Beauty and the Spy (9 page)

Before she turned to head up the stairs, she caught a glimpse of his expression: Shock and lust. Fear and fascination. One after the other. And this was how she knew she would soon have enough money to keep moving, which was all that mattered.

The Assembly decorating committee had clearly undertaken their responsibilities with zeal, but not even a galaxy of candles or a meadow's worth of flowers could disguise the fact that the Barnstable Town Hall wasn't Almacks. A buffet stretched out along one end, ratafia and sandwiches; an orchestra sawed away in the corner, pianoforte and strings. Susannah wondered if they were capable of sawing out a waltz. Not that
she
would be waltzing, of course. She was in mourning, and besides, she doubted there was anyone in attendance with whom she
wished
to waltz.

She took in the room with an expert glance—dresses, fans, slippers, coats—and felt a moment of swooping disorientation: every dress on every maiden had last been fashionable just after Waterloo—five entire years ago. In her own beautifully made, utterly current dress, mourning shade though it was, she might as well have dropped into their midst from another planet. At the moment, a goodly number of Barnstable's denizens were caught up in the patterns of a quadrille; the rest of them would awake with cricks in their necks from pretending they weren't trying to get a look at Susannah—the young men, in particular. So as she stood at Aunt Frances's side she smiled, a general sort of smile, warm and dazzling, the kind that had begun so many friendships in her old life.

Odd, but she could have sworn that everyone in the hall took a tiny collective step back.

Aunt Frances gave her arm a bolstering little squeeze. "Here comes Mrs. Talbot," she whispered. "You will hate her." She smiled cheerily at the woman in a Turkey red dress and matching turban bustling toward them.

Once curtsies and introductions were exchanged, Mrs. Talbot lowered her voice confidingly. "I've had it on good authority that Viscount Grantham is here tonight. He's a thoroughly disreputable character, Miss Makepeace. Disappeared from Barnstable years ago under a cloud. Went on to make his fortune in smuggling. I can't think who might have invited him, but he is the local aristocracy, so of course he's welcome here. Perhaps he'll dance with my daughter. She's very pretty, you know." She mopped Susannah with an accusatory head-to-toe glance, her face anxious and hard, then snapped open her fan with a flourish, a warrior putting up a shield. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Makepeace," she concluded, managing to make it sound as though she meant entirely the opposite, and away she sailed, the red turban listing perilously atop her head.

"She's only
one
person," her aunt whispered apologetically. "She despairs of getting her daughter married, and I fear the strain has begun to show. I assure you, the viscount isn't quite as—oh, look, here are Meredith and Bess Carstairs," Susannah and her aunt smiled for the Carstairs sisters, a pair of pretty brunettes with almost perfectly spherical faces, on which their features were arranged neatly, symmetrically, like roses painted on china plates.

"Do be careful of the Viscount Grantham, Miss Makepeace," the sister named Bess urged in a low dramatic voice. "He's here tonight. There's a scandal in his past so terrible no one will speak of it. I hear he's wanted for piracy."

"You don't say!" Susannah beamed, happy to be included in gossip.

The Carstairs sisters reared back a little. One would have thought she'd thrust a lantern in their faces. Their uniformly pretty faces suddenly became wary, as though they'd begun to suspect she might be an alien species who'd dressed as a human in order to attend an assembly.

After a few more mild pleasantries, they made polite excuses and went in search of their partners for the next dance, a reel.

Susannah gazed after them, puzzled.

"Just give them time to know you, Susannah," her aunt soothed with a pat. "They are unaccustomed to your… polish. I'm certain you will all eventually be great friends."

Susannah was not. She looked out across the wooden floors of the hall, at the smiling dancers lining up for the reel, and despite their woefully outdated clothing, envied them their comfort with each other. The music began, sprightly if a trifle slipshod, and so did the familiar, almost soothing, rhythms of the reel: the dancers bowed and curtsied, they approached and parted—

Which was when she saw him.

