Regency Spymasters 01 - Spy Fall (3 page)

He’d surprised her, of course. He saw it the contemplative narrowing of those kaleidoscopic eyes of hers. An admission of murder was bound to capture anyone’s attention.

“
Vraiment
?”

“Quite so.” He forced a light tone, despite the heaviness in his chest. He couldn’t abide maudlin sentiment. “You see, she was in a spot of trouble, but I was otherwise engaged between a plump pair of thighs.”

“Your father is a formidable man. Surely he could have gone to her aid.”

“The old man can usually move mountains, but age has caught up to him. What was needed to save Elinor was someone who could travel quickly on horseback.” Bitterness surged from his belly, burning up through his throat. “Someone who could ride like hell once he got across the Channel.”

She glanced his way. “Your sister was in France?”

“Yes, our Elinor married one of your kind. Rodolph was a French nobleman who met with a bad end. He departed for his club one evening and never returned. His body turned up a few days later. Whether his death was the work of footpads or the result of lingering revolutionary fervor, we’ll never know.”

“And your sister?”

“She was heavy with child and couldn’t immediately leave Paris on her own. My father endures a chronic hip ailment that precludes him from riding. He is in discomfort most of the time.”

A little wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. “It is not apparent.”

“Of course not. Aldridge is far too mannerly and stalwart to let a little pain detract from his noble carriage.”

“When he couldn’t locate you, why did he not dispatch a servant to her aid?”

“Unfortunately, the lower orders cannot speak your mother tongue. When Aldridge couldn’t run me to ground, he sent a skilled surrogate in my place, but he arrived in Paris too late. Elinor and her son died in childbed.”

“Many women lose their lives during the birthing process,” she said softly. “It is the way of nature. You cannot hold yourself responsible.”

Anger roiled his insides. Everything had gone to Hades after Elinor died, and he was to blame. “I should be disappointed if you were suddenly determined to become my advocate, looking to excuse my corrupt behavior,” he said sharply. “Tell me, have I engaged your sympathy sufficiently enough for you to drop those breeches and let me fuck my grief away?”

Instead of the blistering retort he’d already come to expect from her, Mari answered in a considered tone, as though he’d just invited her to partake in a cup of tea. “Perhaps. Would that help assuage your guilt as well as your sorrow?”

Fury clouded his mind. She thought to bait him? Grabbing her around the waist, he hauled her lower body flush against his. “I don’t know. It might.”

He insinuated his hips against hers so she could feel the hardening jut of his prick. Yet she remained loose in his hold, her soft womanly flesh pliant against his taut body, wreathing him in the faint scent of lemon and cloves. He wanted to throw her to the ground and screw that calm self-assuredness right out of her. “What do you say, shall we give it a try?” he said harshly. “I’m rather talented in this area. You won’t be disappointed.”

“But
you
might be.” Her calm eyes held his furious gaze, the specks of color in them dancing to mesmerizing effect. “It won’t make you forget that your sister is lost.”

Stung, he released her. “Bugger off.”

He stalked away, shaking with anger. His mind went to the high water over the bridge that led to the village. It couldn’t recede fast enough for him. In that moment, Cosmo no longer cared what secrets Mari Lamarre carried.

He just wanted her gone.

Gulping a breath, Mari tried to force strength back into her legs. Dazed, she closed her eyes and swallowed, still tingling from the illicit feel of his arousal swelling against her flesh. Fire had shot down her limbs when he’d ground his hips against hers, leaving her legs shaky and herself confused. She hadn’t reacted to a man in this way since Pascal, and even he hadn’t made her feel so physically aware, her body tight with agitation and anticipation. Emotion clotted her chest at the memory of Pascal’s soft blue eyes and tender warmth. She blinked hard, forcing her thoughts back to the matter at hand.

Watching Dunsmore storm toward the manor in long, angry strides, she suppressed a twinge of sympathy. His sister’s death clearly tormented him, but developing empathy for the man could compromise her objectivity. She mustn’t forget her mission; she was here to protect her mother and sisters from the harm Aldridge could do them. She had to keep her focus. Her physical attraction to Dunsmore was dangerous because it might muddle her mind.

