In Bed with a Spy (4 page)

And then life went on.

She turned her gaze away from the miniature. Beside the portrait lay an empty bed of black velvet, waiting for Jeremy’s last gift to her to be nestled in the soft fabric.

Lilias looked up and stared blindly into the mirror, seeing not herself, but Jeremy as he had been in those last moments of life. Gray skin, blue lips, bloodied chest. She had never told another soul that Jeremy was alive when they brought him off the field. She’d never told anyone—not even Catherine—that she’d held him in her arms as he breathed his final breath. Or about the small medallion he’d given her as his final gift and that she carried everywhere with her.

She searched the room for her reticule, found it on her dresser where the maid had set it. Lilias opened the pretty beaded bag and dug inside for the silver and onyx medallion. When her fingers didn’t find the item she was searching for, she pulled the drawstring open wide and turned the bag inside out. A comb dropped onto the dresser, as did coins, a handkerchief and a vial of smelling salts she never used but always carried.

Nausea rose in her, filling her throat with bile.

The medallion wasn’t there.

H
E HEARD THEM
before he saw them. Voices. Laughing. Female. The bright sound spilled from the yellow salon, like cheerful butterflies fluttering and tumbling into the hall.

Pausing in the door, Angel studied the women inside. Four of them. Two young widows, an orphan and a mother who had lost her husband and two of her sons. Yet there they were, laughing as though they hadn’t a care in the world.

Once, he had imagined Gemma among them.

The youngest of the females sat on the floor, tongue trapped between her teeth as she carefully arranged tin soldiers in formation. Her fingers were precise in their movements. A six-year-old general commanding her troops.

“Watch out, Boney! Uncle Angel’s going to get you!” She swiped a hand across the field of battle, scattering the troops. Leaping to her feet, she hooted and danced around the fallen soldiers. Braids flew in all directions. “I told you, I told you! Uncle Angel will get you all!”

Laughter again from the women. He smiled and joined the conversation.

“Well, Maggie, aren’t you a blood-thirsty chit?” he said.

Four pairs of female eyes turned in his direction. He grinned when Maggie raced toward him, her rounded cheeks pink with pleasure.

“Uncle, you won the war again.” Spindly arms wrapped around his waist, hugging tight.

“So I see,” he said. A small face tipped up, lips pursed. He obliged and presented his cheek for a kiss. She smelled of childhood and sweets. “Mmm. Peppermint drops.”

Maggie giggled, squeezed once more and then danced off in favor of the soldiers. “Mama said I could have only one peppermint drop because we’ll be having luncheon soon. But I told her I need two. I’m
starving
!”

“You’re always starving.” Maggie’s mother, Lisbeth, smiled fondly. “You’re growing. We’ve had to order all new dresses—again!” Though most of the light in Lisbeth’s eyes had died with her husband, it returned when she looked upon her daughter.

“Just like your father. He outgrew everything as soon as he put it on.” The Dowager Marchioness of Angelstone laughed as she pulled a needle through stiff white fabric. Her thin countenance and spare body lent her an air of severity that showed nothing of the generosity and joy beneath.

Maggie beamed delightedly. “I love being like Papa.”

Ah, the simplicity of childhood. Maggie wanted to look like Hugh, talk like Hugh, play with his boyhood toys. Hence the battered tin soldiers.

“Can I play, Maggie?” Elise, the widow of Angel’s oldest brother, tossed aside her needlepoint.

“A wise decision, Elise,” he said. “I think your needlepoint is on fire.” Even from across the room, the garish combination of orange and pink embroidered flowers struck Angel blind.

Elise laughed and waved the unsightly design away. “I know. It’s perfectly ugly. I love it.” Then she was down on the floor, bringing the dead soldiers back to life and grouping them into formation. Maggie settled beside her.

Angel studied Elise’s bent head as he worked off his constricting leather gloves. She should have had children. She and John should have had a dozen children and spent their lives as the Marquess and Marchioness of Angelstone. Now she, too, was a widow, her husband carried off by putrid fever and with no child to comfort her.

He stuffed his gloves into his pocket and flexed his fingers. Better. He turned toward the ladies still sitting by the window. Sunlight spilled over them. The sight of them sent a pang through his heart.

“How was the ball last night, Angel?” Lisbeth asked. The sun turned her ordinary brown hair to shining mahogany.

“Did you meet anyone interesting?” The dowager marchioness looked down her long nose at her son.

“What you are asking, Mother, is did I offer marriage to anyone last night.”