Across the hall, hands clasped behind his back, eyes slightly narrowed, as if to more clearly focus the beam of his gaze on his intended target: her. No one was speaking to him, perhaps because he was the sort of person whose mere physical presence enforced a respectful, perhaps nervous, distance. His clothes were beautifully made and clung to his body as though they felt privileged to do so, and much to her approval, they were utterly current. It was difficult to tell from this distance whether he was handsome, though he was certainly tall.

The scandalous viscount
, she thought, with a little thrill.

The dancers approached each other again; he disappeared from view. When they parted once more, she noticed he hadn't moved an inch from his observational stance. It occurred to her then that he was gazing at her as though he had come to the assembly to do expressly that.

And… hmmm. Wasn't there something familiar—

Oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no, oh no.

Kit had seen her almost the moment he'd arrived with Frances Perriman. She was too well dressed to be a local, and the black of her mourning dress suited her; her face was a pearl in the gentle light of dozens of candles. The way she held herself spoke of sophistication and breeding, of confidence in her own appeal, and there was something restless about her… her foot was tapping—that was it. Interesting. He wondered why she would venture out to an assembly if she were in mourning, and considered that perhaps the locals of Barnstable had become more forgiving and welcoming since he'd left.

This, however, seemed unlikely.

He'd watched her address the two pretty Carstairs sisters, who all but radiated dislike. Then again, she did rather put them in the shade, even dressed like a crow, and London polish
could
seem a bit like glare here in the country.

Ah, here was Mr. Evers, the owner of the Barnstable mill and the font from which all local gossip sprang. He was attempting to skirt Kit the way a cat might a sleeping watchdog—on his way to the punchbowl, no doubt. His vivid berry-colored nose told Kit it wouldn't be Mr. Evers's first trip to the punch bowl this evening.

"Evers!" Kit said quickly, politely. He stifled a laugh when Mr. Evers came to an almost guilty stop and bowed, the flap of hair remaining on his head flopping forward with him. Kit's reputation had never really recovered from the events of seventeen years ago; it had, in fact, blossomed luridly since then. In truth, this didn't bother him. He found it afforded a sort of camouflage, and he was not adverse to camouflage.

"Hello Grantham. You're in the neighborhood, then?"

Kit regarded him in friendly, but utter, silence.

"Of
course
you're in the neighborhood," Evers muttered, catching on. "Why, here you are."

"That I am, Mr. Evers!" Kit said cheerfully. He knew he was being a rogue, but he wasn't in the mood to make anything easy for anyone today. "And how do you fare? Your wife? The mill? All in good repair?"

"Good, good, all good, can't complain."

Evers looked hopeful that this would be the end of their exchange. Which, given the mood Kit was in, all but guaranteed that it would not be. "And the punch, this evening, Mr. Evers?"

This topic Evers warmed to. "Very good batch, Grantham," he confided. "Might want to get some yourself before I—before it's gone, that is."

"I might, at that," Kit agreed. He dropped a confiding arm over the man's shoulder. "Mr. Evers, I wonder if you would mind enlightening me about something."

Evers looked a little flattered. "I will try, sir."

"Who is the young woman with Mrs. Perriman?"

Evers lit up, and Kit knew his question would be spread to everyone in the assembly hall within the hour. Not that he minded, terribly. It would rather add to his legend here in Barnstable.

"Her name is Miss Susannah Makepeace, Grantham."

Kit could have sworn time stopped the moment the words left Evers's mouth. All the little hairs on his arms rose in attention.

"Seems her father died—James, hailed from Barnstable, don't know if you recall—and now here she is in the country, living with her aunt," Evers continued. "Quite the London miss, ain't she? All the lads are quite terrified of her. Been gawking all night, but won't asked to be introduced."

So the minx with the sketchbook
was
James Makepeace's daughter, though nothing at all about her suggested him; she must favor her mother in looks. Kit was almost sorry to find her here: Barnstable wasn't the place for such a vivid creature.

