In Bed with a Spy (15 page)

Hawthorne stood at the top of the steps going down to the ground floor. The footman standing next to him bowed before scurrying down the stairs. Hawthorne adjusted his evening gloves and followed more slowly.

Lilias hissed at the thought of losing sight of him and picked up her skirts. Her slippers were silent on the ornate rug running the center of the hallway. Quick steps, the swish of skirts, and she was poised at the top of the stairs.

She saw his profile as the butler handed Hawthorne his hat, his greatcoat and the walking stick she knew hid a sword. From the side, his face seemed sharp and rough and much less civilized.

The front door opened. Rain pinged on the walkway outside. She darted down the remaining interior steps and leapt for the door.

“Just a moment. I need to speak with Hawthorne.” She swept past the butler as though she were engaging in perfectly common behavior. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

The rain was light, but it would still ruin her dress and hair. Setting one hand uselessly above her head she scanned the street. Carriages lined each side, as it was the height of the ball and few guests would be leaving this early.

Hawthorne was near the end of the line. One hand rested on the carriage door handle, his head was bent as he spoke with someone. The carriage lamp above them threw shadows beneath the brim of Hawthorne’s hat. More shadows ranged beneath the stranger’s cap so she could not see his face. Ill-fitting clothes covered the stranger’s body. Not a peer, not a servant, but a commoner. Or someone disguised as a commoner.

Metal glinted in the lamplights. A pistol. She could not tell who carried it, but—wait. Hawthorne. It was in Hawthorne’s hand. Her stomach pitched, rolled. She scrubbed the back of her hand over her mouth.

She could not look away. Hawthorne and the stranger bent over the pistol, shoulders hunched. It was impossible to know what they were doing. Then the stranger slunk around the side of the carriage and disappeared into the dark.

She surged forward, not certain if she meant to stop the stranger or confront Hawthorne.
Either. Both.
But uncertainty dragged at her feet. It could be an innocent exchange. It was possible.

Hawthorne stood alone, water sluicing the brim of his hat. The pistol hung from his fingers. Not tightly, not loosely. Comfortably. Easily. Then he leapt into his carriage. The driver didn’t even wait for the door to close before the carriage began moving through the rain and mud.

She’d hesitated too long. She’d faltered, and he was gone. He was disappearing into the night. He could be doing anything.

A raindrop slid between her breasts. A cold finger of suspicion. Hawthorne was the man most often in Jeremy’s company. His confidant. If anyone knew what Jeremy was, it would be Hawthorne.

If he did, then she’d been betrayed again.

Anger burgeoned in her. More lies. More betrayal. It would be as easy for Hawthorne as Jeremy to hide the truth from her. After all, she never questioned Jeremy. Why would she question Hawthorne?

She looked past the rain as the hot fury growing in her fought against the frigid drops pelting her face. Hawthorne’s carriage was an indistinguishable shadow in the night.

Secrets.
She would discover Hawthorne’s. And then Jeremy’s.

Without hesitation. She would not falter when it mattered most.

“C
HRIST,
L
ILIAS, IT’S
barely dawn.” Hawthorne slammed the hackney door shut and threw himself into the seat opposite her. Shadows formed circles beneath his eyes and the stubble on his chin told her he’d yet to shave.

“I need to speak with you,” she said. “It’s urgent.”

“So urgent you must arrive before the sun?” The words bulleted at her, rife with irritation.

“It’s nearly nine. Hardly dawn.” Temper shortened the words. She was still riding on a wave of fury. Had he, too, lied to her? She might not be able to confront Jeremy, but Hawthorne was here.

The carriage jerked, then began to roll. The sound of wheels on cobblestone accompanied the clop of hooves.

Hawthorne sat up straight. “Where are we going?”

His coat was buttoned crooked. He must not have been dressed yet when she sent the hired boy to the door with her note. She always thought him handsome but at the moment, she could not recall why.

“The coachman will drive up and down the nearby streets while we talk.” Her fingers twitched on the object hidden in the folds of her skirt. In her mind she saw Hawthorne and the stranger, standing in the rain the night before. The glint of metal. The surreptitious glance around the street.

Perhaps he was innocent. Perhaps he was an assassin. She was determined to find out—whatever the consequences. Because death was better than betrayal and ignorance. Slowly, she raised the pistol she had been hiding beneath her soft, innocent skirts. No trembling. No hesitation. If he came at her, she would have the upper hand. She cocked the gun and looked down the barrel into Hawthorne’s shocked eyes.

Not just shock, but fear. Her heart constricted, a painful reminder that this man had helped her through the darkest of days.

But she would not hesitate again.

“Tell me of Jeremy’s death.” Her voice held so much more command than she had expected.

“Lilias.” Very carefully, Hawthorne drew himself upright. “Perhaps we should discuss whatever has overset you.” The patronizing tone set her teeth on edge.

