Lord and Lady Spy (2 page)

London, five days later

“What do you mean, you no longer require my services?” Adrian Galloway, Lord Smythe, rose from his chair and planted his hands on Lord Melbourne’s desk. “I just delivered Lucien Ducos to you. I risked my hide for this office—again.”

“And we appreciate your services.”

With a flick of his wrist, Adrian dismissed the meaningless sentiments. He leaned closer, so his gaze was level with the secretary’s. “Do you know how much I’m worth to the French?” His voice was little more than a tense whisper. “Do you know what the bounty on my head will be after they learn I took Ducos?”

“That is precisely what I am attempting to explain,” Melbourne said, appearing unfazed by Adrian’s glower. “The French are no longer our enemies. We have Bonaparte.”

Adrian stepped back, his eyes never leaving those of the older man. Melbourne was in his early fifties and still retained his athletic build. Adrian had heard Melbourne was the premiere spy of his day. Now the man served as secretary for the elite Barbican group, a subset of England’s Foreign Office.

Less than a handful of Englishmen knew of the existence of the Barbican. Its own members usually worked alone, and Adrian knew of only one other agent—an operative named Blue, who had done a job with him in Brussels last year. Adrian’s sole contact with Barbican came through Melbourne. The older man had been a good friend and mentor—at times more like a father than a superior.

And now Melbourne was dismissing him, cutting Adrian out of the only family he’d ever really known. The sting of it burned, felt more like a personal betrayal than a professional decision. He had to put the personal aside.

Adrian let out a long breath and, gripping the arms of the chair behind him, took a seat. “Fine. We have Bonaparte. I’ll take another assignment. Surely the French are not the only threat to English sovereignty. What about the bloody Americans?”

Melbourne steepled his fingers and pursed his lips, and Adrian wanted to fly across the polished cherry desk and erase Melbourne’s cool demeanor. How could the man sit there so calmly and annihilate Adrian’s life?

“As Agent Wolf, you have been a great asset to your country and this organization. God knows no other operative has your gift for strategy. When your country needed you, you answered the call. But I think it time you explored other avenues of interest.”

Adrian clenched his jaw. “I see.”

“Your king and your country are eternally grateful for your services. If you had not already been granted a knighthood for your bravery and sacrifice, we would bestow one on you—secretly, of course. But, as it stands, we have no choice but to retire you.”

“I’m thirty-five,” Adrian said, his voice a cold whisper. “That’s a bit young for retirement.”

“Yes. Well…” Melbourne cleared his throat, and Adrian tapped his fingers impatiently. He knew exactly what his friend was telling him. He had known this day would come eventually. But that didn’t mean he would go without a fight. That didn’t mean he would make this easy or painless for Melbourne.

Melbourne straightened. “What about parliament? You hold a seat in the House of Lords.”

“Parliament?” Adrian’s his lip curled. “It’s a gaggle of self-important idiots who, rather than take any action, stand about listening to themselves speak.”

“What about a hobby then? Gardening?”

Adrian gave him a pained expression.

“Golf?”

Adrian sighed. Loudly.

“Poetry?”

Adrian flashed him a warning glance, and Melbourne shrugged. “Listen, Adrian, I know how much the Barbican group has meant to you. I know why you need it.”

Adrian’s chest tightened, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

“But you’ve done your duty—more than your duty. Whatever demons you’re still fighting, let them go. Your father—”

“Don’t.” It was the one word Adrian could manage without choking. Even so, his voice was strangled, the word garbled. “Don’t,” he said again.

“Fine.” Melbourne rose. “But like it or not, you’ll hear my advice—stop being a martyr, and start living your own life. As Wolf, you invented a thousand identities for yourself, but I don’t think you know the first thing about Adrian Galloway. Who are you, Adrian?”

Adrian opened his mouth, but Melbourne hurried on. “Other than a spy for the Barbican group.”

Adrian closed his mouth again.

