Authors: Alyssa Alexander
“M
Y APOLOGIES.
M
R.
Westwood is unavailable at the moment. Good day.” Daggett, the code breaker’s assistant, started to close the door to the residence that housed one of Britain’s secret weapons: Maximilian Westwood.
“It’s urgent.” Angel slapped a hand on the door, then shoved a foot against the jamb to keep the door from closing.
If there was damning evidence in the journals to prove Fairchild was an Adder, he could take Lilias out of the Fairchild townhouse. All he needed was enough information that Sir Charles would be willing to arrest the man.
Daggett sighed. “It’s always urgent when it’s a spy. Come in, then, Angel. Mr. Westwood is just finishing up a translation for the Greek ambassador.”
The assistant led the way down the hall and into Westwood’s study. It was a large, well-lit space. Books were piled onto every surface, as were papers and quills. Angel counted six ink bottles on various tables throughout the room. The code breaker himself was hunched over a large wooden desk strewn with papers, spectacles perched on his nose.
“I’m not done,” he barked. “I told you not to interrupt until I was done.”
“My apologies, sir. Another spy has arrived for you.”
Westwood’s head jerked up and around to stare at Angel through tiny, round lenses. “What do you want?”
“Another spy?” Angel asked, striding into the room.
“The Flower was here earlier.”
Ah yes. Vivienne La Fleur. Westwood didn’t care for Vivienne’s method of entering houses. She had a talent for sneaking in and sneaking out again.
Westwood shrugged and pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Left her damn scent in the air,” he muttered.
“Women do that sort of thing.” He ought to know. His bedchamber had held Lilias’s scent long after she left that morning. “I have two journals I need decoded. Urgently.”
“I’m busy.” Westwood leaned over his work again, shoulders rounding up to block out Angel.
“They pertain to the Death Adders.” He held the journals out, knowing Westwood would take them.
Westwood removed his spectacles and slowly turned to face Angel. He blinked once, twice. “Those bastards came close to designing a code I couldn’t break.”
“We think we found an Adder in London.”
“Well, well.” Westwood took the journals. He thumbed through the pages, studying the numbers added on the pages with the signs. “I don’t think this will be difficult. It might even be a straight substitution.”
“Good. Then I’ll wait.”
—
T
HE ATTIC WA
S
the most logical place to start.
Lilias pushed open the door to the attic that stored Jeremy’s trunk. It was in the same place, the lid latched, just as she’d left it. But there were dozens of other items in the room. More trunks, hatboxes, an old settee. In the corner, paintings leaned against the wall, backs facing her, just waiting to be flipped around and viewed again. Tables of various heights and shapes were lined along one wall. Desks that had once taught Fairchild children sat side by side, books stacked on them.
It might take days to search each nook and cranny.
The idea sent a ball of dread into her belly. Did she have days? Gritting her teeth, she set down the candle she’d brought, in case the windows didn’t let in enough gray, rain-soaked light.
If she didn’t have days, she had better get started.
She systematically moved through the room, starting in one corner and working her way to another. She found nothing but old clothing, family portraits and knickknacks that no longer matched the house’s décor.
She ignored Jeremy’s trunk in the corner. She already knew what that held—memories she didn’t want.
Eventually, she exhausted every drawer and shelf and corner. It was frustrating to spend so much time and find nothing. With a last look, she shut the attic door behind her.
Where should she search next? The answer seemed logical. She made her way down a staircase, then another, until she came to Grant’s bedchamber.
Lilias stared at the partially open door. She had never been inside. She wasn’t the least bit curious as to the colors, the furniture, how he lived. It was a room no one entered besides the maids and his valet. If he wanted to hide something, he could do it well enough here. Angel had taught her how to find a false floor or panel in the wall. If Grant had such a hiding place, it would surely be here.
With quick footsteps she entered the room and shut the door softly behind her. She leaned on it and studied the space. The shades of blue were pleasant enough. The bed was large and appeared comfortable. A writing desk pressed against one wall, a wardrobe against the other. Rugs and tables and chairs blurred in her vision. Where to start?
The desk. It was of dark wood, with spindly curved legs. Papers were strewn across the glossy surface and drawers ran down one side. She would have to search carefully, as a document could be coded, perhaps in some way that was not readily ascertainable.
But she had time. Grant had said he wouldn’t be back until after luncheon. There was an hour or two, at the least, before he returned.
—
“I
T’S A LITTLE
more complex than I expected.” Westwood’s fingers flew across the journal page, number by number, mark by mark. “But I’ve got this bastard’s code now.” His other hand moved nearly as quickly, writing down the translation. The quill was a feathered blur as it traveled over the paper.
