A Lady's Revenge (20 page)

The ache in her throat sharpened, and tears of profound joy blurred her vision. Could she be so lucky? Could a man of Guy’s temperament accept such a breach in social behavior? The gentle look he sent her penetrated the depths of her long-held fears and filled her heart with a warmth that had been absent far too long.

She folded her lips between her teeth to stop their trembling.

Perhaps, just perhaps.

Guy ran down the stairs, stuffing his shirttail into his breeches as he went. When he woke to find Cora gone, disappointment pulled at his heart, quickly followed by a surge of white-hot panic and red-hot rage.

“Morning, m’lord,” the innkeeper said with far more enthusiasm than a person should this early in the day. The man stood at the bottom of the stairs, his plump red face already slicked with sweat from his morning exertions. Although the innkeeper carried a few extra pounds, the retired pugilist’s thick neck, massive upper arms, and disfigured ears were testaments to his many rounds in the boxing ring. “Are ye looking for your missus?”

Guy skidded to a halt on the last stair.
Missus?
Something warm slipped into his heart. “As a matter of fact, I am, Mr. Malone.”

“You’ll find her in the back parlor. She’s sharing a cup of tea with her saucy maid.” The innkeeper waved to the left of the stairs and then glanced down at Guy’s bare feet with a wry smile.

She
hadn’t left him.

The tension drained from Guy’s shoulders, and his breathing resumed its normal rhythm. When he had turned over this morning, expecting to nestle around a warm woman, his hand found nothing but cold sheet.

The realization that Cora had been gone from their bed for some time had sent a stab of dread through his gut. Why had she left the safety of their chamber without telling him of her intention? Had she needed something in the wee hours of the morning and hadn’t wanted to disturb him? He sifted through the fog of his memories for an indication as to when she had left their bed. But his last conscious thought was of burying his nose in the crook of her neck, the fresh scent of her recent bath lulling him to sleep.

On top of the anxiety of not knowing her whereabouts sat a thick layer of old uncertainties. This morning’s scenario brought back painful memories of his parents’ abandonment while he had attended Eton. When it was time for the students to rejoin their parents at the end of each half, one of the schoolmasters, and sometimes the headmaster, would visit Guy and convey the unpleasant news of his parents’ inability to return home in time for his term break.

The first year was a disappointment but not surprising. His parents had always followed their pleasures. They traveled the length of Britain, chasing one house party after another and, when they grew bored with local entertainments, they jumped on a ship and headed for more exotic amusements. Having a child, even his father’s heir, had never slowed them down or caused them a moment’s guilt.

If not for Ethan being within hearing distance of the master’s announcement that first year, Guy might have gone mad stalking the corridors of his family’s large estate. Instead, he had spent several holidays and summers with the fun-loving deBeaus—until the year before the great tragedy struck the close-knit family. During that long year, the earl’s bouts of ill temper had steadily grown, as had the countess’s affection for obscurity.

Shrugging off the dark memory, he trudged up the stairs to their chamber to finish dressing. Ten minutes later, when he entered the parlor, he still pondered the question of her disappearance. Spotting Dinks and a veiled Cora at the back of the room, Guy weaved past several of the inn’s guests, taking note of each one. A young woman dressed in serviceable linen attended to two young children, who seemed intent on breaking free of her ironclad hold. Three disheveled young men sat in a darkened corner with their heads propped up on their hands.

Guy smiled, remembering many mornings when he and Ethan could barely hold their heads up after a long night of drinking and gambling. As he approached the ladies’ table, he nodded to a gray-haired gentleman reading a paper in a booth at Cora’s back.

He transferred his attention to Cora’s veiled features. “Good morning, ladies.”

“Morning, my lord,” Dinks responded and stood to leave.

He held out a staying hand. “No need to scurry off. Please stay and break your fast with us.”

“Thank you, my lord, but I’ve already had my fill.” She patted her stomach with a contented smile and then glanced at Cora. “I need to check my chamber to make sure our Scrapper has left the place intact, and then I’ll start preparations for our trip back to London.”

Guy scanned the room again, caution compelling him to lean forward. “We’re not going back to London, Dinks.” He felt the slice of Cora’s blue-green eyes.

