Beauty and the Spy (6 page)

Oh no, oh no, oh no
. Her heart had recovered. It was now drilling away inside her chest like a woodpecker.

The warmth of the man's body behind her was as penetrating as a sunbeam, though not one bit of him actually touched her—she pressed herself closer to the oak tree, to make bloody sure of that. But his scent immobilized her as surely as a net: sun-heated skin and the faintest tang of sweat, and something else, something rich and complicated and fundamental that started a primal buzz of recognition in her blood and made her peculiarly aware of how very
female
she happened to be.

This wasn't the groomed-for-a-ball brew of starch and soap with which she was familiar. This was stripped-to-the-essence
male
.

She lost her tenuous grip on the sketchbook; it flopped to her feet.

Susannah slid her eyes sideways. They saw long elegant fingers and a sinewy forearm covered in that silver-gold hair. When his hand shifted a bit she saw a small birthmark in the shape of a gull in flight on the vulnerable skin below his wrist.

She made the subtlest of attempts to crane her head to try to get a closer look at his face.

"Oh, I wouldn't turn around if I were you." Still amused.

Oh, God.

And when, at last, her throat was able to release words, the ones that emerged appalled her even as she said them: "
You
were bloody quiet."

There was a shout of surprised laughter; the man's hands fell away.

And not being a fool, Susannah bolted around the tree, crashing through the young bushes for the path. She didn't dare look back.

Oh, it really had been too bad of him. For he was of course completely clothed; he would never creep up behind a young lady in any other state. Actually, he couldn't recall ever creeping up behind a young lady at
all;
he wasn't mad, just a rascal. But she
had
been spying, whoever she was. She'd thoroughly deserved to be shocked.

Kit had arrived in Barnstable, hot, sticky, and resentful from his long trip from London, his thoughts ricocheting between James Makepeace and Morley and the countess.

He'd decided to stop at the pond before he headed for the house and rousted all the servants, who would be flabbergasted by his presence and would need to be reminded of what they were actually paid to do. The thought hadn't improved his mood, but the swim had. It was odd; he hadn't known how heavily he carried his life until he plunged into the pond again, and emerged feeling as though years had been rinsed away.

His mother had called this estate "The Roses." Which had always amused him, because there might be all of ten rosebushes on the small property, and it didn't even boast a greenhouse. He'd been raised here, however, in Barnstable, and the orderly grounds surrounding the house always interested him much less than the woods bordering it, filled as they were with haphazard shadows and light and surprising wild things. They'd been wonderful for make-believe and exploration when he was very young; for trysts when he was a little older. And for duels.

Since his mother's death a few years ago, his father spent almost all of his time in London, visiting this particular estate only every now and then. Kit had visited it rarely since he'd disappeared from the town so many years ago so swiftly—and under a veil of mystery, to boot. The Roses didn't even have a bailiff, merely a small staff of servants charged with keeping the place from crumbling.

Kit smiled a little as he bent to retrieve the abandoned sketchbook; the irony of a spy being spied
upon
didn't escape him. He leafed through it idly.

Imagine that… she'd not only been spying… she'd been
documenting
her findings.

He bit back a laugh when he saw himself, arms stretched skyward, penis dangling modestly—he
had
been swimming, after all. But it was a beautiful drawing. She'd roughed in the pier beneath him and the trees behind it, too, and she'd caught him perfectly, the mindless contentment of the moment, the strength and confidence of his body, a hint of pleased-with-himself arrogance in the arch of his back. There was nothing tentative or miss-ish about the drawing; it was, above all things, honest and surprisingly accomplished. He was flattered, but he felt oddly exposed, which had nothing to do with the fact that he was naked in the sketch. She'd captured something essential about him.

He slowed his leafing to examine the other drawings: a young man—this one fully clothed—stretched out on a spread of grass, the smile on his face soft and intimate. Irrationally, Kit felt a little pang of envy. The artist and her model clearly knew each other well, probably cared for each other. Another page was covered with roses, tenderly rendered in skillful strokes. A house filled another page, a great estate that looked somehow familiar; the view of it was distant. There was a simple stand of trees. A group of young ladies, the ribbons of their bonnets undone, their sweet faces bland and open.

There was an almost offhand passion, a skill and singularity to these sketches that mere drawing lessons could not impart. Much to his surprise, Kit found himself moved by them.

His father had been right: Kit
had
wanted to be a naturalist at one time. He'd been fascinated by Joseph Banks, his travels with Captain Cook, and his discoveries of flora and fauna. But he'd never been able to draw the things he saw in quite the way he saw or felt them, and he'd found it maddening. It was as though nature had gently manacled him in this way:
No, you shan't be allowed this gift along with all the others
. He'd been so accustomed to excelling at everything he tried; his attempts at drawing had humbled him. He supposed he'd
needed
humbling at that age.

He studied the drawings again, paging back to the beginning. Who was the artist? The line of her body was slim and softly feminine in a way that spoke to every one of his senses. Her hair, a rich mahogany had smelled wonderful, though he'd be hard-pressed to describe just exactly what it smelled
like
... fresh, he would have said. Or clean. Or sweet. But none of those words really seemed to apply, precisely. How he loved discovering the unique smell of a woman… a good place to start discovering it, he knew, was the nape of the neck. But there were other delightful places, too.

He smiled, a wicked, private smile, which faded when he remembered he was not to be discovering the smells of females while he was in Barnstable.

You were bloody quiet
, she'd said. As though he'd
thwarted her
.

He gave a bark of delighted laughter. It rather sounded like something he would have said.

This is going to be fun.