Then again, he was inclined to believe that fate had played a hand in exiling both he and Susannah Makepeace in Barnstable. For he was now certain of one reason James Makepeace had chosen to share his tale with him.

No matter what, Kit was unlikely to ever, as his father had so tersely suggested, "leave it."

"Thank you, Evers," Kit said distantly. "You've been very helpful."

* * *

Susannah's charm continued to glance off the denizens of Barnstable much the way an unsuspecting bird glances off a clean windowpane. They visited for introductions, eyed her with wariness, wandered off again.

"Give them time," Aunt Frances soothed. "You are the most interesting thing to happen to Barnstable in a good long while, and it makes them feel important to pretend that you are not."

Susannah offered up a weak smile, wondering how long Aunt Frances intended to remain at the assembly. She'd been in constant motion since her father had died, buffeted by events, too proud to allow the weight of them to drag her under. But she suddenly pictured that patched quilt on her bed, and wondered how it might feel to crawl beneath it, close her eyes, and linger for days.

Another dance concluded; dancers milled about in search of new partners. Susannah glanced across the room, half in hope, half in terror. The scandalous viscount was no longer watching her.

Relief mingled with a peculiarly acute disappointment. Perhaps she would never retrieve her sketchbook, but then again, perhaps she would never need to revisit her humiliation: "
You were bloody quiet
."

Remarkably the orchestra began to scrape out… could it be a
waltz
!

Susannah succumbed to the temptation to close her eyes briefly, imagining her life hadn't changed at all, that this was Almacks and not a town hall, that everyone sought rather than shunned her company. When she opened them again, she was eye level with a white shirtfront.

Slowly, slowly, she tilted her head back.

And her heart bounced into her throat.

"Good evening, Mrs. Perriman," the scandalous viscount bent his long frame into a bow. "I just paid this bloody awful orchestra to attempt a waltz so that I may dance with your niece. Do you mind?"

Oh, God. His voice was a lovely thing, refined, low and confiding. A
London
voice.

And it was the voice that had mused into the nape of her neck yesterday.

Aunt Frances's mouth dropped open; for a moment it hung that way, as if the hinges had snapped.

Shock iced Susannah's hands. Up close the man was imposingly tall. Imposingly…
male
. The ice gave way to heat, which begin at Susannah's collar and slowly spread upward. Two competing desires began a violent tussle inside her.

Spinning on her heel and fleeing was one of them.

"We thank you for the offer, but Miss Makepeace is in mourning, Lord Grantham." Aunt Frances had gotten her mouth closed, and this was very elegantly, and not impolitely, said.

The viscount's eyes—blue eyes,
unreasonably
blue eyes—glinted down at Susannah with an unholy and decidedly ungentlemanly amusement. "But you'd
very
much like to dance, wouldn't you, Miss Makepeace?"

And God help her: that was the other desire.

Later, much later, she would admit to herself that there really had been no contest.

"Please forgive me, Aunt Frances. I'm sorry, so sorry,
truly
sorry…"

The grinning viscount quickly proffered his arm, and he led Susannah, still trailing abject apologies, out to the floor.

* * *

She lifted her hand to fit into his, the most familiar gesture she'd made in days, comforting somehow even as she reeled in shock at what she'd just done. As she did, the sleeve of his coat slid back, and Susannah saw it. Between the start of his glove and the cuff of his shirt: a birthmark in the shape of a gull.

She promptly stumbled.

The viscount placed his other hand on her waist just in time, effortlessly steadying her, and eased her into the dance. "Yes, 'tis I, Miss Makepeace. The last time we met, I believe you said… what was it… what was it… oh yes: '
You were bloody quiet
.' And then you went bounding off like a deer through the underbrush. Do I look different in my evening clothes? I imagine I do." His eyes glinted an almost intolerable amusement down at her.

