The King's Code (The Lady Spies Series #3): A Regency Historical Romance (17 page)

He smiled as he watched Lady Juliet’s lithe little body climb into her carriage. She looked every bit the lady, fresh and innocent. But her continued visits to McCurren’s home led one to conclude that the innocent young lady was not so innocent.

His cock jumped at the very thought.

He kicked his horse in the side and followed the lady’s carriage, propelled more by his increased fascination than by his fee.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of Lord Appleton’s town home and the Welshman steered his horse across the street. He watched as Lady Juliet got out of her carriage and climbed the front steps. But then she stopped and turned in his direction.

The lady stared into the dark and he smiled, wanting her to see him, to know that he knew what carnal acts she was performing with Seamus McCurren. A burst of light bloomed, lighting up the left side of her pretty face as the front door of the house opened, drawing her attention away from him.

Juliet Pervill stepped inside and he looked up at the second floor of the house. The Welshman grinned as a light moved across her bedchamber window and he waited, picturing the girl as she undressed and then got into bed.

Aroused, he gave a regretful sigh and then turned his horse to go and watch the man who had just taken the lady to bed, all the while wishing that he were that man.

~

Mathematical
columns were like music to Enigma, and she could spot a sour note quickly. She tapped her finger on the paper and said, “You made an error here.”

The accountant glanced at the neat rows and stared at the miscalculation, terrified. “Yes, you’re correct. I apologize and will—”

“Are you trying to rob me, Mister Matthews?” Enigma whispered in his ear so that he might feel her threat.

“No!” The accountant shook his head and swallowed. “No, I would never . . . that is to say, I fully understand the penalty for doing so.”

“Very well, Mister Matthews.” Enigma smiled, more from the profit Dante’s Inferno had brought her than for the accountant’s compliance. “I believe you. Now, finish balancing my books.”

The man nodded and Enigma walked out of the tiny office at the back of the brothel, only to be intercepted by Chloe. “The Welshman has just arrived. I put him in bedchamber four.”

“Where’s Mister Collin?”

“Downstairs,” Chloe said, never asking questions.

“Keep it that way.”

Enigma walked into the brothel room and was stunned by the amount of anticipation she felt when she saw the little Welshman sitting on the well-worn bed.

“Good evening, Mister Jones. It is so nice to see you again,” she said to her sometimes employee.

“Evening.” He bobbed his graying head and looked around the room, nervous as a virgin in a roomful of rogues.

“It will be just the two of us tonight,” Enigma informed him, not wanting Mister Collin with her when she received this particular report. “Is that all right with you, Mister Jones?”

The man paled. “Oh, yes. I . . . that’s fine, just fine by me.”

Enigma walked toward the Welshman, flashing a bit of thigh. “Just tell me what you have observed of Seamus McCurren this past week.”

“Well.” The man swallowed when she sat next to him on the bed. “Mister McCurren keeps to a routine.”

“Does he?” Enigma’s left brow rose, fascinated with any insight she might gain into Seamus McCurren’s interesting mind.

“Yes.” The Welshman referred to his ever-present pad of paper. “He leaves his home at the same time every morning, early like.” The man’s beady blue eyes looked up to verify that she was following. “And he comes home at about the same time every afternoon. Excepting this one time when he was right late.”

“And where does Mister McCurren go every morning?” she asked, envisioning the handsome Seamus McCurren’s movements.

“Whitehall,” Enigma stilled but the little man continued to talk. “Mister McCurren goes to the Foreign Office, every day like clockwork.”

“Tell me.” Her heart was racing and she smiled to divert his attention away from the importance of the question. “Have you ever heard anyone call Mister McCurren by the name ‘Falcon’?”

Her breathing was becoming shallow from trepidation and more than a little excitement as she waited to discover if the brilliant Seamus McCurren was also the elusive Lord Falcon the French were so keen to capture.

“No.” The Welshman shook his head and then laughed. “Although he does have a ladybird, do you think she could be his Falcon?”

“Ladybird?” Enigma asked, annoyed.

“Lady . . .” The man looked down at his notes. “Juliet, that’s right, Lady Juliet Pervill.”

“I want to know everything.” Enigma raised her forefinger to emphasize her point. “Everything about this woman.” And then she remembered. “Is she Lord Pervill’s brat?”

“That’s the one.” The Welshman nodded. “Got her reputation ruined a couple of weeks back when she was caught entertaining Lord Harrington. Guess the lady has moved on to Mister McCurren now.”

“Lord Harrington?” Enigma thought of the middle-aged drunk and the stunning Seamus McCurren, sure that these men would never feed from the same trough. “What happened with Lord Harrington?”

“She were caught in her cousin’s library with him. The girl denies it, of course, says Lord Harrington done it to get back at her father.” Enigma smiled, remembering that Lord Pervill was now the proud owner of Lord Harrington’s town home. “Pretty little thing, Lady Juliet Pervill, clean like.”

Her nose wrinkled at the man’s defining pretty as clean. “You’ve done very well, Mister Jones. Has Mister McCurren had any other guests to his town home?”

“His brother visits a lot and Christian St. John. Juliet Pervill, of course.” Enigma felt a flash of irritation. “That’s it thus far, but we ain’t been watching him very long.”

“Keep watching him.” Enigma nodded as she thought of her profitable code. It would take a very intelligent man to detect it much less be able to identify the publication in which it would next appear and understand how to disrupt it. “Keep watching Seamus McCurren,” she repeated with a slight smile.

~

The
Marquis Shelton held the invitation to the weekend gathering in his right hand as he made his way toward that very event. It was a two-day journey from town but something about the invitation had compelled him to go.