Kit stabled his horse, badly startling the pair of lethargic stable boys who looked after four geldings, a beautiful, enormously pregnant mare, and a smug-looking stallion who lived here at The Roses. She would bear watching, that mare; she would foal any day, he was certain.

Then he crept around to the back of the house and entered very stealthily, pushing the kitchen door open only enough to allow his lean body through. The kitchen was empty; there wasn't a soul in sight. He imagined the maids were all out dallying with the footmen; he could hardly blame them, really, given the weather and the continued absence of the Whitelaw family, but he would have to impose some semblance of order today.

He stood still for a moment, listening for voices. And then he heard them, lifted in a lively cadence, coming from the large sitting room, the one dominated by an enormous portrait of the Whitelaws featuring a small, half-scowling Christopher, none too pleased at being forced to hold still long enough to be captured for posterity. Knowing from childhood where to find carpets to stifle his footfall, which tiles or patches of floor were likely to squeak, Kit crept toward the room, sidled against the wall, and peered in.

Mrs. Davies the housekeeper and Bullton the butler were sprawled on a pair of settees, their backs to him, teacups lifted to their lips.

"My
dear
Mrs. Davies,
will
you be attending the assembly tomorrow night?" Bullton's imitation of an aristocratic accent was cuttingly accurate. He thrust his pinky out sideways and took a sip.

"
Hooo
my, I jus'
cannot
decide 'ow to wear me 'air, or what
gown
to wear, Mr. Bullton. I must 'ave me
maid
choose it for me, the way she does everything
else
for me, as ye ken I canna think for meself ."

They laughed merrily together and clinked teacups.

"Hello," Kit said pleasantly.

They both shot nearly straight up into the air in a blur of scrambling limbs. He watched with some regret as the china cups flew up with them, their contents arcing up in graceful streams and landing on the carpet.

It had been worth not writing ahead to warn them of his arrival, he decided.

"Yer… yer
lordship!"

They bowed and curtsied and bowed and curtsied and then bowed and curtsied again, as if bowing and curtsying would make up for the fact that their feet had been up on his mother's ancient French furniture.

"Tis I!" he said cheerily. "How goes it Mrs. Davies? Bullton?"

"It goes… it just… we were…" They stammered over each other.

"Just about to rally the staff to make ready for my visit?" he suggested politely.

"Our apologies, sir. If we'd known you'd be
paying
a visit, sir—" Bullton had admirably gathered his composure; he was dignified and apologetic now.
Good man
.

"Didn't know myself, Bullton, Mrs. Davies, and for that I apologize. But if you'd begin airing the rooms, getting some food in—well, you know your jobs. I needn't tell you."

"Yes, sir. No, sir. That is, of course, sir." Another jumble of overlapping words.

"You'll want to see to that stain straight away, Mrs. Davies," he said mildly.

"Y-yes, my lord." Her eyes rolled down to the carpet, and her expression went tragic. Ever since Kit could remember, Mrs. Davies had treated the carpets as though they were her own children. Even the best housekeepers become a little lax in the absence of any sort of lord of the manor, he suspected.

"And is there really an assembly tomorrow night in Barnstable, Mrs. Davies?"

"Y-yes, my lord."

"And where would that be held, if you please?"

"The town hall, sir. Everyone in the town is invited."

That is, everyone except
servants
, Kit knew.

"Well, then." He regarded them sternly, almost broodingly for a moment, long enough for them to begin fighting not to squirm. "I fully expect there to be an assembly of
servants
here tomorrow evening. And get in a little�what's your poison, again, Bullton?"

"Wh-whiskey, sir?" Bullton said a little faintly, hope beginning to glimmer around the corners of his mouth.

"I expect you to get in a little whiskey, then, for it. Mrs. Davies, I trust your household funds will cover it?"

"Oh, yes, sir." Mrs. Davies had relaxed a little, too. And then she hazarded a question. "Will
you
attend the assembly in town tomorrow evening, sir?"

"Of course, Mrs. Davies," he said breezily. It had been many, many years since Kit had set food in Barnstable, and with any luck, his legend would have grown.

The two servants smiled in earnest this time, and he grinned back at them. The villagers would be every bit as surprised to see the viscount as they had been, and Mrs. Davies and Bullton would almost prefer to witness
that
than have an assembly of their own.

"And will you be here long, sir?" Mrs. Davies asked.

"At least a month, Mrs. Davies. I've a special project here to complete, you see."

He could see her working out in her mind how to break the news to the maids and footmen, who would now actually need to behave as though they were working.

"I'll be out of the house much of the time," he assured her, and she smiled sheepishly at him, knowing her thoughts had been read.

"And your father is well, sir?" Bullton asked carefully.

"He won't be coming, Bullton."

Bullton tried and failed not to look relieved. "Very good, sir. It is a pleasure to see you, sir," he said finally.

"I'm sure it is, Bullton." Kit was struggling not to laugh. "And that will be all for now, thank you. The stain, Mrs. Davies?"

"Oh!" she dropped as though shot down behind the settee to attend to it, and Kit strode up to his chambers, to see if spiders had knit coverlets over the entire room in his absence.

Susannah didn't stop running until she was at the very threshold of her aunt's garden, and then she stopped to compose herself and get her breath. Something savory was cooking, and the smell was winding its way out of the cottage and out into the yard invitingly.
Nothing like fleeing from the naked stranger you'd been spying on to build an appetite
.

Feeling tentative and a little embarrassed, she poked her head into the kitchen, which must also be the dining room, as there was no dining room to be seen. Whereas in her old home, the kitchen was an enormous galley beneath the house, and the dining room was a good acre or so away from it. And at her father's town house in London—

"Good morning, Susannah." Aunt Frances turned. "I thought perhaps you'd changed your mind and fled back to London."