Speechless. Then the words staggered out of her mouth. "You—how
dare
—you are—"

"Your sketches of me are quite good, by the way," he added. "Unflatteringly
accurate
, in some respects, but quite good. And I've always been a strong proponent of accuracy."

"I—" she choked. Her face, from the feel of things, was the color of Mrs. Talbot's turban.

"The way I see it is this, Miss Makepeace: you can either pretend to be horrified and make a scene—but I
do
know you'd be pretending—or you can laugh, which is what you'd prefer to do. Either way you'll still be the talk of the assembly, and the good people of Barnstable won't like you any more than they do now."

"How
dare
—" she began again, her tone indignant, because of course she knew she ought to feel indignant.

His eyes widened in mock fear.

Dash it, anyway
. "No, I suppose they don't like me," she admitted, genuinely puzzled. "And people usually do, you know."

He laughed then, surprised, a rich sound that unfortunately made heads all over the room swivel toward them. And there they remained, riveted by the sight of Susannah Makepeace in her mourning gown waltzing with the scandalous viscount. "Do they, now? I suppose you make certain of it."

"It's easy, you see," she confessed. "Or, it usually is." This conversation was rapidly running away with her, and it was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"For you, I suppose it is. But perhaps you needn't try so hard."

"I wasn't '
trying,'"
she objected.

"No?" He sounded as though he didn't believe her at all. "Well, perhaps they don't like you because you're more handsome than the lot of them."

Finally the viscount seemed to be doing the sort of flirting she recognized. She dimpled a little.

"Comparatively, anyway," he added, sweeping the room with a dispassionate gaze, as if to ascertain the truth of that statement.

Her dimples vanished.

"And you've a certain amount of sophistication," he assessed thoughtfully.

Tentatively, her lips began to lift again.

"A modicum." He said it firmly, as though correcting himself. He glanced at her. "Why are you glowering at me?"

Accuracy, indeed. Flirtation wasn't about
accuracy
, for heaven's sake.
Everyone
knew that.

Her silence didn't seem to bother him. "Your drawings are brilliant Miss Makepeace. You're quite talented."

"My
drawings
are brilliant?"
What about my smile? What about my eyes
?

"Yes," he said. "Detailed, accurate, yet still singular and strangely…" he looked upward for a moment, seeking a clean slate for his thought, then returned his eyes to her. "… passionate."

He all but purred that last word, his eyes dancing with mirth, and for the life of her, she didn't know what to say. Susannah studied him warily instead, since his face was the one part of his body she hadn't yet sketched in vivid detail. His features were too strong, perhaps, to be considered classically handsome; his face a bit too long and angular, like a diamond, his nose slightly arched. Light brows, light lashes, and those disconcerting eyes. But in the midst of all those angles, his mouth was a work of art, wide, sensitively curved, indisputably masculine.

And of course, the rest of him was beautifully made, too.

Almost overwhelmingly so.

God help her, she could feel color setting fresh fire to her cheeks at the memory.

"I'd like to make you an offer, Miss Makepeace."

Her head went back and her eyes flew open wide; on the heels of her last thought, his words were genuinely shocking. "I
beg
your pardon, sir?"

"Of
employment
. Don't look so hopeful." He was laughing silently again.

This man was absolutely, dizzyingly,
maddeningly
—

"Employment?" She said the word as though she'd found a tiny sharp bone in her soup.

"Yes. I'm a naturalist by avocation, and I've been commissioned to complete a folio—a study of the flora and fauna of this region. I've need of an accomplished artist to assist me with it. I'll pay you well. Good heavens you should see your face. You'd best change your expression quickly or everyone here will think I've gravely in suited you."

Humiliation had so completely snarled Susannah' thoughts she simply couldn't transform them into words He wanted her to
work
for him. Like a maid, like a governess, a cook, a—

"How, Miss Makepeace, do you suppose your aunt accommodates one more person in her cottage? She isn't rich. And yet you don't look underfed."

