With her nipping at his ear the blood seemed reluctant to return to his brain, but he could think well enough to remember that she’d been the one to bring up her refusal to leave the Tantalus grounds. He could therefore ask her why.
“I met your cousin, you know,” she said before he could decide how to phrase his question. “Gerard, yes?”
“Yes.” He sent her a sideways glance. “When you say you ‘met,’ does—”
“I mean he sat for dinner and faro downstairs on several occasions,” she interrupted. “And he seemed a true gentleman.”
That was an interesting choice of words. “As opposed to an untrue gentleman?”
“As opposed to someone who is called a gentleman simply because that is the custom. The way a Thoroughbred is a horse and a rag-and-bones man’s cart dray is a horse.” She flopped down beside him to run the palm of her hand up beneath his shirt. “I don’t think anyone would mistake one for the other.”
“A very good analogy, Portsman. So why d—”
“Before you became Westfall,” she broke in again, her finger idly brushing his nipples, “what did you do? Were you in the army, or a pastor, or an idle gentleman?”
She’s interrogating me,
he thought,
and attempting to distract me at the same time.
And she was tolerably good at it. Was it casual interest, though, or something more?
Hm.
The fact that he still couldn’t decide was in itself telling. Perhaps “tolerably good” was an understatement. “Can you imagine me in the army?” he countered, rather than outright answering. She could draw her own conclusions from that. “And I think being a clergyman would be excessively dull. I did have considerably more time for mathematics and reading previous to my cousin’s unfortunate death, though. I miss that.”
“You seem in reasonably good physical shape for a dabbler in mathematics and a reader,” she insisted, leaning over him to run her lips across his abdomen.
“Well, thank you for saying that. I attempt to go riding daily, and of course walking through London’s parks is very invigorating.” Good God. He sounded like an old man. Time to counterattack. “But I’m not the only one whose life has been altered over the past few years, surely. What did you do before the Tantalus opened?” It was more direct than he cared to be, but she’d left the door open. If he hadn’t stepped through, he wouldn’t have been able to call himself a spy any longer.
She sat up. “Me? It’s a very dull tale, Westfall. A chit with a yen for a better life who blundered. And I completely forgot that I challenged you not to enjoy Miss Green’s roast pheasant.” Sliding to the edge of the bed, she donned a dressing gown and stepped for the door. “I’ll be back in just a moment. And I think you should remove the remainder of your clothes while I’m gone.”
Nate took a breath as she reached the door. “You know, we’ve all blundered in the past,” he said slowly, mentally crossing his fingers. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
Emily faced him, one hand on the door handle. “Simply because we’ve been in bed together doesn’t mean I trust you, Westfall. In here we’re a man and a woman. Out there”—and she indicated the world beyond her window—“you’re a lord and I’m a nobody. The balance shifts, loyalties and trust don’t signify. If you want a lady with no secrets, Lucille Hampton’s bedchamber is two doors down the hallway. She’ll blather until your ears bleed.”
“Portsman, I—”
“Whatever you think you know, you don’t. And I think you should leave.”
He sat up, swinging his still-booted feet over the side of the bed. “And what is it you think I know?” he asked, studying her face intently for any sign of … anything.
For a long moment she met his gaze, her pretty brown eyes serious and searching just as closely. “Don’t forget your spectacles,” she finally said, and slipped out the door.
Damnation.
He’d blundered. And in this instance he didn’t feel relieved to have escaped alive, or thankful he would now have a chance to learn from his mistake. No, this time he was angry. He wasn’t finished with Emily Portsman. Not finished with his questions, and not finished with sex. Time, then, to step up this game and see if she could still play.
Chapter Seven
“Jenny?”
Emily knocked on the door to the small suite of rooms Genevieve Martine had at the back part of Adam House. Jenny had volunteered to room with the rest of the club’s employees, Emily knew, but Diane had instead given her the five rooms at the east corner of the main house.
Behind her, even through the thick walls dividing Adam House from the club, she thought she could hear the high-pitched titter of female voices. All the club’s employees looked forward to the two Wednesdays every month that had been designated as ladies’ days—none of them were allowed to work, and every eligible croupier, footman, and waiter for the rest of London’s clubs flocked to the Tantalus to offer their services.