Dinks dropped her voice. “Miss Cora?”

A full minute passed before her mistress spoke. “Please ask the innkeeper’s daughter to pack a basket for our midday meal.”

Understanding her mistress’s unspoken request for privacy, Dinks nodded. “Might take me a bit of time. Got to stay clear of Seven Hands Malone and his annoying tendency to plump my bum.” She scowled toward the door leading to the common area. “Them days for me are over. He tries that nonsense again, and I’ll cut off those sausages he calls fingers and feed them to the stray dogs outside.”

Guy leaned toward the maid and said, “If he touches you again, Dinks, you’ll bring your grievance to me. Understood?” A peer could get away with bodily harm to another far more easily than a servant. Unfair, but in this instance, he relished an opportunity to defend Cora’s steadfast maid.

Her full cheeks reddened. “Pardon, my lord. I shouldn’t have spoken so. I know how to deal with the likes of the innkeeper.”

“So do I. Promise me, Dinks.”

She glanced down at Cora and then nodded. “Thank you, sir.” The maid shuffled from foot to foot, seeming hesitant to leave.

“The basket,” Cora reminded her.

“Right away. It’s just that”—she cleared her throat—“until that Frenchie came and destroyed everything, I rather liked his lordship’s pretty estate.” She twisted her weathered hands together in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. “The place was cheery, like me mum’s home.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “Well, like it was before she took to the gin.” Straightening her spine, the maid’s face scrunched up as if she were annoyed by her confession. “Never you mind me, Miss Cora. Nothing but the ramblings of an old woman. I’ll be getting that basket now.”

When Dinks turned to leave, she either winked at him or had something lodged in her eye. He held back a smile. Seems our Dinks missed her calling on the stage. Would her ruse work? Cora’s success as a spy was due in large part to her ability to detect small nuances in an individual’s speech, tiny details most people missed.

“Your estate is no longer safe, Guy,” Cora said softly, interrupting his analysis of the maid’s subterfuge. “No matter how pretty or comfy.”

Ah, nice try, Dinks.

He settled in the maid’s spot in time to receive a heaping plate of eggs, ham, bacon, and three slices of toasted bread brought in by a serving girl.

“There you go, m’lord,” the girl said, sliding the plate in front of him. “Your missus didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for this morning, so I brought you a little of everything.”

Guy peered at the pile of food and wondered how any man could eat so much in one sitting. “This will do quite well. Thank you.”

She dipped into a curtsy and scurried away.

He downed a slice of ham and a piece of bacon before addressing Cora’s comment. “Correction. My estate is no longer a secret.”

She lifted her veil, careful to leave one side hanging low enough to keep the curious at bay. “I fail to understand the distinction.”

“The distinction,” he said in the same quiet tone while slathering strawberry jam onto his toast, “is that Valère might be aware of our location, but he no longer has the advantage of surprise. I took the liberty of dispatching a message to Somerton to inform him of your safety and to request a half-dozen men posthaste.”

“And you think he will be able to honor such a request? It would be rather difficult to amass that number of guards on such short notice.”

“Somerton can be quite resourceful when provoked.”

She rubbed her thumb along the edge of the table. “You may return to Herrington Park, Guy, but I must press on to London.”

He stopped chewing. “Why is that?”

She stared back at him, her gaze defiant yet scored with resignation.
Valère.
He read her intention in the piercing depths of her eyes as clearly as if she had said the Frenchman’s name aloud. Never one to sit around, she was obviously ready to take a more offensive position with her tormentor. Not that he blamed her, but they had to give Somerton’s plan time to work, which suited Guy fine, because he wanted to keep her away from Valère.

“You’re not going anywhere near that bastard again.”

“Is that so?”

Dammit.
He hadn’t meant to be so blunt. It was exactly the wrong approach with his headstrong woman. He knew this, but that knowledge didn’t prevent the words from flowing. “Yes.”

Her nails brightened to red crescents with the force of her grip on the table. “He must be stopped.”

“Rest assured, he will be.”

“Somerton cannot find him on his own. Valère’s too canny to leave any sort of trail.” A dark curtain lowered over her features. “I know him, Guy. I know he hates crowds and loves the slick texture of oysters sliding down his throat. I know he can’t survive without servants or in small places for extended periods of time.” She squared her shoulders and hardened her gaze. “I know, despite his torture and hatred, he loves me.”