“What does it say?” Angel leaned over Westwood’s shoulder. It wouldn’t be coded if it wasn’t incriminating. Anticipation darted through him.
“Wait. I’m not done.” Westwood’s elbow jerked back, just shy of Angel’s stomach. The warning was clear.
Struggling against impatience, Angel straightened and stepped away. Every moment was precious. Every moment Lilias was in Fairchild House, she bore the risk of discovery. He wondered what she might be doing now. He’d given her the tools to conduct a proper search, but that did not account for unexpected servants’ tasks or other interruptions.
But perhaps Fairchild had another explanation for his records. Perhaps she was safe with him, and this investigation was nothing more than a fool’s errand.
“The bastard is ordering their deaths,” Westwood said softly, his fingers pressed against the page so that his knuckles turned white.
“What?” Panic arrowed through him, sharp and hot.
“Look at this.” Westwood leaned back, letting Angel get a good look at the translation.
Lord P______. #9 assigned. Met with client on 4 April. Order for poison. Mission completed with knife. Money received, though client unhappy with method.
There were more. Dozens. Line and after line. Then he saw an entry that chilled his blood.
Mrs. L______ F______. #6 assigned. Order for knife at opera. Mission failed. #6 to be punished. Order reinstated.
Raw fury scraped a hollow through his body. He’d known Lilias was a target, but seeing it on paper was a kick in the gut that stole his breath.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Agreed.” Westwood pushed the papers toward Angel. “Both books are finished.”
He couldn’t know if Sir Charles would count it as enough evidence. It should be, and Angel could argue that it was. But he could not be certain.
Footsteps clattered in the hall, a harbinger of news.
“Sir!” The assistant’s voice echoed through the hall. “Sir, he barged in!”
Jones skidded through the doorway. “The assassin from the opera. He’s escaped,” Jones huffed. He bent over, hands propped on knees. Rain curled the ends of his dark brown hair. He gasped for air as a drowning man would. How far had he run?
Daggett clattered in after him, chest heaving with indignation. “I tried to stop him, sir. He didn’t listen—”
“What happened?” Angel strode forward and clasped a hand on Jones’s shoulder.
“Agents were transferring him from headquarters to one of the prisons. I don’t know which one.” Jones straightened, chest heaving. “They were ambushed. Someone was waiting for the carriage. We lost one man, they lost two. But the assassin escaped.”
Angel was already leaping for the door. “Fairchild?”
“We don’t know. He lost the agent assigned to him on the streets shortly before the ambush.”
“Bloody hell.” He sprinted down the front hallway of Westwood’s townhouse. The assassin would have told Fairchild that Lilias knew of the Adders. “Send a message to Sir Charles. We have to get her out of there.”
T
HERE SHE WAS.
In his bedchamber. The place he had wanted her to be for eight years. But she was not in his bed, as he dreamed of. She was not naked and welcoming him into her body. Lilias was bent over his desk, riffling through papers, methodically searching his belongings.
The traitorous bitch.
Grant Fairchild watched her gown shift over her body as she pulled open another drawer. He could take her here, in his room. She was so conveniently available. And there were ways to make a woman silent.
But he did not want Lilias that way. He’d had others that way, but it could not be the same for her. Did she not realize what he had offered her? Not just marriage, but life. If she’d married him, he would have rescinded the order for her death. But instead, she chose the spy. A milksop who took orders instead of giving them.
Still, she looked exquisite, even in profile as she was now. Bent over the desk, opening drawers, finger skimming over documents. She had no doubt looked exquisite with her legs wrapped around the spy, too. And that could not be forgiven.
Compound her whoring with the fact that she knew he was an Adder, and, well, she would have to die. In due time, of course. He would use her to draw out the spy first. He could thank assassin number six for the most recent news. Or he would have, if the assassin weren’t dead.
Such was the price for failing to kill a target and worse, being captured by the enemy. But number six wouldn’t be making that mistake again.
—
“I
DID NOT
expect to see you here.”
Lilias fought the urge to bolt upright. The smooth tenor of the voice was quite familiar. She knew it as well as her own voice. Fear became a wave of gooseflesh rippling along her skin. But she could not show panic or she would lose any possible advantage.
“Grant? Is that you?” The conversational tone of her voice pleased her. She turned to face him and forced a smile onto her face. “I am glad you’re here. I was looking for sealing wax. I’ve used all of mine.” It was difficult to appear calm when terror rolled through her.
Grant was only a few feet away, leaning comfortably against the doorjamb. Rays of slanted light shone over him as the morning sun streamed through the bedchamber window. He looked handsome, his grin broad, his jaw square and strong. For the first time, she noticed his smile did not reach his eyes.