Only women—not members, but those invited by a select group of ladies designated by Diane—were permitted through the doors. They dined and wagered and chatted without having to be exposed to the scandalous flock of Tantalus girls, while those same girls tended to leave en masse for Vauxhall Gardens or wherever chits such as they were could go. Throughout London the aristocrats complained of the poor service they received at their other clubs on those Wednesdays, since all the young lads deserted to serve at the Tantalus.
For tonight all it meant for Emily was that Westfall wouldn’t be calling on her. She thought she’d made it clear that he wasn’t to do so at any time, but after two days she remained uncertain over whether he would keep away. She knocked at the door again. Mr. Smith of the Helpful Men had said Jenny remained at home this evening, but that had been an hour or more ago.
Finally the door opened, and light blue eyes beneath tightly coiffed blond hair looked out at her. “What’s amiss?” Jenny asked.
“Oh. Nothing. I only wanted … you’re not occupied, are you?” None of the Tantalus girls had ever seen Jenny ask a man upstairs, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t done so. Jenny very nearly seemed able to disappear at will, after all.
“Only with some reading.” Miss Martine backed away from the door. “Come in, my dear.”
Emily entered the short hallway and closed the door behind her as Jenny vanished ahead of her into the small sitting room. “I truly didn’t mean to disturb you. I only wondered if you’d learned anything about Lord Westfall.”
“You don’t give a lady much time, do you?” Jenny had seated herself before the hearth, a stack of newspapers three feet high on the floor beside her. As far as anyone knew, she had newspapers dating back ten years or more, all neatly organized in a small storage room together with maps and books and other bits and bobs that no one else could make any sense of.
“I know. It’s just that I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not what he says he is. And that he’s after something.” He’s after
me,
she thought, but she still couldn’t be entirely certain that he was anything more than a liar about his poor vision. Feelings might point her in the correct direction, but she needed facts. And the sooner the better.
“And yet you entertained him in your room a second time, did you not?” Jenny queried as she picked up a newspaper, opened it, and handed it up to Emily.
“I did. And then after he began asking about my life and saying I could trust him, I told him to leave.”
“That was a mistake, you know. Especially if you had suspicions about him.”
Emily sighed. “Yes, I know.” It had troubled her from the moment she’d said the words, that in reacting too swiftly to what might—by anyone else—have been construed as harmless questions, from one lover to the other, she’d revealed too much of herself. But she knew—she
knew
that he wasn’t what he claimed. Not entirely.
“The column on the left-hand page,” Jenny said. “And take a seat, if you please.”
She sat, going to the narrow column of print under the headline
WELLINGTON’S STRATEGIES ON THE PENINSULA
. It had been written three years ago, just after Bonaparte’s second capture, and after Wellington had been elevated to duke. In less-than-exciting language considering it talked about war, the article detailed the mission of the foot soldiers, the cavalry, the navy, and Wellington’s famed network of spies and turncoats.
“I don’t see anything,” she said after a moment, looking across the breadth of the fireplace at Genevieve. “Some soldiers being commended for their exceptional service, but nothing about Nathaniel Stokes.”
“No? Not the Wellington article. The one at the bottom of the page.”
Lowering her gaze to the short article at the bottom, Emily read through it.
NOTABLE PERSONAGES ENTERING LONDON SOCIETY
, it read, listing several aristocrats who’d recently made the trip back to London after an absence. Most of them were officers who’d been away on duty, along with younger people finally of an age to attend soirees … and one Nathaniel Stokes, who had evidently been abroad for the previous four years.
“‘Abroad,’” she said aloud. “That’s not very helpful.”
“It is if you look at the timing and the lack of information,” Jenny returned, in a tone that said she was speaking with an infant. “The others are very specific; Lord Humphries, who gallantly served with the 101st Foot in Spain and Belgium and who has now returned to Grey House on Bond Street to be reunited with Lady Humphries and young Lord Victor. And then Nathaniel Stokes, who has been abroad. For the entire duration of the war and then some.”