The eggs attempted to make their way back up his throat. He swallowed hard and waited a second, not positive he had won the battle. When the burning sensation dwindled to a simmer, he said, “Don’t be ridiculous. A man like that has no concept of love.”

“You’re wrong.” Her tone was quiet, confident. “His version might be a damaged and ugly form of the emotion, but he feels it, all the same.”

Guy was experiencing an ugly emotion of his own. Jealousy roared through him like a lion bursting across the plains of Africa to ward off an approaching nomadic male interested in assuming control of his cherished pride.

Like the lion, Guy would crush Valère’s throat before ever allowing him near his mate again, and the notion of Cora seeking her gaoler’s company conjured equally violent thoughts.

“I can’t… permit it, Cora.”

“You can’t stop it, Guy.”

Her calm assurance stood out in stark contrast to the volatile emotions roiling inside him. She seemed to accept this dangerous path as her fate, uncompromising in her belief, unwilling to fight.
Fight?
Guy shook his head. Where the hell did that come from?

Cora had done nothing but fight since the moment she had lost her parents. He knew this, but knowing it did nothing to diffuse his anger. What did he want from her? What was it that he expected her to fight for?

For
them.

The words flashed through his mind clear and vibrant and warm. He wanted more from her than a few trusting kisses and a handful of exquisite nights. He wanted her, all of her, but something kept her at arm’s length, something besides her quest to stop Valère.

He wished he knew what was going on in that intelligent yet sometimes impetuous mind of hers. Was she trying to protect herself from a perceived future hurt? Or was she protecting him? And if so, from what?

The only thing he truly knew in that moment was if he allowed her to search for Valère, he would lose her.

The loud crackle of paper broke through the silence. Guy glanced behind Cora’s shoulder to find the old man battling his newspaper into submission and mumbling something about dim-witted hunters. The disturbance was enough to lessen the tension between them.

She reached across the table and grasped his hand. “I don’t want to argue. I simply want to finish my mission. We still don’t know who has been leaking information out of the Foreign Office.”

He stroked her fingers with his thumb. “And you think Valère’s going to just present you with the man’s name?”

“Don’t be absurd. If I can find Valère, there’s a chance Somerton can persuade the information from him.”

“And perhaps avail you of a bit of justice, or do you have revenge on your mind?”

She released his hand and sat back. “Do you have any idea of what it’s like to be ten years old and unable to avenge your parents’ murders?”

“Even if you were older, no one knew the killer’s identity.”

“I knew enough.”

“What do you mean?”

Her lips thinned, and her gaze clouded in remembrance. A few seconds later, awareness flickered, and he saw the half-truth she would deliver before the words ever seeped between her lips. Disappointment slashed his chest.

“A bauble, an accent, a murder scene. Enough information to send me to France, and when Somerton suspected Valère of being responsible for the missing British ships, my life’s purpose narrowed down to one man.”

An image of Cora soaking in the tub, with an ivory and orange pendant resting between her breasts, flashed through his mind and sent a deep ache to his groin. He briefly wondered if the symbol denoting France’s freedom accounted for her “bauble,” but something else she said distracted him from that fascinating puzzle.

“I thought you were assigned to Valère to discover the double agent.”

“I was.”

“Which came first, Cora?” He heard the harshness in his own voice, felt the throbbing at his temple.

Wariness entered her gaze. “Why does the order matter?”

He scanned the room, settling on every inhabitant, every dish, every piece of furniture, in an attempt to give his sickening sense of dread time to abate. It didn’t help. His skin flushed with heat, and the bacon beneath his nose turned his stomach.

Ships.
The answer to his question was as clear to him as the small freckle in the hollow beneath her ear. The message he had deciphered brought Valère to Somerton’s attention and, therefore, Cora’s.

Dammit. Dammit.
Dammit.

He dropped his cutlery in his plate. “Somerton should not have told you about Valère’s culpability.” He lifted his gaze to hers, hardly able to maintain eye contact. In a thick, soft voice he said, “You were always too curious for your own damn good.”