For Her Spy Only (Entangled Scandalous) (2 page)

The rest of their meal went by with little conversation. The food was delicious, but all Winifred could think about was her impulsive question in the carriage. Asking him if he intended to ravish her. What had she been thinking?

She’d been thinking about that kiss. A spontaneous and passionate, albeit brief kiss between strangers. It had been more enthralling than any of the embraces she’d shared with Theodore. Though he’d been her fiancé for nearly half of a year, he’d never done more than give her chaste kisses that left her cataloging things she had left to accomplish that day. But the marquess’s kiss had evoked thoughts and sensations that left her only wanting more.

More of him.

And had her thinking of the ridiculous. Of suggesting that he should ravish her. What would it matter? Her prospects of marriage had already been ruined. Who would care if she gave her body to an attractive stranger in a mysterious castle on the eve of Christmas?

He pushed his chair back from the table and stood.

“What is it you normally do after you eat?” she asked, coming to her feet as well.

He pinned her with those intense eyes of his. “Retire to my study and read.”

“Splendid, I very much enjoy a good book.”

Was a study a good place to host a seduction? She certainly had no notion, but it was worth an effort. Was she actually intending to do this? She took a deep breath and nodded as if agreeing with herself. The worst he could do was say no.

The room reminded her much of the comfortable study of her father’s closest friend, the royal cartographer Sir Reginald Mirren. She took in heavy wooded panels, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a large, imposing desk. But what the marquess had in his study that she had not seen before were the medals. Several of them graced one shelf, and they gleamed in the candlelight.

“Were you in the military?” she asked.

He glanced up from his book and nodded. “I work for the Crown.”

“Still? You are active? Are you a captain?”

“I have no classification. I merely work for the Crown.”

She wasn’t certain what that meant, but he seemed finished with the conversation, so she allowed it to drop.

It took her the better part of thirty minutes once they were settled in the library—him in a large leather chair, her in a softer chaise—to pull together the nerves to approach the subject.

She cleared her throat.

He did not look up from his reading, no longer the Shakespeare, but now a book from Sophocles.

“I should tell you,” she began. “That is, I want you to know that I am open to the possibility of being ravished.”

That stole his attention from Sophocles, though aside from one cocked eyebrow, his expression was unreadable. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I find myself quite intrigued by the kiss we shared, and if you do not object, I should like to explore—”

“Are you trying to seduce me?” he asked. His tone spoke of surprise, but certainly a man as confident as he would not be caught unaware by a woman taking a fancy to him.

“I am. Though perhaps not successfully. You seem surprised.”

“Surprised by your boldness, perhaps.”

“I know it is unbecoming for a woman to be so bold,” she said, suddenly feeling quite embarrassed and wishing a hole would open in the floor and swallow her.

He set his book aside and stood. “On the contrary.” He took a step toward her. “I find your brazenness refreshing.”

Warmth spread through her arms and legs.

“What of your reputation?” he asked.

“Well, it would seem that I have recently been accused of being a wanton harlot.” She swallowed hard. It had taken her several months to learn to ignore the stares when she shopped for new dresses on Bond Street. And her invitations to social gatherings had all but dried up. “I was thinking that if I have to endure such rumors, I should get to behave thus at least once.”

The marquess eyed her a moment, then tipped his head back and laughed riotously. “Miss Wilmington, you are most assuredly a refreshing female. Why is it that people claim you are a wanton?” He held up one finger. “Though I could point out that if this is not your first proposed seduction, that could be the reason.”

“No, of course not.” She smiled in spite of herself. “This is the first time…that is, you are the first man I have proposed such a thing.” She inspected her fingernails, concerned that if she told him the truth about Theodore that he might decline her offer. “I was engaged and my would-be groom left me at the altar. He then told people that he’d done so because he’d discovered me in the arms of another man. A blatant lie, but it would seem that people don’t care about my side of the story.”

“Is this seduction your way of trapping me into marriage?” He took a couple steps closer to her. “Because as you’ve heard, I had to kill my first wife to get out of that union.”

She laughed.

“Most people don’t find me amusing.”

She stepped closer to him, so close that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. “I’m not most people.”

“Why me? Why seduce me?”

She looked up and was caught in the depths of his green gaze. “I find you intriguing and attractive. And judging by my reaction to the kiss in the carriage, it is safe to say that I desire you.”

“I see.” He was quiet for a moment, as if weighing her argument. “I have precautions to ensure you will not get with child.”

Her heart fluttered. “Does that mean you accept?”

“I am a peculiar sort, Miss Wilmington, a bit of a recluse, most say. I much prefer the company of books to that of people.” He laced his fingers with hers. “But I am still a man and when a beautiful woman offers herself to me, I shall gladly accept.”

