Lord and Lady Spy (19 page)

No wonder she preferred working abroad. Far fewer complications.

Up ahead, Sophia spotted a man running and slapped the reins. He’d lost his hat, and she frowned when she saw the dark blond hair. Why was Adrian running? Damn it! Had he caught their man already?

Adrian reached for the closed back of a gig cutting through traffic, and Sophia immediately understood. Their man had realized their plan and was trying to escape. She slapped the reins again, called a warning to a man about to cross in front of her, swerved, narrowly avoiding him but jostling a cart and spilling potatoes in her wake.

“Sorry!” She gave an apologetic wave to the cursing farmer then turned back just as she came alongside Adrian. He’d missed the gig and had fallen behind. “Jump on!” she called.

For a moment, he stared at her as though he didn’t know her—that was a good sign, perhaps Lady Ramsgate hadn’t recognized her either—and then angled for her. She slowed just enough for him to grasp hold of the box and lever himself beside her.

“Where the bloody hell did this come from?” he asked.

“Providence. Is that our man up ahead?” She nodded to the gig swerving through carts and horses.

“That’s him. Spotted me and stole it after a short tussle with the coachman.”

“I like him already.” Sophia slapped the reins, and the phaeton gained on the gig.

“We’ll never catch him,” Adrian said, hanging on to the seat to keep from bouncing out. “You might be faster, but he’s carrying one, and we’re—Good God! Watch out for the—”

But she’d already seen the maid carrying three hatboxes and swerved around her. The maid was unscathed, but the hatboxes went flying, spilling their frilly contents in the middle of the street. Too bad. The one with the lavender ribbons looked most fetching.

“We’ll catch him,” she assured Adrian. “I know how to drive.”

“That’s debatable.”

She glanced at him. “You’re welcome to try running again.”

“Keep your eyes on the street! Sophia!”

But her horse had a feel for her now, and he swerved around the slow carriage without her direction. With Adrian balancing the phaeton out, both wheels remained on the ground. They were gaining. Soon she’d be level with the gig lamps. Then it would just be a small matter of transferring the reins to Adrian, jumping to the gig, and restraining their man.

The hard part would be deciding what to claim from Adrian as a prize for her victory. She could think of so many delicious rewards…

Her beautiful white horse was now level with the gig’s hood, and she spurred the animal onward. The road before her was blissfully open, and she curled her fingers around the reins. “Twenty seconds,” she murmured. “Nineteen. Come on, come on…”

Beside her, Adrian sat forward, and she could tell he was anticipating her victory as much as she. “A little closer,” he called.

She swallowed her fear and steered her horse a fraction closer to the gig. In a moment the wheels would be almost touching. Fifteen seconds. “Come on.”

She was watching the gig and didn’t see the cart right away. Adrian grabbed her hand, and when she looked up, she swore loudly and yanked the reins so hard she thought her muscles would pop. Adrian had her about the waist, to steady her, and the horse screamed. In front of them, a large cart, laden with furniture, backed slowly onto Conduit, the driver unaware of the chase heading directly for him.

“We’re not going to make it!” Adrian predicted the same moment Sophia realized the same. She had no choice but to swerve onto the sidewalk or collide head-on with the lumbering cart. She closed her eyes and yanked the reins, praying anyone in their path would jump to safety. They bounced over the curb, hit something and rolled over it, then came to a clattering stop.

Sophia opened her eyes again and looked about her. The horse was staring at a woman pinned against the wall of a bakery, while around them, flowers were strewn in piles and bunches. Sophia peeked behind her and saw they’d run over the flower girl’s basket. She, poor, thin thing, was staring at them, her blue eyes huge. Slowly, she bent to gather the flowers she could salvage.

With a sigh, Sophia turned to the street and watched the gig dart through traffic and race out of sight. She sat with a thud and surveyed the damage around her.

She glanced at Adrian. He had a daisy stuck in his hair and a carnation caught on his coat. He looked at her, clenched his jaw, and said, “Next time, I drive.”

Sophia could barely suppress a grin.

