A Spy's Honor (31 page)

Claire put her hand over her chest as if she were distressed, when in fact she merely wanted to calm her thumping heart. She was about to find her answer. John’s answer. “Dear me,
who
can have captured Lord Stretton’s eye?”

Eliza shook her head. She flipped open her fan and waved it, smiling smugly. “It’s not who, it’s what.”

“I don’t understand,” Claire said, not having to pretend at confusion.

“Don’t you?”

“What are you saying?”

Eliza continued to nonchalantly fan herself, and her perfectly coiffed black curls bounced as she shook her head. “Ah, ah, ah. I don’t give away information for free. It’s my only source of pleasure.”

Claire dropped all pretense. “What do you want?”

“An introduction to Kensworth. It seems the two of you are still on good terms.”

Claire bit back a groan. Again she would have to choose between Stephen and John. But it was a quick decision. Kensworth, with fair warning, could take care of himself. Though, Eliza would probably do better with an introduction to that brute Lord Landry.

“But of course,” she said. “What do you know?”

“Stretton has been taking instruction in the Catholic faith at a church near Wanstead. His wife nearly suffered an apoplexy when she found out.”

Claire maintained a blank expression with difficulty. She was glad the Strettons’ marriage wasn’t in trouble, but if the baron converted to Catholicism he would lose his seat in Parliament and jeopardize the reform movement.

Apparently unsatisfied with Claire’s reaction, or lack thereof, Eliza said, “I have no idea why you’d care.”

“No.” Claire shrugged. “You wouldn’t.” Then she practically skipped off.

She’d done it! She had obtained information that John had been after for weeks.

She circuited the room in search of him, but he was nowhere to be found, so when she spied her former fiancé’s broad shoulders she veered in his direction. He must be alerted about Eliza, and with any luck an amiable dance with Claire would put a cap on a successful night of preserving his reputation.

As for her information, at the end of the day she knew where to find John.

***

John returned to Allerton House hours later, and the butler admitted him with a dignified greeting.

“Hadlow, are the others still out?”

“No, my lord. I believe everyone is returned and they have retired early.”

“Good-night, then.” John turned and headed up the stairs, weary.

He’d followed David to a tavern where the younger man met with Hal Stickney. John was surprised to see Stickney in London. True, the young lad had expressed his desire to come to Town, but his rendezvous with David was more than a little suspicious. Aside from the Hampton Club, the two men didn’t have much in common. That one mutual interest, however, sparked concern.

In the end, though, nothing came of it. While tossing back three glasses of ale each, the two carried on like any other pair of young men, laughing and flirting with the serving girl. John couldn’t get close enough to hear their conversation, but when they left the tavern, each headed a different direction. John chose to follow David, who simply went home.

He reached the second floor and turned toward his bedchamber, trying not to think of Claire tucked into her bed just down the corridor, especially not upon remembering how the sight of said lady in her wrapper and nightdress had undone him once before. His groin tightened at the searing memory of her breast filling his hand, and in frustration he loosened his cravat and yanked it off. By the time he reached his door, he had his coat off as well and tossed both items on the bed. A small fire flared in the fireplace, warming the room comfortably, so his waistcoat went next.

If he remained in England he would have to hire a valet. His brother’s man was doing twice the work and yet refused to take additional wages. After this mission was complete…

After.
Everything was “after.” He had put his life on hold until his work was done. He’d done that willingly in Europe for five years, but having to do so now chafed.

He tugged off his shirt, pushed his spectacles back up his nose and searched atop his chest of drawers for his comb.

Whish
.

John stiffened at the sound of fabric whispering across leather, whipped around and focused on the shadowy corner chair.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Claire.

John’s heartbeat faltered. She sat tucked there, her wrapper snugly tied, her dark, silky hair falling in waves past her shoulders. He fumbled with the shirt that was still in his hands and somehow managed to pull it back over his head without skewing his spectacles.

She, however, appeared calm.