“Stop.” The pistol jumped in her hand, but didn’t discharge, thank goodness. The wood was cool against her skin, the pearl inlay warm. Irony, wasn’t it, that she pointed Jeremy’s own pistol at Hawthorne? “Don’t treat me like an imbecile. We’ve known each other a long time—for good or ill. You owe me the truth.”

His breath seemed slow and steady. Why was hers ricocheting around in her lungs?

“I’m not certain what the issue is, Lilias. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

An awful shuddering pain worked its way from the pit of her stomach to her throat. She hadn’t expected the betrayal to be twice as bad this time. It was worse. Instead of a ghost betraying her, it was a flesh and blood man. One that could both bleed and die.

“Jeremy was living a second life. A secret one.” She did not say
assassin
. Could not. Despite the anger and fear roiling in her, she kept the word inside. If Hawthorne was one of them, he didn’t need the word. He would already know. “The things he did were horrible, and he might have been murdered for them.”

Hawthorne’s intake of breath was as discordant as the gunshot would have been. “You cannot be serious.”

“You were the man most often in his company, and you were there when he was injured. You brought him to me. Therefore, I must ask what you know. And I must ask how Jeremy was wounded. Exactly.”

“Murder.” He said the word as though it were foreign, his pupils dilating. He did not answer her question. “A second life. Impossible.”

“Don’t play games with me.” Her hand shook. She struggled to steady it and the pistol. The lump forming in her throat burned. “I have proof. It’s true. And I have to believe you were working with him.”

“I—” Jason lurched in the carriage seat, like a child’s marionette. “No.”

She set her finger to the trigger as tears gathered. She blinked, refusing to let them fall. “Tell me what happened when he died. Tell me all of it.”

“I feel as though I’ve been dropped into a storybook.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve told you already. It was a French soldier. A sabre cut.”

“It
was
a French soldier, or it
looked like
a French soldier?” Anyone could put on soldier’s garb. She had done so herself.

“My God.” Hawthorne stared at her, as though he had never quite seen her before. “I don’t know if he truly was a French soldier. It was a bloody battlefield. I was a hundred yards away, fighting a damned soldier myself. I saw a man in a blue coat. I saw the sabre.” He stopped, licked his lips. They were chapped. “It was a battlefield.”

There was no answer there, and she wanted answers. Some part of her knew that there may never be an explanation. But this was the only man that could provide her one, and he was giving her nothing.

Straightening her arm, she aimed the pistol at Jason’s head. Her stomach churned and her heart pumped wildly beneath her stays.

“Where did you go last night?”

His brows careened together, as though shocked by the change in subject. His eyes darted toward the pistol. “I was at the ball. You were there, too. I saw you.”

“After the ball. I saw you speak with someone and then get into your carriage. It was the height of the engagement. You should have stayed for a while yet.”

“I had to meet someone.”

“Not good enough.” She wasn’t certain how she had the courage to keep the pistol so steady.

“Lilias.” His eyes were dark as they flickered over her face, then to the pistol. His tone softened to a whisper. “I have a daughter. She was ill.”

“A—a daughter?” Shock wasn’t a gentle wave. It was a deluge. “But you had a pistol.”

“I’m ashamed to say I haven’t the blunt to keep my daughter and her mother properly. I’ve enough to keep them from being hungry, to keep a roof over their heads. But not enough to put that roof in Mayfair. I carry the pistol against footpads when I visit them.” Humiliation flushed his cheeks beneath the night’s growth of beard. His hand reached out, then fell back into his lap. “My daughter is ill, and I needed to be with her. I have only just returned.”

The unshaven jaw, the mismatched coat buttons. His tired face. They all fell into place.

“Why did you never tell me?”

“A man doesn’t tell a lady about his bastards.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, Lilias. I don’t know anything about murder or double lives.” What was truth? What was a lie? She could not tell. But his eyes were full of simultaneous shock and compassion. He ran his hand over the stubble on his jaw, but it did nothing to erase the haggard expression. Or the pull of his heavy, tired lids.

She couldn’t believe it of him. She just couldn’t.

Hawthorne was no assassin. If he was, he likely would have tried to kill her by now.

The gun fell to her lap. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. The rumble of passing carriages nearly drowned out her words.

“Lilias.” Hawthorne half rose in his seat, as though to approach her. But there was nowhere to go within the confines of the hackney. “Tell me what’s happened. This is not like you.” Then his lips quirked. “I take it back. It is like you. I just didn’t expect it within the civilized confines of London.”

“I don’t feel civilized.” She felt numb, even as her chest ached and her belly roiled. “I can’t tell you the details. If you don’t already know—” She broke off and shook her head. “Tell me more of his death.”

“I don’t understand how that will change anything.” When she only watched him steadily, he sighed in resignation. “It was after the heavy cavalry charge led by Uxbridge. Losses were significant, though the charge was successful. Some of the heavy cavalry lost its cohesion, but we kept control of ours and mounted a countercharge. We couldn’t rein in the men. I saw him fall—Lilias. What do you think he has done?”