***

Lord Dewhurst’s ball was the last major event of the Season, or so Adrian had been assured by his valet. Why that warranted having his cravat tied, untied, and discarded three times, he had no idea. The man had wanted to give it another go, but Adrian had put his foot down. Marksby had looked as though he would pout the rest of the evening, and probably most of the next day, so Adrian had relented and allowed the man to fuss with his hair. When Marksby was finished, Adrian thought it looked exactly the same, but he complimented the man’s efforts anyway. He had enough to deal with without a peevish valet.

Adrian paced the vestibule, aware Wallace was standing in the shadows, watching him. Not for the first time, Adrian wondered how much the butler knew of his and Sophia’s lives. Certainly he must suspect they were up to more than merely making morning calls when they returned with bits of flowers clinging to them and driving a phaeton that did not belong to them. But Wallace had merely nodded when Sophia instructed him to have their coachman return the conveyance with their apologies for the mistake in taking it.

As though anyone with half a mind would mistake the elegant, one-of-a-kind horse and carriage for their own.

They should have caught the man trailing them. Adrian had thought he had the shadow. He’d emerged over the wall, cut through the shop, and fell in step directly behind the man. But he must have given himself away or the man had been expecting him, because the next thing he knew, the man was in the gig and Adrian was running after him.

He thought he’d lost him for sure, knew Sophia had absolutely no chance, until he’d heard the hooves of hell clopping behind him, turned, and saw his wife bearing down on him.

God, she was beautiful. If Helios had a daughter, it would have been Sophia. She might not have set the earth on fire, but she’d certainly singed it a bit. Still, to see her in that one instant, it was worth the inconvenience of paying the flower girl for her lost wares, apologizing to the Duchess of Trembly—who they’d trapped between the horse and bakery glass—and dealing with the multitude of others who’d descended to complain about Sophia’s driving.

She’d been standing, hair whipping in the wind like a hundred chocolate ribbons, cheeks flushed pink, eyes positively lit with excitement. Her cream-colored skirts flew around her legs like frothy clouds. In that moment, he’d wanted to shout to everyone she was his. And then she’d spotted him, and her mouth curved into the smile she reserved for him, and he’d felt his heart clench in a way it never had before.

He could have taken her right there, right in the center of Conduit Street. If only he could have caught her.

And when she slowed for him, he could do little but stare in amazement as she took every risk, every daring chance and then some. If he’d ever had a doubt she was Agent Saint, he didn’t now. It was bad luck they hadn’t caught the shadow. Bloody furniture cart. They’d get him next time. They could have been closing in on him and Jenkinson’s killer right now if it wasn’t for the bloody Dewhurst ball.

When they’d returned, Adrian had arrowed for his library, but Marksby had intercepted him, just as Sophia’s lady’s maid had intercepted her, and they’d been whisked away to prepare for the evening.

So work had to bow to social obligations for the night. Normally, Adrian would have told Marksby he could eat that starched cravat, but Liverpool had specifically told them to meet him at the ball. A good agent knew that work sometimes had to be interrupted to report to one’s superiors.

Besides, he was interested in Liverpool’s opinions on…

A flash of crimson caught his eye, and he stopped pacing, whirled, and stared at the steps leading to the upper floors. The chandelier above him blazed bright, reflecting off the rubies sparkling at Sophia’s pale throat. The gems matched her gown, a deep red in glossy silk. Her hair was equally glossy, coiled and woven in an artful style with just enough tendrils escaping to fire a man’s imagination.

Adrian decided then and there he was firing Sophia’s maid. She was too good at her job.

Sophia smiled at him and took a step down. Still speechless, he watched her move, watched her skirts swish, watched the play of light on the rubies. The waist of her gown was impossibly high, the neckline impossibly low, and he had an enviable view of her ample breasts cushioning the rubies. He remembered them now. They’d been a present—three weeks late—for their first anniversary. When he’d given them to Sophia, she’d smiled vaguely, said they were pretty, and he’d never seen them again.

Of course, she’d still been dressing in high-necked sacks at that point. Perhaps he’d thought they might encourage her to dress in something more alluring. Perhaps he thought she’d think them pretty. Perhaps he hadn’t been thinking at all. But if he’d known then she could look as she did now, he might have bought her a shawl or a cape or a robe with a collar to her chin instead.

