A Spy's Honor (24 page)

“You’ve said as much,” she said in a musing tone. “Why is that?”

Because I don’t want you hurt by the scandal
. “Because, under vastly different circumstances, I think Kensworth and I might have been friends.” That was the truth, just not the whole of it.

Claire tugged on the reins, halting her horse. John had to do the same.

“Yes. Yes, I can see that.” She smiled, but there was a touch of melancholy in the curve. “John, I have every intention of keeping quiet as long as you allow me to watch out for his character.” Her spine sagged ever so slightly. “And keeping that secret from him, I’ll have you know, makes me feel guilty. But,” she added on a sigh, “if I did betray you to him, I would feel just as guilty.”

Fingers of warmth spread through his chest. Poor Claire, caught between the two of them. But perhaps she knew more that could aid him. “Did you know he is involved with a radical club?”

She cocked her head to the side, her expression thoughtful. “Radical? He mentioned a club, but I thought it harmless enough.”

“I do not think it is. Even if he has nothing to do with what I’m investigating, I fear his membership in that club could damage his reputation, both politically and socially.”

Resting her hands in her lap, the reins slack between her fingers, Claire nodded. “He is a bit naïve about Society. He hasn’t lived under the
ton’s
scrutiny for long. I don’t think he even begins to comprehend how they think and what they are capable of.” She tightened her grip on the reins and inched her mare forward, closer to John’s bay. “Could you please talk to him? He has worked so hard to make a name for himself in Parliament, and I know he only wants to help those who begin life where he did.”

John leaned forward, stretching his back again. “I’ve already tried, to little avail.” At Claire’s disappointed frown he added, “I will try again. I’m beginning to see the wisdom of reform; I just don’t think he’s going about it the right way.”

“Thank you.”

She was too close. The familiar yet unidentifiable scent of her delighted his nose, and her riding habit was far too form-fitting in all the right places. He deposited his spectacles in his pocket and nudged his horse back a pace. “We haven’t done much riding. Shall we race?”

She nodded gamely, and John took off without warning. He didn’t look back to see her indignant face, but he could well imagine the narrowing of her pretty eyes and the setting of her jaw. Claire liked a challenge, though, and that’s what catching up to him would be.

He let the bay gallop steadily, but not headlong, fearful that Claire might not be able to hold her seat racing sidesaddle. The warm, heavy air whipped past his face and through his hair, but as they followed the lane around a curve the thunder of furiously paced hooves sounded nearer. His taller, longer-legged horse could have easily beaten the mare in a distance race, but Claire’s mount was powerful for her size. The mare pulled abreast of his bay, its rider leaning forward and grinning as if she had won a race at Newmarket.

The lane straightened as they headed toward a copse of beeches. John flicked a glance at Claire and then pressed his heel into his horse’s flank. The bay lengthened its stride, easily distancing them from the mare. Only when they neared the entrance to the small wood did he pull up, turn, and don his spectacles once more to watch Claire ride toward him.

This, not winning, had been his goal all along. There was nothing quite like watching a woman ride a horse. She had slowed the mare to a trot and once more sat regally in the saddle. That wool habit outlined every delicious curve of her body, while the horse’s gait made her breasts bounce in a cock-hardening way.

He grimaced and turned his horse as Claire approached, hoping she wouldn’t notice his condition. If this was the way he thought of his “friend’s wife,” it was a good thing he didn’t have any true friends.

“Next time,” she admonished as she pulled up beside him, “you will have to try to win without cheating.”

He looked over to see her brown eyes sparkling with vivacity. It was good to see her enjoying herself, divested of anger. He almost didn’t mind she wasn’t his. Almost. And he smiled anyway. “It was the only way I could win.”

Her mare danced sideways, still energized from their race. “I didn’t think you were the win-at-all-cost type.”

“I’m not, but you are,” he replied. “Since winning means more to you than me, surely you must expend the greater effort in achieving your desire. Otherwise, how can you be satisfied with your accomplishment?”

Right now she seemed quite satisfied with the way things had turned out. A soft smile shaped her lips and her eyes crinkled at the corners.

John cleared his throat. “The horses need to move.”