“And what about that pretty wife of yours?” Melbourne rounded his desk and moved toward the door behind Adrian. “In the last year, you’ve been away more than you’ve been home. Now might be a good time to start a family. A couple of hale and hearty boys running about the house would be good for you—both of you. You’ll soon see there’s more to life than missions.” Melbourne opened the door, and the empty hallway beyond yawned at Adrian.

He rose. “About Bonaparte—”

“Go home to your wife,” Melbourne continued before taking Adrian’s shoulder and guiding him through the door.

No fool, Adrian knew this battle—though not the war—was over.

The door closed with an echoing thud, and Adrian stood in the deserted hall and stared at the stone walls. This wasn’t the end. He wouldn’t give in that easily. He couldn’t—no matter what Melbourne said. There was so much still left to do, to prove. In the meantime…

Adrian sighed.

His wife. Even the thought of Sophia caused a flicker of pain. A couple of hale and hearty boys, Melbourne had said. They had tried that.

He’d married Sophia because he was the eldest son, and he was expected to marry and produce heirs. She was from a good family, and his mother and stepfather had encouraged—very well, practically insisted on—the match. Adrian hadn’t argued.

He knew his duty and figured he could have done worse. He had better things to do than waste time at balls and soirees flirting with females. Things like saving his country.

Sophia wasn’t the kind of woman to demand attention or interfere with his work. Even when he was courting her, she never asked intrusive questions and never complained at his long absences.

More importantly, she never mentioned his father.

He was already working for the Foreign Office, taking the most dangerous assignments in order to prove himself to Melbourne and the leaders of the Barbican group.

Then, just a day after the lavish wedding, he’d been asked to lead a very dangerous mission. His success would mean an invitation to join the Barbican group—work he considered far more important than any wife or marriage.

At precisely the time Adrian would have spent hours in seclusion with his wife, coming to know her intimately—perhaps even falling in love with her—he’d been in France, doing surveillance from a cold, austere garret.

When he’d come home, his town house had felt little different. But two months into his marriage, he’d been inducted into the Barbican group.

He’d tried to be a good husband when he was home, and for a time they’d been happy.

Expectant.

But mostly there had been pain and disappointment. He’d never expected his marriage would be a love match. Loyalty, honor, sacrifice for king and country—those meant more to him than any woman.

And, unlike his father, he would never allow himself to forget it.

But he had allowed his marriage to unravel. At this point, he couldn’t say where Sophia was or what she was doing. He couldn’t even remember what she looked like.

No. That wasn’t true.

He remembered all too well.

Adrian began to walk, frowning as he stepped out of the nondescript building housing the secretary’s office and into the bright summer sunshine on Pall Mall.

Perhaps Melbourne was right. Perhaps he could use this holiday—he refused to think of it as a retirement—to repair his fractured union. They might even try for a child again.

Adrian made his way down Piccadilly then turned onto Berkeley Street, nodding to a gentleman from his club. Adrian needed something to distract him for a week or so, until he could find a way to convince Melbourne he was still indispensable. Adrian didn’t even think he’d need to convince Melbourne. The leader of the Barbican group would come to him, no doubt.

Until then he would spend time with Sophia and concentrate on beginning the family he’d always wanted. But how to broach the topic of children with Sophia? She’d closed the subject and her bedroom door to him a year ago—or was it two? He shook his head. It had been some time since he’d shared her bed.

Quite some time.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want her. Despite her huge glasses, severe hairstyle, and high-necked gowns, he knew she was a lush, tempting woman. She might try to hide her beauty, but he knew her with her wild chestnut curls tossed over a pillow, her red lips parted, her dark eyes drowsy with pleasure.

His body tensed as the images, each one more wanton than the last, flooded him. Need, like a fire, licked at him. Perhaps this was why he avoided his wife.

Adrian had thought of acquiring a mistress, but infidelity always seemed a sordid business to him. His father had taught him that and taught him well.

Adrian turned onto Charles Street, and after passing The Running Footman tavern, his elegant town house came into view. The sight robbed him of most of his resolve.

Perhaps the subject of children was too bold a start. It might be better to begin with the basics.

A simple conversation, for example. They might discuss the weather or the… price of corn. The idea wasn’t promising, but it was a step up from their usual
good
morning
,
excuse
me
, and
good
night
.