Chapter One

J
une 1814, six years later

Alistair Devlin, accused murderer, recluse, master code-breaker, and secret spy for the Crown of England, loathed the bustle and noise of the city. Two weeks ago, when fellow members of the Seven, the elite group of spies working to uncover a traitor who’d infiltrated the English government, had brought him Lord Comfry’s journal, Alistair had assumed he’d be able to decipher the code quickly.

Despite Alistair’s usual ease with codes, this one was proving more challenging, and he had yet to decode the murdered man’s journal. The worst part of these two weeks was that he had spent them in London. There were far too many people, not to mention the stench from the streets permeated the air, but the worst part was the ignorance of nearly everyone around him.

Alistair was quite accustomed to being the most intelligent man in the room. It had been this way since he’d been a young man, and he had never had an easy time at accepting the mental limitations of others. He had no patience for idiots.

The good news was, he finally realized why he’d struggled with this particular code.

He’d been approaching the code incorrectly. He had been using every code he’d collected since he began working for the Crown. He’d finally realized that the code was actually rather simple and the random numbers and letters were, in fact, latitude and longitude coordinates. He needed only the help of Sir Reginald Mirren, the royal cartographer.

He tapped his cane on the top of his Hessian boot and waited for the carriage to stop. He had only made the acquaintance of Sir Reginald Mirren on a handful of occasions; the man was the best cartographer in London. He’d been commissioned by the King to make a series of maps, and it was these maps that Alistair needed to uncover Comfry’s hidden message. If Alistair was correct in his estimation, Sir Mirren would have, on hand, all of the maps necessary.

Finally the carriage rolled to a stop and Alistair exited the rig. The brick townhome was modest, reaching to three stories with a faded black door that boasted a brass number three on it. This was the address he had for Sir Mirren. He marched himself up the front steps to the stoop and slammed the brass knocker onto the door.

Several seconds passed and Alistair was beginning to think that no one was home, but then voices sounded from the other side of the door. He couldn’t understand their words, but knew that more than one person spoke. Suddenly the door opened.

“How may I help y—” The words died on her lips as she looked up at him. “Alistair, er, my lord? How did you—? That is, why are you—? What are you doing here?”

“Winifred Wilmington.” He let his eyes roam the length of her. She looked the same, though perhaps more tempting with her face flushed from exertion. What precisely had she been doing behind that door only moments before? “I could ask you those same questions. I am here to see Sir Mirren.”

She exhaled in one quick puff and opened the door wider. “Please come in.”

He followed her inside and she led him to a door down the corridor on the left. As they entered the room, it was quite evident that this was Sir Mirren’s study. That didn’t explain what Winifred was doing here. He hadn’t seen her in…it had to have been six years, since that fateful Christmas Eve he’d found her stranded in her carriage, trapped in the snow. They’d spent several days locked in his castle making love. And then—after the snow melted, making travel safe once more—she’d left and he’d never heard from her again. Which suited him just fine since he had no room in his life for females. Not since Sarah.

She sat behind the desk and motioned for him to sit adjacent to her.

“There is no delicate way to say this. I’m afraid Sir Mirren is dead,” she said abruptly.

He frowned and tapped his cane against his boot. “I am sorry to hear that. Were you related to Mirren in some capacity?”

“I am his widow.” She looked down at her dress, then blushed. “I know it is dreadful that I am not still in mourning, but there are extraneous circumstances.” Her brow furrowed and it was then that he noticed she did look somewhat different. Delicate lines fanned from her eyes. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Married? To Mirren? Since when?”

She chewed at her lip and her brows rose. “Since shortly after we met, actually.”

She’d quite obviously had been engaged to marry Mirren when she’d had her affair with him. “I thought you had been left at the altar.”

“I was. My union with Reggie occurred after we met, my lord. He and I had been friends for a while and a marriage seemed a logical conclusion to our relationship.”

She wasn’t at all the woman he’d thought her to be—impulsive, passionate. No, this woman before him spoke of practicality. Not at all the Winifred who had invited herself into his bed. The woman who had taken refuge in his castle, in his arms, had been bold, refreshing—he shook his head, unable to reconcile the Winifred he’d bedded to the woman looking at him.

Well, none of that mattered now. He had other concerns at hand. “I need use of your husband’s maps.”

“His collection of maps is quite extensive. Perhaps you could narrow the selection for me?”

“I don’t see why that is necessary.”

Her eyes darted to the door behind him, then back to him. “If you could tell me which maps specifically you need to see, then perhaps I could locate them and have them brought to you.”