He might as well have kicked her in the ribs.

Susannah thought of the patched quilt that covered he at night, her aunt's faded, sagging furnishings, the humble breakfast, the lack of a maid to poke up the fires.

Shame pooled, molten, in the pit of her stomach. Shi turned her face away from the viscount's direct blue gaze and swallowed hard.

For a moment, mercifully, he didn't speak.

"Forgive my gruff ways, Miss Makepeace," his voice was gentle, conciliatory; it curled deliciously around her like rich smoke. "I lack experience with the tender sensibilities of young ladies."

Susannah cautiously returned her eyes to his face and narrowed them little, not certain she wished her sensibilities to be considered tender. He seemed to enjoy that, for his eyes glinted at her again. Such a blue, his eyes were Like the center of a flame, as though some internal furnace lit them. She was tempted to hold her hand up to them, to see if she could feel heat.

He must have considered himself forgiven, because he kept talking. "Talent is like… money in the bank. You should spend it wisely, of course, but not to spend it at all is simply foolish. I have need of your assistance; your aunt, I'm certain, would be happy for the money. We can be of use to each other. Will you help me?"

"But… work?" she repeated faintly.

"Perhaps you'd prefer to cast about for other employment, Miss Makepeace?"

There it was, that word again. "No," she said vehemently.

"No? Good. I'll speak to your aunt, then, assure her of your safety, and make everything proper, etcetera."

"But—" she began. She gave up. "What is your name?" she asked suddenly, instead. "Your full name?"

"Christopher Whitelaw, Viscount Grantham. Kit, to
you
, Miss Makepeace."

And then he smiled a smile that made Susannah remember that he'd made a fortune in smuggling, and was wanted for piracy. Perhaps he'd also had an affair with the queen. For it was just that sort of smile: crooked, slow, unnervingly inclusive and intimate. It knew things, that smile. She felt shy suddenly; she was acutely aware of how substantial he was, how hard the muscles under his shirt and trousers were. Douglas seemed unfinished in comparison, a sapling.

Though she of course had never seen beneath Douglas's clothes.

"My aunt—" she faltered suddenly.

"Is not anywhere near as shocked as she seemed, I assure you. She's known me since I was in short pants, and I doubt I've truly surprised her. She's sturdier than you might think."

Susannah couldn't help but smile at that, thinking o: him in short pants. "Did… did you know my father then? He hailed from this region as well."

"He was older than I, so we didn't spend much time together when I was growing up in Barnstable," he said easily. "But I knew him in London. We were both soldiers a one time, and we shared a common acquaintance, a Mr. Morley. Perhaps you've met him?"

"No, sir, I am afraid I haven't. Are you involved in imports and exports, too?"

"We did have some business together, your father and I. Which is how I came to know him."

She almost said, "I wish
I'd
known him." She was quiet instead, and focused on the row of buttons climbing up.. the viscount's dazzlingly white shirt, thinking about the quiet enigma that had been James Makepeace. His kindness, his detached bemusement. His violent end, which had, in a way, violently ended a way of life for her, too.

And suddenly her feet were heavier, and the waltz was an effort.

Susannah looked up again to find the viscount watching her, those vivid eyes softer. "He was a good man, Miss Makepeace. I'm sorry for your loss." Almost excruciatingly gentle, his voice.

"Thank you." And she felt tears burning the backs of her eyes for her father. "Am I horrible to dance?"

"A little," the viscount said lightly, which instead of making
hex feel
horrible, comforted her somehow.

"I intend to get roaring drunk in his honor at first opportunity," he added after a moment.

She wasn't at all sure what to say about this, although it did sound like something of a tribute.

The dance ended then, and she was certain the orchestra all but mopped their brows in relief. The viscount released her hand.

"It's settled then? As of this moment, you are in my employ?"

But she said the word to his retreating back, because his question had only been rhetorical, after all. It was clear he'd been certain all along of getting precisely what he wanted.