows rose in surprise. “You think I mean to call him out? Don’t be ridiculous, Claire. I like John, but I will not allow him to continue to treat you so. I will make myself clear to him.” He dropped his hand from her cheek to her shoulder. “I assume you want him to stop.”

“Of course I don’t want him to kiss me!” That was the truth. Because she didn’t want to dishonor Stephen, because she enjoyed it too much, and because she didn’t need any more reminders of what could have been. She had not invited John’s kiss.

“I did tell you it would be awkward to have him living there. But, worry no more. I will take care of the situation.”

She looked at his face again, searching for evidence of his feelings.

He cocked his head to the side. “Would you have accepted my proposal if John had already been returned?”

Her heart raced. Having spent the last week trying not to think about such a scenario, she had no idea what to say, how to answer. Stephen’s gaze, entirely too vulnerable, never left her face.

He loved her. Stephen loved her.

She let herself fall against his chest. Above all, she did not want to hurt him. Not only was he a good man, but he needed her. She hugged him tighter. “I am more than happy, proud even, to become your wife.”

He tipped her face up and lowered his lips to hers.

Now was the time to try Emily’s suggestion. Claire slid her hands behind Stephen’s neck and deepened the kiss. She pushed herself against him and flicked her tongue over his lips. He breathed her name and she kissed him with her tongue the way another man had taught her. Stephen tightened his hands around her back and greedily kissed her in return.

After a moment, though, he pulled away. “Lord, three weeks seems like forever, doesn’t it?”

No, a lifetime with someone for whom she felt no passion felt like forever.

***

John spent the rest of the interminable evening playing whist with Robert, Allerton and David. As much as he loathed cards, he willingly suffered the torment rather than witness the sight of Claire clinging to Kensworth’s lips as if treacle had sealed them together. After spying them on the balcony in that torrid kiss, he’d retreated to the card table.

He ground his teeth, more aware now than ever that he had thrown away his chance to be with Claire. She had moved on and chosen a perfectly suitable husband. Kensworth cared for her and valued her, and well he should. They would make a formidable political couple in another year or two. There weren’t enough curse words available to suit his mood.

Her grasp of the most important Whig issues shouldn’t have surprised him. Claire was intelligent; he knew that. He was, however, astounded to hear her spouting views that were so contrary to Allerton’s. In his mind, he still saw the young girl who hung on Allerton’s every word.

After the Cahills had left and the others were retiring for the night, John prepared to go out. Conversing at social events and meeting at clubs was not his usual method of operation in a mission. He was tired of the stifling nature of trying to spy within the
beau monde
. It was time to take action and capture the conspirators sooner rather than later.

Since he couldn’t infiltrate Kensworth’s Hampden Club for another two days, he might as well work on the other man Watson had urged him to investigate, Lord Romford.

Earlier that afternoon, the ever-garrulous Lord Stretton had mentioned Romford and his wife were revelers of the first order, attending numerous
ton
affairs each night and enjoying the events until the last candle was extinguished. Tonight should be no different.

He dressed in some of his older, darker clothes, leaving off a cravat; sheathed a knife in his boot and pocketed a candle stub and a hairpin. It was easy enough to go down the main staircase and sneak out the rear door without anyone seeing him, as most of the servants were either abed or helping various family members ready themselves for slumber. In a matter of minutes he was picking his way down the mews of Hill Street, a few blocks from Allerton House.

Lord Romford lived at No. 10 with his barely-out-of-the-schoolroom wife. John slipped through the gate into the garden and craned his neck upwards. Breaking into the home of a peer was a risky proposition no matter what, but this was the art he’d perfected on the Continent. A bit reckless perhaps, but he must find some answers. He needed to
do
something, expend some energy, find the assassin. He’d looked the place over earlier and was fairly certain that window up there was Romford’s study. If he could get past all the servants and reach the first floor, he knew exactly where to go. With any luck he might be on his way back to the Continent by the time Claire was pledging her troth to Kensworth.

That is, if Kensworth wasn’t the assassin.

The rear door stood ajar. From deep within came the sound of good-natured conversation and occasional laughter. With the servants having such a fine time, John would bet that the master was certainly away. Undoubtedly they were in the kitchen. Most likely no one was working. At least that’s what he was counting on.

He entered and descended a few steps then veered into the nearest dark, empty room. In the shadows he saw plates and cups stacked haphazardly; this was the scullery.

He stood listening for a moment, assessing the situation. The scullery had two other doors, one leading toward the kitchen—the laughter was louder now—and one leading to another darkened room. John was just moving toward the latter when a far-too-near female voice called out, “Hold on already! There’s another right here. I jus’ washed it meself.”

The door to the kitchen creaked open, so John reversed course and slid—quite literally; the floor was wet—into a corner behind a large wooden table holding a basin. A shaft of flickering light preceded the shadowy figure of a maid into the room. She searched for something on a table near to hand.

Hunched in the corner, John pulled one leg more solidly beneath him, ready to run should the need arise. His boot scraped across the stone floor and he winced.

The maid whirled to face the darkened room, a knife clutched in her hand. “Filthy mice! If I catch ye…” She advanced toward the basin.

John lowered his head to his knees, trying to obscure any hint of his white shirt or light skin, trying not to breathe. He had faced many a dangerous situation before, but never an English housemaid with a knife. Now
this
was spying.

“Mary, come already!” a masculine voice boomed from the kitchen.