He approached the town house door and took a deep breath. One day he would understand how he could enter a room full of armed men intent upon killing him and not even perspire, while the thought of ten words with his wife made him all but break out in hives.

Adrian gritted his teeth and opened the door.

***

Sophia Galloway caught the lamp just as the small table tumbled over. Unfortunately, she was not quick enough to grasp the Sèvres porcelain plate, and it crashed to the wooden floor, splintering into a hundred pieces.

Norbert, the devil child who’d knocked the table over, erupted into loud screams at the noise, and his mother, who’d been stuffing her face with tea cakes and scones, scowled at Sophia.

“Good lord, Sophia. What are you thinking, putting those dangerous objects in a child’s path?” Cordelia scooped the howling Norbert into her ample arms and patted him absently on the back. “Norbert could have been hurt. There now, sweetheart. Would you like a cake?”

The chubby-cheeked toddler’s tears disappeared in an instant, and he reached eagerly for the sweets.

“Had I known you were coming,” Sophia said, placing the lamp on the drawing-room mantel and righting the table, “I would have moved the items.” And everything else of value.

She adjusted the glasses slipping off her nose and caught sight of Eddie, her sister-in-law’s other demon child, peeking out from under the heavy draperies. Before he could stick a piece of broken porcelain in his mouth, she grabbed him.

Sophia yanked the shard out of his hand, and then he, too, exploded into wails of displeasure. “Sophia!” Cordelia screeched around a mouthful of crumpet, and it was all Sophia could do not to pull the dagger she had hidden in her boot and fling it into her sister-in-law’s chest.

But that would only make the children cry louder and probably wake Edward, her husband’s snoring half brother. And so, instead of dispatching Cordelia, as she would have liked, Sophia smoothed her skirts and took a stiff-necked seat in her favorite chair, a Sheraton upholstered in cream satin.

And to think a week ago she’d been Saint: England’s most resourceful, most skilled, most elusive spy. How quickly she’d been reduced to… this.

Wallace, her butler, stepped unobtrusively into the room, and Sophia made a motion toward the shattered Sèvres piece. He nodded. “I’ll send the maid—again, my lady.”

Cordelia had finally quieted both of her children, and now she leveled her gaze on Sophia. “This house is entirely too dangerous,” Cordelia pronounced. “Who puts a table in such a precarious location?”

Tempted as she was to respond with her true feelings, Sophia resisted the urge. Adrian’s family knew her as his meek and docile wife. It was a ruse that had served her well while working for the Barbican group. Who would suspect a mouse like her to live a double life as a secret agent? She had only to keep the pretense going. Surely the Barbican group would have need of her again, and this ridiculous ruse would once again be useful.

“You’re right, Cordelia,” Sophia answered, though she thought it perfectly reasonable to place a lamp table between a couch and chair, where a lamp might actually be needed. “Perhaps you have some ideas on how I might rearrange the furnishings in this room.”

Cordelia puffed up like a bird looking to mate and launched into a litany of helpful suggestions.

Sophia pasted a smile on her face and glanced surreptitiously at the clock on the mantel. Adrian’s family had been here exactly twenty-three minutes. How long was she expected to put up with them?

Not that she had anything better to do now that her career as an operative was at an end. In truth, since she’d arrived home from her failed attempt to apprehend Lucien Ducos, she had done nothing but pace, her mind turning over every possible way she might regain her position. Or any operative position.

She glanced at Norbert and Eddie. Devil children that they were, her heart constricted. She must make the Foreign Office take her back. But how?

The past few days she’d tried every distraction she knew. Usually reading helped, but Adrian’s library contained mostly sermons and biblical treatises. What she’d really wanted was a volume on weaponry. She was a master with a dagger, relatively good with a rapier, but her aim with a pistol might be improved…

Sophia clenched her hands into fists.
No
thinking
of
pistols!
It would drive her mad.

“And those draperies,” Cordelia was saying. Sophia nodded absently, attempting to ignore Eddie, who stuck his tongue out at her.