“Your husband had hundreds upon hundreds of maps. You couldn’t possibly search through them and find the ones I need.”

Her posture stiffened, and her eyes narrowed in a glare. “Rest assured I am certainly capable of doing so. And I am certainly more familiar with my husband’s collection than you are.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It would take you days to sort—“

She stood, her glare intensified. “So now I am ridiculous?”

Somehow they had ended up in an argument. If people would simply concede to his requests, these sorts of fruitless battles would not ensue. She had no reason to be irritated with him.

“A man I barely know comes to my home, insults me, and demands to paw through my late husband’s belongings, and you find me ridiculous?”

“I merely didn’t want to inconvenience you. It makes far more sense for me to do it as I know what I’m looking for. There is truly no reason for you to get involved.”

A door sounded in the corridor, then voices, followed by a childish giggle. Winifred came around the desk. “I don’t see how I could grant you permission. Good day to you, my lord.” She walked as if to leave the room.

He grabbed her arm as she passed him. “Winifred, it is of utmost importance that I have access to those maps.” His form towered over her slighter one. She’d grown fuller over the years, and the curves did lovely things to her body. She was still a most handsome woman. He pulled her closer.

She swallowed visibly, her gaze darting to his mouth.

“I shall consider it, but you must be forthcoming with me,” she said.

“The way you have been with me?” he asked before he thought better of it. Had he expected her to send him an invitation to her nuptials? “My apologies, it is not my concern whom you married.”

An expression clouded her features, an emotion he did not recognize. Fear, perhaps, though her jaw was clearly set with stubbornness. “I shall consider it. I shall send notice to your address and let you know what I’ve decided.” And then she disappeared out of the room.

Damnation. He was a spy. An elite spy, at that. He would not be outmaneuvered by a woman, no matter how alluring her curves. By the time that Alistair entered the corridor, it was empty of people. He was tempted to return to the study and search for the damn maps himself, but he’d been in the room long enough to know that unless there was a hidden compartment in there, the maps were elsewhere in this townhome.

Once in his carriage, he sat for several moments before directing the driver to his club. Perhaps it was time to make some inquiries as to Sir Mirren’s widow. Again he was struck by the oddity of Winifred and Mirren’s union. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was angry about how she’d returned to London fresh from his bed and rather quickly aligned herself with the mapmaker. But the fact was he didn’t get angry with other people. Anger required a certain amount of emotion and he didn’t care about people that much. And he didn’t understand why most of them spent so much of their time wallowing in their own shallow emotions.

That was why he didn’t like to deal with people. They were so damn inconvenient. And illogical. Despite his reputation, he was most definitely not a murderer, but there were times when he was glad that most of his life was spent in isolation.

…

W
inifred must have turned eight shades of blue, she’d been so nervous. Good heavens, when she’d opened the door, she hadn’t expected to find Alistair on the other side. She’d have been less surprised had the Reaper himself been there, hand outstretched, waiting to pull her into the beyond. But it had been Alistair. Thankfully Oliver hadn’t been home at the moment; though when he’d arrived with his governess and had giggled in the corridor, she’d thought that Alistair would question her. But he hadn’t seemed to notice, or care. Still, it was unsettling that Alistair had found her even if he’d been looking for Reggie instead.

Gracious, Alistair hadn’t changed a bit. He was impossibly dashing and she’d wanted nothing more than to melt into him when he’d pulled her close. She’d scarcely been able to breathe, simultaneously worried he’d kiss her and worried he wouldn’t.

Granting him access to Reggie’s maps would have him in her home, as they were simply too large for her to transport. That, in turn, would put him near her son, and that simply could not happen. There had to be another way. Perhaps she could merely have him come when Oliver was out with his governess, in the park feeding the ducks. But how often could a boy feed ducks?

Of course, she could always tell Alistair the truth. How many letters had she written him over the years explaining precisely what had happened? She’d kept them all in a box under her bed. But she knew she couldn’t tell him. He’d made it abundantly clear six years ago that he had no intention of ever marrying again, nor fathering a child. He’d even taken precautions with her, but obviously they hadn’t been successful. He didn’t want Oliver, and Reggie had kindly given the boy a name so no one need know the truth.

But how could she stand to be around Alistair and keep that secret? She’d never been a very good liar. That little voice inside her questioned her motive. It was the same voice that had convinced her to seduce Alistair in the first place, so she wasn’t certain there was merit to the argument. Still, was Oliver the only reason she didn’t want to be around Alistair, or did it go further than that? Was she afraid to be around him because she knew that once she granted him entrance to her life again, it was only a matter of time before she invited him to her bed?

She was simply going to have to turn down his request.