She gritted her teeth. “Tell me the rest.”

“I watched Jeremy fall. It was a sabre cut across his chest, another on his thigh. You saw the wounds yourself. He fell from the horse, but his foot was tangled in the stirrup. I—” He stopped, swallowed. “I managed to catch the animal before Jeremy was dragged too far.”

She hissed out a breath. She couldn’t help it. There had been much worse on the battlefield—she’d inflicted worse on her enemies. But she’d seen that battlefield. Jeremy would have been dragged over uneven ground. Over the bodies of other men. She closed her eyes, but the image was stark against the darkness of her lids.

“And so I brought him away from the battlefield,” Hawthorne finished.

“I remember when the note came to the farm where I was staying.” Pain could have twin forces. Death and betrayal. Loss and lies. “
Major Fairchild has fallen.
That was all the note said.” She saw again the grim face of the soldier that had brought the news before he returned to the front. Then there had been the hard ride to the battlefield.

And she remembered the gray face of the man she’d married and the bloody sabre cut across his chest. She choked, and the tears began to drop onto her fisted hands.

“Oh, Lilias.” Hawthorne drew her in, his arms coming around her. “I wish you would explain.”

Strong. Comforting. A friend’s arms. Arms she could trust. Burying her face into his shoulder, she let tears of loss flow, exorcising the second round of grief that accompanied the second loss of her husband.

As her tears dried, she realized he was a little awkward about holding her, as though he couldn’t quite figure out where to put his hands and still observe propriety. She smiled. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she pulled away. Catherine was right. He was a good man.

“Jeremy did horrible things, Hawthorne. Horrible. The life he lived—well. It wasn’t what I thought.”

“Whatever acts you believe he’s committed, it must be a mistake.” He sounded so certain.

“He lied. Everything was a lie.” She hated to shatter Hawthorne’s certainty. “He was never where he said he’d be. He would meet with strange people, men watched where we slept. He would jump at the slightest noise, he was often worried. He hid things from me.”

“He was a soldier at war. He had to protect the woman he loved, not to mention command his men. He might have hidden the worst of war from you, but he was always honorable.”

Her fingers convulsed around the pistol. Hawthorne was wrong. Jeremy was anything but honorable.

—

T
HE
A
DDER’S GAZE
did not leave the unmarked carriage carrying Lilias. He really would have to ensure his men killed her now. She was beyond a slight danger to him and had fallen into the realm of deadly. Not because of the weapon, but because of her unpredictability.

She was ever a surprise. He had learned that long ago.

The carriage stopped at the doors of Fairchild House. He had been waiting for her to return. She must have instructed the coachman to drive around or he would not have arrived before her.

He saw her fingers first as she set them into the footman’s assisting hand. Her gloves matched the dull gray of her pelisse. An odd choice for her. Gray was not her best color. Scarlet was her color. Not the bright cherry red the debutantes wore, but the deep, vivid red that pulsed with energy and passion.

He couldn’t smell her from across the street, but he knew her scent. Lust. Sex. Ready as ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. He went hard just thinking of it. Of her. It had always been her. He’d tried to pretend she wasn’t a weakness, but he dreamed of her.

Desperate hunger tore through him as he pictured her face when he plunged into her. It was an old fantasy. She would wrap her legs around him, grip his shoulders with her long, elegant fingers. He knew the passion she hid beneath her curves. He wanted it. Under his hands. Under his body. His breathing grew ragged. Raw. Something dark clawed in him. His hands fisted and he imagined her hips beneath his fingers. Imagined driving himself into her, harder and harder, until she screamed with it.

He couldn’t quite breathe. He was hard as stone and damn near spilling his seed in his breeches. But he could still see her across the cobblestone street, even with the haze of lust clouding his vision. He’d almost forgotten her pistol in his violent need, but the watery sunlight caught the glint of metal.

He beat back his hunger and narrowed his eyes, focusing on the metal peeking between her glove and the dull fabric of her pelisse. She was hiding the weapon from the footman as she glided up the front steps.

It was her husband’s pistol. He recognized the pearl-handled weapon easily enough. It was too big to fit in her reticule, so at least she couldn’t carry it everywhere without being seen. Even inside Fairchild House, she could not hide it. But it was still a dangerous weapon wielded by a woman with a volatile temper and little fear.

To be aimed at him, when she chose.

The price on her head would increase. A woman with a weapon and the willingness to kill could not be allowed to find him. Yet he could not kill her himself. Even a hint of his involvement and his career, his reputation, would be forfeit.

He’d issued his orders, but the Adders had yet to strike. They were biding their time, waiting for an opportunity to make her death appear as an accident.

But he couldn’t afford to wait for a convenient opportunity.