“‘Lord Harrington cordially invites you to Harrington Hall for a meeting of the minds,’” Ian read aloud. “‘Meeting of the minds’?”

He shook his head. From what he had heard of the man who had so maliciously ruined Juliet Pervill, Lord Harrington had very little mind to meet.

Why not then send out invitations for a hunting weekend or a fishing party? Even a musical gathering would seem more likely than a “meeting of the minds.”

The invitation was decidedly odd and it was that peculiarity that had prompted Ian to accept the invitation. He had taken precautions, of course, two pistols as well as informing his butler of his whereabouts for the upcoming weekend.

No, if anything, the weekend might prove amusing, and if not, he could always retire to his bedchamber and polish his upcoming speech to Parliament.

Committed, Ian stared at the garish gate as they rambled onto Lord Harrington’s land. The parks of the estate were pristine and quite beautiful. Yet as they continued to travel mile after mile with no cultivation in sight, Ian began to wonder how the man sustained the estate.

He arrived at Harrington Hall at the same time as several other gentlemen. Men he knew and men he knew of. Well respected all. They were shown to their rooms and Ian stared out his first-floor window at the perfectly tended lawn, the sculpted hedges, and an impressive array of fountains.

The clothes in which he traveled came off first and he walked to the wash basin to refresh himself before he dressed for dinner. A half an hour later Ian joined the others in Lord Harrington’s drawing room, sinking into the right side of a settee as he waited and watched.

“Thank you all for coming,” Harrington began, “to the first of what I hope to be several weekends in which prominent members of society gather to discuss the difficulties facing our nation and the possible solutions to those problems.”

“Forgive me, Lord Harrington,” an earl drawled, “but isn’t that the function of Parliament?”

Several men nodded, Ian included. He raised his finger toward a footman and asked for a brandy while he awaited Harrington’s ineloquent answer.

“Yes, of course.” Lord Harrington smiled at the earl. “However, Parliament is not conducive to extended conversations pertaining to these issues. Nor are the less influential members of the House willing to state their true beliefs or possible solutions in front of the entire body of Parliament for fear of reprisals.”

“A regrettable fact, to be sure,” the earl continued, “yet would not that same situation arise at this gathering?”

“Not if the members invited here for the weekend come with a willingness to listen to the others,” Harrington explained.

“It is my hope that these weekend gatherings will allow for an extended voice to those members who are rarely heard. And if not”—Lord Harrington held up his glass— “then we shall have a jolly good time hunting.”

The other men laughed and Ian smiled politely at Lord Harrington, a man who had yet to show his face during the current session of the House of Lords.

“What shall we discuss first?” a young viscount from Bath asked.

“I suggest we begin with the most pressing problem our nation faces. Napoleon.”

The group of English peers burst into a heated conversation, several maligning the lineage of France’s peasant emperor.

“Bloody Corsican,” one gentleman said, drawing Ian’s attention. “We should sail to Calais then march to Paris while the bulk of his army remains on the Peninsula.”

“You forget,” an older man said, “the bulk of
our
army remains on the Peninsula with the bloody Corsican.”

“I think we should call Wellesley back to England to guard our own bloody borders,” the earl standing by the fireplace interjected.

Ian glanced at Lord Harrington, who sat in his chair like a proud vicar overseeing his parish.

“What do you think should be done about Napoleon, Marquis Shelton?” a younger man asked, deferring to the most senior man in the room.

Ian cleared his throat and spoke loudly enough for all the gentlemen to hear.

“My opinion is, of course, a matter of public record. I feel very strongly that Napoleon must be stopped before he has a chance to accumulate enough force to invade England,” he said, choosing his words carefully.

“But do you not think our infantry would be put to better use if they were left here in England,” the earl continued to argue his point, “rather than losing our soldiers and the ships transporting them to fight in foreign lands?”

“No, I do not.” Ian stared at the earl, trying to decide if he was merely playing the opposite side of the coin or if the man truly believed what he was saying. “If we wait until Napoleon amasses the armies of Europe, he will march through England as if it were Lord Harrington’s lovely gardens.”

The room erupted into debate, and Ian sat back and watched the others argue, keeping a sharp eye on Lord Harrington. The spirits were freely given and the debate became increasingly loud until finally, at midnight, Ian could take no more of it and excused himself in favor of bed.

He walked the deserted corridors of Harrington Hall, the masculine voices fading to a murmur. He fished in his pocket for several moments, admonishing himself for not having brought his valet. His hand closed over the cold key and Ian pulled it from his pocket and opened his bedchamber door.

However, he stilled when the first thing he saw was a very feminine backside as a chambermaid bent over his unmade bed.

“Oh, pardon, my lord.” The pretty little brunette curtsied, her bright eyes shining with lingering surprise. “I was sent to warm your bed.” Ian quirked a brow until the girl pointed to a bed warmer sitting on the hearth of his fireplace. “I tended your fire, too.”

“Yes, thank you very much,” Ian said, stepping to the side so that the girl might leave.

The chambermaid smiled and took one step toward the door and tripped on the edge of the carpet, crashing into his chest. His hands darted around her waist to keep the girl from falling to the floor. He steadied her but the chambermaid did not move from his arms. Instead she looked up at him, her breasts pressed firmly against his chest.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?” The chambermaid batted her lashes while rubbing herself against his cock.

Ian smiled down at the girl, asking, “What did you have in mind,” curious as to where this would go.

She grabbed his right hand and lifted it to her breast. “Anything you can think of, Lord . . . What did you say your name was?”

“Shelton.” Ian gave her his most seductive smile. “Miss . . .”

“Mira.” She began unbuttoning his trousers. “Just call me Mira.”