After a brief hesitation, Claire urged her mount to walk along the lane again, beneath an arch of beech branches. Tiny buds dotted the limbs, verdantly shining in the April sun, and John followed, turning the conversation.

“I noticed you were reading
Pride and Prejudice
after dinner last night. What do you think of it?”

“I must admit it is amusing,” she allowed.

“Affecting as well, I think. Do you not fear that neither Jane nor Lizzy will end up happy?”

She shook her head. “I do not. It is a novel, and I know all will end well for the Bennet girls.” She stared straight ahead as her voice grew quieter. “I used to think life was no different. A happy ending for all.”

Then he’d left her and ruined her romantic outlook on life. He understood now just how much heartbreak he’d caused.

Briefly he closed his eyes. The sweet chirping of several wrens filled the air.

After a quarter mile amongst the trees, they emerged into a clearing with a small stream running through. Pale pink lady’s smock ran rampant near the edge of the water and encircled several large flat stones moored in the grass.

“Let’s stop and let the horses drink,” Claire said. “I could do with a rest as well.”

John alighted, more than willing to stretch his legs. He stripped off his gloves and stuffed them in the saddlebag, retrieving a napkin-wrapped package.

Claire had already dismounted and was shaking her long skirts back into place. He offered his arm, as he would have done for his mother or his sister-in-law. She took it and guided him toward the stream.

She felt so right tucked against his side, her sweet scent wafting up to call to him, the sun bringing a bronze glint to her eyes. Unintended or not, he never wanted this morning to end.

He also wanted it over right now. He wanted to prove Kensworth innocent, find the prime minister’s assassin, and board the next ship to America. Or India. Or anywhere thousands of miles away from Lady Claire Talbot, soon to be Lady Kensworth.

She was oblivious to his pain. Pointing to the bundle he held, she asked, “What’s that?”

“Sustenance,” he replied, holding it out. “Salvation.”

She stopped abruptly in front of one of the gray stones sunk into the earth. “I am quite capable of going without food for a few hours,” she said, clearly vexed.

God, how he loved her. Despite his mood, he grinned. “I know you are, but you are not capable of doing it without becoming irritable.”

Jerking her arm free, she plopped down onto the smooth stone in a most unladylike fashion. “I am not irritated!”

He lifted his eyebrows.

“I need to eat less, and you are not helping matters.”

“Eat less? Why?” She loved food, and he loved her hearty appetite. Lowering himself to the stone next to her, he began to unfold a linen.

She waved her hands down the length of her body, as if he needed an invitation to look at her. “I am too plump.”

Oh, the replies he could have made to that statement. But phrases such as “kissable curves,” “bountiful breasts,” and “lush derriere” were not remotely appropriate coming from his lips, no matter how truly they might describe her. And tempted though he was to say something equally valid but slightly less scandalous, such as “You are perfect,” he refrained, aware that he had no right.

Instead he replied blandly, “Of course you aren’t.”

“Apple tarts?” she said, gazing at what he’d unwrapped. “You do not play fair at all, John Reyburn.”

“I think we’ve already established that.” He handed her a tart, which she didn’t hesitate to take. He’d like to think that was another lie, that he always played fair, but he hadn’t lately. Kensworth had more cause than he knew to question John’s honor. He’d vowed to act the gentleman but anymore he wondered just how much claim he had to the name.

Chapter Nineteen

With Lord John out for a ride and his brothers otherwise occupied, he had no trouble slipping out of the house undetected to meet with Bates. He let the dun race across the meadows; the horse seemed to be in the same high spirits as himself. Only seven more days until England would be awakened to a new order. Another week and the government would finally be forced to embrace parliamentary reform. The men who supported this country on their shoulders would, at last, have a say in the making of its laws.

He rode into the wood, grateful to escape the relentless sunshine. The abandoned hunting box was another half mile deep; he’d discovered it last summer while out shooting.

As he approached, he saw Bates pacing in front of the window—or what was supposed to be a window; there was no glass and only one shutter remained, hanging haphazardly by a rusty nail. Bates, well-trained former soldier that he was, noticed his arrival and stood in the doorway as he tethered the dun to a nearby tree.