Ducking into the tree line, she doubled back. The mangled parachute could wait; her rendezvous with Marcellin could not. She quickly found the worn dirt path shaded by unruly, overgrown trees. Having committed a map of the area to memory, she strode in the direction of the bridge while contemplating what she’d learned so far. Aldridge appeared unwell. His relationship with his heir was a tense one. A conversation with Sarah, the servant girl who’d brought up Mari’s clean clothes after her bath, revealed that the marquess didn’t often leave the house. And he did not receive many visitors, except for his doctor, who came almost daily. Her first inclination was to like the old man, who projected an innate decency, but then traitors came in all forms.

Dunsmore, too, would bear watching. Because he spent most of his time in London, finding him in residence was an unexpected development. His grief over his sister’s death appeared genuine enough, yet he didn’t seem to hold France or England responsible for it. Just himself. Which made him a less likely suspect.

She emerged from the trees at a point where the path gave way to a grassy riverbank, which led to a water-swamped stone bridge with a single low overhead arch.

“Enfin.
” A familiar male figure of medium height, with dark hair and a wiry frame, stepped into sight. “Did everything go as planned?”

“Well enough,” she answered in French, greeting him with a kiss on both cheeks, “given that my gondola detached.”

Marcel cursed. “Maxim, that
idiot
, must not have secured it well.”

“It was old and damaged. No matter, I’m in.”

He bent over to pluck a blade of grass. “You look very pleased with yourself. Have you found it already?”

“No.” She gave him a triumphant smile. “But I am an invited guest at Langtry House.”

Marcel whistled in appreciation. “You were supposed to break in. Instead, you’ve taken up residence in the aristo’s house.”

She nodded, thinking of how her mother would enjoy the irony of her daughter being the guest of one of England’s highest lords. Longing speared through her at the thought of Maman, whom she hadn’t seen in almost a year. She missed her mother’s warmth and easy laughter. Hopefully, once she completed this mission, she could return home for a visit. Turning her thoughts back to business, she said, “I don’t think we have to destroy the bridge.”

“Is that wise?” He chewed on the green sliver of grass. “You need a valid reason for staying there.”

“I think we have one. Aldridge is a great admirer of aerostation.”

“I don’t like it.” He frowned. “It’s a risk. Destroying the bridge removes any question of your leaving.”

“It also cuts the house off from visitors. It’s possible he isn’t sending the information out by boat.”

“Then why is he here on the coast?” The blade of grass bobbed from between his teeth. “Why not his castle in Oxfordshire?”

She shrugged. “I do not know. Besides, the old man is sick and his doctor can only visit if the bridge is passable.”

Marcel tilted his head at her. “Don’t go soft, Mari. If the old man dies, so be it. It might solve our problems.”

“Or it might not. If he has the document, it could very well fall into someone else’s hands.”

“I don’t like it.”

She toughened her tone. “I say we don’t destroy the bridge. Not yet.”

He shook his head with disgust. Marcel never got used to taking orders from her. “Very well. It’s your neck in the end. What do we do next?”

“Get Maxim and come to Langtry with the balloon.”

“Land on the property in the light of day?” He threw his hands up in a show of exasperation. “Just like that?”

“
Exactement.
”

“
Et après?
”

“I’ve got a plan.” All she had to do was make sure Dunsmore didn’t interfere with her goal. “Leave it to me.”

Both men came to their feet when Mari entered the dining room that evening. Dunsmore appeared to move more slowly so his father’s lack of agility would seem less apparent.

“Mademoiselle Lamarre, I’m so pleased you could join us,” Aldridge said from the far end of the long mahogany table.

“Thank you, my lord. I apologize for my attire.” She gestured at her breeches. “But I fear I have nothing else to wear.”

“No apologies necessary. With the bridge washed out, there’s no getting to the village seamstress to secure suitable attire.”

The butler entered and went to the marquess. Excusing himself, Aldridge turned away from the table to consult with the man on some matter they discussed in murmurs too low for Mari to overhear.

Dunsmore came over to pull out her chair. “I confess this is the first time I’ve dined with a woman wearing breeches,” he said lightly in her ear.

“I can only imagine what the women you consort with usually wear,” she said, taking her seat.

“Or not wear,” he murmured, his lips briefly touching her ear. “To my eternal delight.”