“Jenny, I—”
“He was a spy,” Jenny cut in. “For Wellington.”
Emily’s blood turned to ice. “You’re certain? Just from that?”
“Not just from that, but yes. I … have reason to recognize the patterns and the language. Aside from that, the name Nate Stokes is not unknown in certain circles.”
“Your circles?” Emily asked, her hands shaking so badly she had to set the paper down.
“If I were ever to admit such a thing I might nod my head. But you will very rarely hear anyone say so directly.” She sat forward, pulling the newspaper closer and carefully refolding it. “A spy for Wellington is not an enemy, Emily, but a spy in someone else’s employ is a dangerous thing, indeed. Especially a spy named Nate Stokes.”
“I—I need to leave,” Emily said in a small voice that sounded reluctant even to her own ears. For three years she’d felt safe. Or if not safe, then at least a little protected. And not alone. Now it was over. Her home, her new family—she needed to leave them all behind. Immediately.
“Emily, this thing from which you hide. I think you know you could trust me with it. And Diane. And even Haybury.”
Emily shook her head, the ice spreading through her like winter. “No. It’s better for all of you if you don’t know.”
“Perhaps I can judge for myself what is good for me to know or not. And fleeing into the night without a plan is never a wise idea.”
Forcing herself to think logically for a moment, Emily had to agree that Jenny had a point. When she’d fled before, she hadn’t had a plan, and it had cost her dearly. Finding The Tantalus Club had been an accident, a moment of providence, and she wasn’t likely to be so lucky the next time. “I haven’t seen him for two days,” she said aloud, her voice unsteady. “I asked him to go away, and he has.”
“Then I would say that even if he suspects something, he does not yet have proof. A spy is trained to find definitive proof before taking action—because a spy’s truths cost men their lives.”
“I don’t know what to do, then. It’s still safer if I go.”
“Unless your flight is the proof for which he is waiting.”
She hadn’t thought of that. The idea that he might be lurking outside the club, waiting for her finally to stick her head out the door … She drew a shaking breath. Nothing had happened yet. Nothing other than a few questions she hadn’t answered, and a man’s visit to her private rooms. Twice. If he was a spy, and he did need definitive proof, he hadn’t found it. She’d certainly left nothing for him to discover.
“What do you suggest?” she asked, managing to steady her voice.
“You won’t like it.”
“I don’t like any of this.”
Jenny slowly sank back into the plush brown chair again. “A guilty person, a frightened person, acts in a particular way. Acting in this manner might be the last bit of information he needs from you. So do not act in that manner. Do not hide. Do not be cautious. Or do not appear to be. You have fooled most everyone so far, but Nate Stokes is not like everyone else.”
And that was what she’d begun to enjoy about him. She clenched her jaw. The tactic would take a great deal of courage. Perhaps more than she had. “When will he stop looking, though?”
“When he’s convinced you are not the one he seeks.”
“It seems very risky.” Especially when she had a very good idea that she was precisely who he was after.
To her surprise, Jenny gave a small smile. “Life is risky, Emily. I don’t know what you hide from, but the consequences of it remain hanging over your head, regardless of what you do or where you go. Is taking this risk worth the reward of being able to put those things aside if you can convince Stokes—Westfall—that you are not this other person?”
That was a very good question. Even if she could convince Nathaniel that she had nothing to do with Ebberling, the marquis himself remained in London. Whatever changes she’d made to her appearance, a chance existed that he would recognize her. But once he left, and once Nathaniel turned his attention elsewhere, she might … she might be able to walk outside. To go shopping with her friends, or stroll through Hyde Park on a sunny day. Or ride to Dover to see the ocean. Or to Vauxhall to see the Thames.
“Yes,” she said slowly, meeting Jenny’s gaze. “It is worth the risk.”
And it had nothing to do with the fact that she liked him, that she liked sex with him, and that she surprisingly liked kissing him, and that she wanted him to be after someone’s lost hound and not Rachel Newbury. Those were just wishes, and wishes were for fools.
* * *
“Do you have results for me then, Westfall?” the Marquis of Ebberling demanded, striding into the Velton House morning room where Nathaniel and Laurence had been placed five minutes earlier.