He had to say something or she would continue to stare at him with those soft brown eyes, looking utterly kissable. Touchable. Tumble-able.

“What are you doing here?” His question didn’t bring her out of her trance so he said, “Claire?”

“Oh!” She jumped up and began to pace back and forth, her long hair bouncing against her back each time she turned. The firelight gleamed off those sleek tresses. “I discovered the truth about Stretton. I tried to find you at the ball”—she stopped and shot him a steady gaze—“but you disappeared.”

Despite the urge to wrap her in his arms and soothe her in a most unsuitable manner, John stood his ground. He must escort her out of the room. She had no business being here. He hadn’t even begun to court her. Not seriously.

“Your work, I suppose.” She tilted her head.

He nodded. “Traipsing around Holborn all night.”

“Holborn?” She stepped closer and raised her hand. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

Damnation, it was hard to stand there with Claire before him, thinly though modestly dressed, and a bed beside him. He must say something before she sent those fingers searching for injuries.

“I’m well.” He took a step back and her hand fell away. He would like nothing better than to tell her about David and Stickney, but that would prolong her stay. It was time to get rid of her. He didn’t have the wherewithal to be in the same room with her any longer. He was a gentleman; she was an unmarried lady. He meant to do everything properly this time, to court her as she’d always wanted. As she deserved. “You should—”

“Don’t you want to know about Stretton?” she asked at the same time.

He needed this information; he could get through this. “Very well. Why don’t you sit down?” That way she would stay out of reach.

She searched his eyes. “You are the one who looks like he needs to relax. You are tense.”

“Tell me what you’ve learned.”
And for God’s sake, tell me without flipping your hair so provocatively. Tell me without flashing those big, brown eyes my way.

She dropped back into the chair, somehow loosening her wrapper just enough to fire John’s imagination. He shifted his gaze to the floor and noticed her bare feet for the first time.

“I haven’t even told you the bad news yet,” Claire said, apparently puzzled by the inarticulate sound he made.

John retreated to the end of the bed and leaned against the footboard, his feet stretched out in front of him. From there he could at least stare into the fire and pretend to relax. “Not good news, then?”

“No, but not for the reason you think.” She paused long enough to draw his attention back to her. “Stretton is considering converting to Catholicism.”

He stared at her, at a complete loss as to what to say. Such an absurdity had never entered his mind.

“I know. Shocking.” Once again she was out of the chair, pacing in front of the fireplace. In front of him. “I thought for certain he was having an
affaire d’coeur
, but my source is reliable. His wife is unhappy with him, which is understandable if he is contemplating such a change. They stand to lose much.”

“His expulsion from the House of Lords would devastate the Whig party,” John said with a sigh. Claire’s information fit all that had gone on with Stretton: the lie about his return date, the secrecy of his visit to Wanstead.

She nodded and walked the length of the rug. “Kensworth would be hurt too. He was not only counting on Stretton’s vote for parliamentary reform but his influence with others as well. Reform could be set back years.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced over at John. “Why are you smiling? This is distressing news.”

“I know, but…”

She wouldn’t understand what he was feeling. It was as if he had a partner. Not just someone to work with—he had Watson after all, though it always felt as if Watson were working
against
him—but someone with whom he could discuss discoveries. Someone who understood the implications of what was learned. He could explain to Claire right now that he was searching for an assassin and she would immediately understand the repercussions in regards to Kensworth, Stretton, the government.

He couldn’t tell her, though, and it was killing him.

“What you’ve discovered is not worse than what I feared, but still, it’s simply astonishing. I don’t think anyone suspects. Will you tell Kensworth?”

His question halted her pacing, and John regretted that her perfect little feet no longer paraded before him.

She eyed him questioningly. “Should I? It’s such a personal matter. What right do I have to reveal Stretton’s secret?”

“I’ll talk to Stretton, then Kensworth if he allows it—and if you would like me to.”

“I would. Thank you.”