She stopped before him, cleared her throat. “You look handsome, my lord. I see you decided on a new style for your cravat this evening.”

He frowned. Had he? He’d forgotten even to look at Marksby’s work.

“And your hair.” She nodded. “The style suits you.”

It looked no different than it had this afternoon, except it was free of daisy petals.

He continued to stare at her; there were small rubies in her ears—those he hadn’t given her. He wanted to reach out and stroke her ear. She had such small, delicate ears. “Where did you get these?” he asked, giving in to touching her and using the excuse of the earrings to do so. If Wallace and several footmen hadn’t been standing by, he would have done much more than put one finger to her earlobe.

“Prague.” Her brows arched. “Is that all you have to say? I thought you more charming.”

“I could be charming,” he admitted. “But the flesh on display makes it difficult for me to think.”

She laughed and nodded to Wallace, who brought forth her pelisse. Thank God she’d be covered for a few moments. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

Wallace opened the door, and they stepped out into the cool night. A breeze swept past him, and he caught the scent of citrus. Her scent. He led her down the walkway, staring at their coach, knowing in a moment he’d be inside with her. Alone. Curtains drawn. He hoped the Dewhursts lived very, very far away. Derbyshire would suit him.

He handed her into the coach and took the seat opposite her, but as soon as the footman closed the door, he was beside her, his hand cupping her neck, his mouth on hers.

He hadn’t realized he was tightly coiled, ready to snap. As soon as his lips touched hers, everything loosened and relaxed. She moaned slightly, her hands clutching his shoulders. “I’ve missed you,” she murmured against his lips.

He’d missed her too. They’d been apart—what? Three hours? Four? It had felt like days. “I feel like I’m nineteen again,” he said, bending to press his lips to her neck. And there were those escaped tendrils of hair brushing his lips with their fragrant softness.

“I didn’t know you at nineteen,” she said. “What were you like?”

He grinned up at her, not certain she could see in the dark. “Impatient.”

“Ah.” Her fingers stroked down his arm. “I know the feeling.”

He reached up, loosened her pelisse, and watched it fall open, revealing that swell of skin. Reverently, he ran the back of his fingers over her. She sighed and shivered. Unable to resist, he bent his mouth to the soft flesh, felt it give enticingly as he pressed lips to breast.

“I want to climb on top of you right now,” she murmured, voice husky. “I want to pull the bodice of this gown down, hike my skirts up, and let you take me as we ride through London.”

He’d been hard before, but now he was painfully so.

“But you know we have work to do.”

He did know. He knew it all too well. Always work. He placed a finger under her chin, tilted her face up to his. “We work now, but later…”

She nodded. “Later.” It sounded more like a threat than a promise.

“Lord Dewhurst’s residence!” the coachman called.

Adrian sighed and shifted back to his seat. “Let’s find Liverpool and get out of here quickly.”

“Agreed,” she said, adjusting her pelisse.

The coach stopped, the doors opened, and the glittering lights blinded him for a moment. Then he stepped out, reached back for Sophia, and led her into the lights, music, and crush of perfumed guests.

Apparently, Marksby hadn’t exaggerated when he’d predicted the Dewhurst’s ball would be the event of the Season. The baron’s town house was modest in size, similar in proportion to Adrian’s own, but it was bursting with the powdered and plumed. Adrian didn’t know Lord Dewhurst. The man was a celebrated dandy, if an overfondness for coats and gloves and snuffboxes could be celebrated.

“The Dewhursts only just returned from America,” Sophia said, smiling at one lady after another as they made their way through the crowds and into the actual vestibule. “So you might inquire about their voyage.”

Adrian was grateful for the information. He never knew what to say at these gatherings and usually remained silent. It gave him a rather unsociable reputation, but he didn’t really care about his reputation.

“They have a daughter.” Sophia never stopped smiling and nodding, even as she shed her pelisse and handed it to a waiting footman. They were announced, and Adrian saw the Dewhursts up ahead, receiving their guests. He was blond and far too pretty. She was a redhead, and in green silk, almost as stunning as Sophia.

“Don’t ask about the daughter’s name,” Sophia was saying.

Adrian frowned down at her. “How do you know so much about these people? You can’t have much more time than I to follow the scandal sheets.”