“My apologies, Lilias. I shall see to it that Graves brings wax to your room.” His voice was not normal. Something was off in the tone, the words.
The hair rose at the nape of her neck, but she widened her smile. “Thank you so much, Grant. It would certainly save me the trouble of finding it.”
“I’m happy to be of service.” He twitched his cuffs into place, appearing to be nothing more than a leisurely gentleman speaking with an acquaintance. Not an assassin. Not a criminal.
Her palms were damp when she clasped them together. He suspected. She was certain of it. She kept her face bland. “Well, I’m going to finish my letter, then.” She started out of the room, her heart pounding in her chest as she tried to brush past him.
His hand shot out, gripping her upper arm. Fingers dug into her muscle, squeezing painfully. She gasped, then sucked in a breath when she saw his eyes. Hot lust swirled there, but it was not that emotion she focused on. She saw death there. Unadulterated, quiet, reasonable death. Fear flooded her, an icy deluge that shivered down her spine.
“Not a bad performance, Lilias, but you are inexperienced.” His voice was soft, but she heard rage lurking beneath the surface.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was a pathetic response. She tried to wrench her arm away, but he only gripped it tighter.
“No?” His smile was terrifyingly pleasant. “Where are my journals? They are missing, which I would not have looked to you for. But now I find you searching my room. Did you go running off to your lover with my journals?”
“I don’t have them.” This time when she wrenched her arm away he let it go. She took a fast, panicked step to the door, but it was too late.
She didn’t see it happen, but suddenly there was a pistol in his hand. Odd that such a small opening in the barrel could seem so huge.
Horror was a living thing inside her, crawling and scratching to get out. Beating it back, she struggled to think clearly. She could start screaming and bring the servants running, but Grant might kill her before she finished the first scream. She could run, but if he didn’t catch her he could certainly shoot her. She had no weapon beside what was in arm’s reach—which was pitifully nothing, as the only item was the elegant desk chair.
“I can see you are trying to decide what to do next. The wisest option, Lilias, would be to stay just where you are so I don’t have to shoot you. Yet.” Broad shoulders, elegant movements. The tailoring of his clothing only accentuated an already appealing physique. But the threat of the pistol loomed. His gray eyes held hers steadily, full of confident power. “Though I will if I must.”
“Very well.” He would see through any pretense that she had no idea who and what he was. “I won’t feign innocence.”
“Good. Lies never serve anyone.”
There was a hysterical edge to the laugh that tumbled from her lips. “You have been lying for the last ten years. You’re an assassin.”
“Yes, one of my men told me you had learned the truth.” He set the fingers of his free hand on the desktop and pushed around papers, as though mentally counting them. The pistol never wavered.
She gripped the edge of the chair. “I know you killed Jeremy.”
“I gave the order for his death. That is entirely different than wielding the weapon.” It sounded reasonable when he said it. He could have been discussing the anatomical differences between the wood warbler and the willow warbler. “Where are my journals?” he asked again.
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you do.” He sent her an amused, superior look. “I’ve known you too long, Lilias. I know when you’re lying.”
So much for her performance. Still, she could appear fearless. “Apparently I don’t have the same skill for detecting lies.” She set her hands on the chair back, leaned into it and tried to imagine they were just two people, calmly engaging in an enjoyable tête-à-tête. “I never suspected either you or Jeremy were assassins.”
“I found your lack of knowledge fascinating.” He continued to casually point the pistol at her, all relaxed elegance. A strange light came into his eyes, full of some disturbing emotion she could not name. Chilled fingers of dread slid down her spine as he continued, “You are a beautiful, clever woman who could not see the truth in front of her. I often wondered what you would do if you discovered the Adders. Join us, I had hoped. You have all the qualities I want in an Adder. Courage, passion, intelligence, ingenuity.”
She recognized the light in his eyes when it blazed again. Avarice and lust.
He wants me.
Her blood chilled, but she forced herself to stay calm. Anything could be a weapon. She would use Grant’s own lust for her against him.
“All those qualities?” She angled her head, pursed her lips. “You think highly of me.”
“I know you well, Lilias.” His gaze lingered at her breasts, her waist as she drew herself up. How long had he kept that greedy want in check? He licked his lips and drew his gaze back up to her face. “You should have married me. I would have let you live,” he said softly. “Instead, you whored yourself for Angelstone and sealed your fate.”
In a move as swift as a lightning strike, Grant seized the hair at the back of her neck and yanked. She had time for only a short cry before he’d spun her around and shoved the pistol in her ribs.
Her elbow rammed into his stomach before the idea coalesced in her brain. Satisfaction bloomed when she heard his pained grunt and his breath wheeze out.
Then the pistol smashed into the side of her head and she saw nothing more.