It would have been the perfect time to end their conversation. Instead he found himself saying, “I wonder that your source hasn’t spread this rumor about. Not many could keep such a secret.”

She smiled mischievously. “The gossip would have been worthless if incautiously spread.”

John leaned forward, stretching his back. “Ah, one of those types. I hope the price wasn’t too high.” Not that he would mind being in Claire’s debt. He could think of several ways to honor such an obligation.

After his work was done, of course.

She wandered over to the chest of drawers, saying over her shoulder, “Kensworth will pay the brunt of it, although we may have to extricate him from her clutches at some point.”

Her use of the word “we” sent a spear of warmth through John’s chest.
That
is what he liked about this situation; they were working together, forming a partnership, becoming a “we.” He wasn’t alone any longer.

“I like working with you,” he said.

She smiled, and his breath hitched. “I like it too.”

She walked toward him. Stopped beside him. Too near. Within reach. John clutched the footboard with both hands. The fire had warmed her, heated the perfume she wore. His head suddenly felt as if it were full of air, a bubble about to burst.

“You must rest. Perhaps I could help you take off your boots?” she offered, a devilish gleam firing a golden streak through her brown eyes.

John pushed away from the bed and feigned a formal attitude, hoping the chill in his voice would calm the lustful tremor sweeping through him at her artless attempt at seduction. “Claire! That wouldn’t be proper and you know it.”

Her eyebrows flew upward as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Oh? What do you know about propriety? When I was engaged to Kensworth you had no qualms about kissing me. Or t-touching me.”

Her stammer had nothing to do with nervousness or a missish sense, John saw. Her cheeks flushed and her chest swelled; she was remembering.

Barely able to breathe, he struggled to push air into his tight lungs. “I am attempting to be a gentleman,” he replied, too aware of how priggish he sounded. It
was
too late for moralizing. Perhaps Kensworth had the right of it; he should abandon the cautious and proper course and follow his—

No. Claire was worthy of patience and restraint. And a declaration of love. This, here, now, was not heading toward a discussion of their innermost feelings. John knew her; he knew she needed to hear how he felt about her, but he still had so much work to do.

After.

God, it was hard to be proper.

Her hands dropped to the sash of her wrapper. One flick of her finger and the thin flannel opened. “As a former schoolmate of mine once said, ‘A woman has no need of a perfect gentleman in the bedchamber.’” Her eyes, as round and coppery as halfpennies, turned beseechingly upward. “Don’t you want me, John?”

She couldn’t have disarmed him with any other words. That question stripped away any defense, any excuse, he’d previously been able to muster, and without hesitation John stepped toward her, reaching for her, only too willing to show her how much he wanted her.

He was rebuffed. Claire put her hands to his chest, straightened her arms, and held him off.

But he didn’t fail to notice how her fingertips curled into his shirt, as if they had discovered something new and delightful.

“I see it in your eyes. I do. But sometimes,” she whispered, bending her arms and stepping closer, “a lady needs to hear the words.”

She could have her words, but John wasn’t going to say them without being able to touch her. Roughly he pulled her into him, tipping her chin up with his injured hand so he could gaze into her eyes and speak directly to her heart. “Claire, I have always wanted you. I want you at sunrise, at sunset and all the hours in between. I want to talk to you, to listen to you, to look at you, but most of all I want to touch you. Everywhere. Anywhere. For hours on—”

He got no further as Claire apparently decided she’d heard enough and found another occupation for his lips. Her arms stretched up around his neck, pulling him into the sweet champagne flavor of her mouth. John crushed her body to his, tasting, touching, inhaling the essence of Claire.

Her lips parted as her hands skittered down the length of his torso, searching, seeking until she worked them up under his shirt, her soft fingers exploring the hot flesh of his stomach and chest. John’s knees nearly buckled from the scale of her assault.

He managed to rouse himself to the challenge, though, plunging his tongue inside her deliciously open mouth, sweeping an arm beneath her legs, hoisting her against his chest.