Straightening, he moved away at an easy stride, settling against the carved back of his dark wood chair. But he’d already made his mischief. The
raton
had her picturing his brawny form in a state of undress, opposite an equally indecent woman. With just a few insinuating words, he’d managed to stir a physical response in her. Clearly, he’d put away any distress she’d caused him earlier in the day.

When Aldridge returned to the table, Toby—the man who’d brought up the water for her bath—served the first course. “I hope you don’t mind that we dine in an informal style here at Langtry,” Aldridge said as Toby placed his soup before him. “We keep to simple meals.”

Nothing about the hand-painted porcelain plates edged with gilded braiding, or the crystal goblets sparkling with reflections of candlelight, struck her as informal. She felt utterly underdressed, and as out of place as Robespierre would have been dining at Versailles.

Aldridge continued. “We’re rarely in residence; hence we keep a small staff.”

“Quite right,” Dunsmore said between spoonfuls of soup, his dark, burnished hair in sharp contrast to the chamber’s melon-colored walls. “We’re a cozy bunch here at Langtry House.”

Four servants, to be exact, as Mari had learned earlier from Sarah, the young maid, but daily workers often came up from the village. That meant many people came and went from the estate, which opened up more possibilities than Mari cared to contemplate.

“And with the bridge washed out, we’re rather isolated at the moment,” Aldridge said.

“No way out and no way in.” Dunsmore tossed a mischievous gaze in her direction. “We’re left to find imaginative ways to entertain ourselves.”

Mari seized her opportunity. “Not exactly.”

Aldridge paused while cutting his mutton. “Beg pardon?”

“I, for one, did not make use of the bridge. I expect my fellow aeronauts to come for me posthaste, to assure themselves of my safety.”

“It’s going to be raining parachutists all over Langtry?” Dunsmore cast a look toward the window. “I do hope none of them put a hole in the roof.”

“No, I am the lone parachutist.” Mari focused her attention on Aldridge. “However, I expect the balloon pilot and his first mate to attend me soon.”

Aldridge’s countenance brightened. “You mean to say they’ll land the balloon here?”

“I do apologize for the intrusion,” she said. “But we must go to Barnsley.”

“Barnsley?” Dunsmore intoned. “Egads, why would you go there?”

“It is rather out of the way,” Aldridge said.

“That is why we have chosen it. My uncle has organized a spectacular jump for me near Grosvenor Square in a few weeks.”

“So the French have chosen to invade through the air.” Amusement laced Dunsmore’s words. “Diabolically clever plan.”

“It is a demonstration of friendship, now that the peace treaty has been signed.” Mari prepared to reel them in. “We require a large open space in which to practice for the exhibition.”

Aldridge leaned forward with palpable enthusiasm. “Of course, you must stay here.”

That was easier than she’d anticipated. “I would not choose to impose.”

“It is no imposition at all,” Aldridge said. “I would be most pleased to watch your endeavors. Do say you’ll persuade your fellow aeronauts to stay.”

Dunsmore emitted a sigh. “Am I to understand you’ll repeatedly cut yourself loose from a balloon in preparation for this folly over Grosvenor Square?”

“The balloon will ascend from the parade ground of St. George’s Volunteers near Grosvenor Square,” Mari said.

“It is settled then.” A smile of genuine warmth softened the heavy lines in Aldridge’s face. “We have a comfortable cottage on the property. Your fellow aeronauts are welcome to take their ease there for the duration of your stay.”

“You are most kind.” Feeling a surprising kinship with the older man, Mari mirrored his smile. “I will see if they are agreeable to altering our plans.” Scooping up a bite of pigeon pie, she savored its moist, rich taste, satisfied with what she’d accomplished in one day’s work.

After dinner, Mari contentedly left the gentleman to their port and cigars. Determined to seize the opportunity to explore the house, she made her way down the parquet-floored corridor to the study near the back of the house, where she’d first met Aldridge. The absence of the usual number of servants in a manor this size worked to her advantage. A great deal more could be accomplished without worrying about prying eyes.

Reaching the heavy wooden door, which had been left slightly ajar, she stepped inside the study and closed the door behind her. Fire snapped in the hearth, its shadows dancing against the damask wallpaper. She trod noiselessly across the worn Aubusson carpet, its vibrant jewel tones muted by time, and past Gothic-style, glass-fronted bookcases, pausing to study the portrait of a young woman hanging behind Aldridge’s stately rosewood desk.