“I hope you would tell me if you were planning to offer marriage to someone.” She sniffed, then sent him a sly look. “But, yes. That’s what I’m asking.”

“No. I did not offer marriage to anyone last night.” Instead, he’d found an assassin.

“It’s time, Angel, dear. As you well know.” The needlepoint fell unheeded into her lap. “You’re the last of the Whitmores. If you don’t produce an heir, some distant relation in America”—her bony shoulders shuddered—“will inherit the title.”

“Mother.” He kissed the dowager’s soft cheek, marveling at how few lines there were on her face considering the difficulties of the last few years. “I am aware that the demise of my freedom is at hand.”

“Demise.” From the floor, Elise snorted. Her striped ice blue gown looked decidedly unpleasant with its Pomona green trim. How an earl’s daughter could have such an abysmal sense of style had baffled all the Whitmores. “Marriage isn’t
all
bad, Angel. There are occasional benefits to marriage, you know.”

“Like what?”

“Regular relations, for one thing.”

“Elise!” Lisbeth sputtered, followed by shocked laughter. “Maggie is present.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—”

“It’s fine, Mama,” Maggie said matter-of-factly. “I know what relations are. Lord Pemby in Number 4 next door has relations with Mrs. Bider in Number 9. Grandmamma says they are quite indiscreet.”

“Heavens, I said no such thing!” The dowager tried to look innocent. It didn’t work.

“Oh dear.” Lisbeth buried her face in her hands, even as laughter shook her shoulders.

“Relations aside,” Angel said, trying to keep a straight face, “what other benefits are there to marriage?”

“Ah. Well—” the dowager began. “Um.” She fingered her needlepoint contemplatively.

“There’s always . . . hm.” Lisbeth stared out the window.

“A wife can warm your bed,” Maggie piped up. “Your bed must be very cold, because Grandmamma says that half of the women in London have tried to warm your bed.”

“Grandmamma!” Lisbeth slid down in her chair while Elise snickered from the floor.

“I suppose a warm bed would be nice.” Amused, Angel watched his mother’s face flush with embarrassment as she busied herself with the needle and thread.

“And then of course, there’s love, isn’t there?” Maggie finished. Every eye in the room fastened on her. “Grandmamma says she married for love, and she was happy her sons did as well. She says no one should ever marry for anything but love.”

“Your Grandmamma is a very wise woman,” Angel said softly, eyes on that solemn pixie face. “I hope you listen carefully to her.”

“Angel.” The dowager’s needlepoint lay forgotten. “Isn’t there anyone . . . ?” But she stopped. She always did. She had never met Gemma, but she’d known there was someone. He supposed mothers usually did. Then it had all ended, and there had been no one important since.

“Excuse me, Mother. Ladies.” He bowed to the collective female company. The only woman not watching him with some pity was Maggie, who was busy with her soldiers. “I was informed I had a missive waiting for me when I arrived. I must attend to it.”

—

T
HEIR VOICES ECHOED
down the hall and into his study long after he had left them. He kept the study door open. He wanted to hear that bright, feminine sound.

He broke the seal on the message, smoothed out the folds in the paper. He sifted through multiple sheets, thumbs skimming across the smooth surface. What had the lovely Widow Fairchild been doing in the last few years? And where had she come from?

If the reports were to be believed—and they should, as he’d asked his best informants—she was the daughter of a country squire. She’d married the only son of a neighboring family, who went to war against his father’s wishes, but with the support of his mother. And her own family? What of them? The report did not say.

The quill on the edge of his desk was light in his fingers as he made a note to pursue information on her family. Then he turned to the next portion of the report. Lilias Fairchild had followed Major Fairchild on nearly every campaign, usually traveling with the troops, though she did occasionally travel separately with other families.

He had a good idea of her experiences on the march. She might sleep anywhere from a local inn with clean sheets to a tent in an open field. Perhaps even a makeshift hut, if necessary. Disease, low rations. Cold. God, he remembered the cold himself. It didn’t just seep into the bones. It pierced with such bitterness a man could barely sleep or eat. Worse was the danger of retreating armies after a battle and the plundering that occurred.

Not a pretty tale. But she had lived it, according to the official military records. The question was, what part of her life was not in the official records?

He could find nothing untoward in her history, so he turned to Major Fairchild’s military record. It was exemplary. He had earned his promotions, was well respected by his men. Angel studied a list of campaigns the regiment had been on. He ran a finger down the rows of letters. They had not been in Pamplona when Gemma had been killed, but the regiment had been at the siege of San Sebastián. Only fifty miles. Less, perhaps. It had been a two-month siege. Plenty of time to travel to Pamplona.