“Are you ready for this evening’s meeting?”

“O’ course.” Bates’s reply sounded confident, but the way the man surveyed the surrounding forest gave away his anxiety.

He put his arm around Bates’s shoulders and steered him inside. “Don’t be such a ninny! I need you.”

The man scowled as he sat in a straight-backed chair. “I wish you weren’t blind to the risks. I sees them. Why can’t you?”

“We will overcome the risks, such as they are. No one knows what we are about.” He scraped the other chair in the room across the planked floor and turned it backward, dropping onto the splintered wood without a care. Bates, as usual, did not look reassured.

He sighed and then tried to mollify his friend. “If they had any suspicions, don’t you think they would be scrutinizing the Hampden Clubs more closely, possibly even shutting us down?”

Brow furrowed as deep as the fields a few miles away, Bates popped up and began to pace again in front of the blackened fireplace. “You’re bringing someone new tonight.”

“Lord John, an aristocratic do-good.” He rested his arms over the chair back. “I wrote you about him. There’s nothing to fear. I don’t expect him to be of much help, but he was interested so…” He shrugged. “We have more important things to discuss. When will the gunpowder be delivered?”

“Monday.”

“Excellent.” He nodded. “Have you found a place to store it?” Two barrels of gunpowder would not be easy to hide. He could not use any of the outbuildings near the house for fear the powder might be discovered. Nor did he want to use this place. It was too exposed to the elements.

Bates pivoted on his booted heel, his hazel eyes alight. “Did you know there’s a root cellar beneath the kitchen?”

“No. Show me.”

The former corporal led the way through the small lodge. On the ground floor there was only the one main room and a rudimentary kitchen in the back. There were two first-floor bedchambers, but the staircase had rotted and they could not access it. The box had not been built solidly to begin with and had fallen into disrepair during the tenure of previous non-sporting viscounts.

Outside the rear door Bates pointed to a spot in the ground covered with some kind of creeping vine. “It was dry down there last week when it rained, so I think it’ll work.”

Bates undoubtedly had cleared away enough foliage to reveal a handle, which was the only reason he recognized it as a door. Bates now swung it open with an agonizingly loud screech of its metal hinges. A set of wooden steps descended into darkness.

“You want to haul two barrels of gunpowder down there?” he asked his partner.

Bates shrugged. “It’ll be a bit o’ work, but no one will find it. I can fill the trunks down there too.” They planned to fill small wooden boxes with the gunpowder, making it easier to transport the explosive to London and to load onto the carriages of the prime minister and Secretary Sidmouth. Those gentlemen would be in for a surprise after their visit to the theatre next Wednesday. “Then we won’t have to haul the barrels back up.”

He grinned at Bates and slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll bring a lamp next time we meet so you can see and not worry about the flame of a candle. Brilliant work, old fellow. I knew I could count on you.” Then, remembering the other reason he’d come, he sobered. “We will need help. I can’t be here until Wednesday. I’ve too many commitments in Town.”

A rustle from a nearby tangle of bushes drew their attention. Bates looked to be holding his breath in terror, so when a timid rabbit inched its nose out from beneath the leaves, he couldn’t help but guffaw at his associate’s hen-heartedness. There would be nothing to laugh at, however, if Bates seized up on their mission.

Grasping Bates by the shoulders, he summoned up a speech from his days in the 52nd. “Come now! We are about to enter our battlefield. The enemy lies near. I need you strong and I need you brave.” He shook the other man, letting his voice rise. “Are you with me? Are you with England?”

“Yes, sir!” At last courage blazed in Bates’s eyes, as it had before Waterloo. “I will be ready, sir. You can count on me.”

“Excellent.” He let go of the man and strode around to the front of the building. As he untied the dun, he spoke over his shoulder to Bates, who had followed him. “At the meeting tonight we’ll speak with Hal Stickney. He’s trustworthy. I’ll arrange to meet with him in London.”

Bates nodded. “I’ll see you tonight then.”

He swung into the saddle and grinned down at his friend. “Only seven more days!”

Then he urged the dun into a trot, anticipation pushing his spirits even higher than they’d been. Everything was set. They would change England.