It could be done
. But it was not Mrs. Fairchild’s hand that had held the knife. Gemma’s killer had been a man. Still, there was more than one Death Adder, and they did work in pairs on occasion.

And she had the medallion. He could not find an explanation for that.

The silver disc lay on his desk, beside Gemma’s file. Beside all the files.

Forty-two dead. That was the number of political and military figures killed at the hands of the Death Adders. Their files were permanently on his desk, though he usually kept them at the bachelor’s quarters he maintained to escape his family when needed. He rarely looked at the files. The names and identities were permanently burned into his memory, but he occasionally scanned them for any information he may have missed.

But there was one name that never left him. Not even in sleep.

No one should ever marry for anything but love
.

Gemma hadn’t been pretty. But, oh, she’d had a joy inside her. She lit any room she walked into, even when she was undercover for the Service. They had not married, though he’d asked. Repeatedly. But Gemma had always gone her own unconventional way. It would have been a disastrous marriage—tumultuous, fraught with worry and complicated by duty. But it would have been full of passion.

Pulling open his top desk drawer, he retrieved the miniature he kept there. Laughing brown eyes met his. A wide, upturned mouth that should have been too big for her face smiled at him. Such delight. Such love. She’d been amused by life, by the vagaries of people, even by the game of espionage.

He’d wanted her fiercely. He’d loved her fiercely.

And now she was dead. Four years dead. He should have forgotten her by now. Moved forward. But he couldn’t. It was his assignment to hunt the Death Adders. In those four years, he’d only brought in two men alive, and neither one lived long enough to tell him anything. The rest defied discovery. He only found what they left behind.

The dead—and a medallion.

He reached into the drawer again, hands closing around a second silver medallion. He’d found it beside Gemma. In her blood. He swallowed and tucked that memory away. It was a hellish moment to remember. He must make a better effort to bury it.

He lay Gemma’s medallion beside Lilias Fairchild’s. He turned one, so the symbols were aligned. Side by side. Sunlight caught the edge of the disc that had been left with Gemma. The black onyx inlay seemed to writhe. He flicked his gaze to Lilias Fairchild’s medallion. They appeared identical.

It was an easy matter to bring out his glass and test the similarity. He bent over them, eye to glass, and studied the magnified marks in the silver. The long line of onyx on each front ended in the outline of a diamond. The center of the diamond shape shone silver. Precise cuts, onyx and silver perfectly aligned. No gaps between the materials. He rubbed a thumb over the surface of Mrs. Fairchild’s medallion. No raised or loose areas where craftsmanship had failed. Though he knew each mark in Gemma’s medallion, he studied it again. Front, back, edge. The stamped “A.”

They were identical, barring the minor marks time left on metal. The same workmanship. The same symbol. The same assassin.

Savage anger swelled in his chest. It clawed, howled, trying to fight free from that deep place in his heart where he’d buried Gemma. Her body might be lost somewhere in Pamplona, but that did not expel her from his memories.

With one swipe, he sent the medallions and the miniature into the desk drawer.

The agony of failure never lessened.

He closed the study door. He didn’t need the caring women of his family disturbed. He’d learned to lock the door when he played his violin, and they’d learned to pretend they didn’t hear him.

It suited them all.

The violin case was worn and battered. When he’d first purchased it, the leather had been soft and supple, the wood beneath strong. He ran his fingers over the scars. There was a hole from a rifle in Austria. That had been a near miss on the instrument itself. A scratch ran the length of the case. A knife fight in India that had ended well for Angel and badly for the case.

With patient fingers, he opened one latch, then the second, then the third. The hinges barely sighed as the lid slowly opened. The instrument called him. He heard it, as clearly as he heard his own heartbeat. He trailed his fingers across the strings. They were hard, small ridges that dug into his skin.

Lifting the violin from the case, he nestled it beneath his chin. It was like coming home. It fit perfectly. Flawlessly. The curve of his shoulder against the curve of the wood. He breathed in the scent of leather and wood and rosin.

Lifting the bow, he set it against the strings.

The world lifted away. The fist gripping his heart eased, the burning anger gave way. He’d carried that violin from London to Paris to Lisbon to Brussels and back again. He’d carried it to the wilds of India, where he’d met Gemma in a pasha’s palace. He’d played for her while she’d danced for him, wearing nothing but bells on her ankles.

With that image in his head, he played for Gemma. Playful, seductive, fast. He caught the joy of her, his fingers flying, the bow a blur as it stroked the strings. Notes licked the air, bright and lively.